Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649)

by Jerome, Celia

  “Who’s playing? I swear I can hear the dog’s heart beating. That’s just the tip of the Paumanok Harbor iceberg.”

  “But you like it here?”

  “I love it. You never know who or what’ll walk in the door next.” He gave me a smile, to emphasize his point.

  “Um, well, the air is purer here and the people are, uh, creative thinkers.”

  He laughed. He wasn’t buying my explanations, but he wasn’t calling me a liar, like a bunch of the lie-detector Harborites would have. And he had a nice laugh. “I don’t think Paumanok Harbor’s weirdness comes from the air or the locals’ imaginations.”

  “Maybe it’s in the genes,” I said, laughing too so he wouldn’t realize I was finally telling the truth.

  “You know, I was one of the vets at the big horse show you guys put on.”

  “You did a great job, between the horses and dogs and sheep. Did you get to see any of the show?”

  He nodded. “Some really amazing stuff. But the end got kind of hazy somehow.”

  Which told me what kind of man he was, besides nice. He was normal, ordinary, one of Them. One of Us would have seen and remembered a herd of iridescent white mares dancing and disappearing as the show concluded, despite the mayor’s hocus-pocus.

  “As long as you got to see Ty Farraday and Paloma Blanca, his Lipizzaner mare.”

  He looked at Buddy, but he spoke to me: “I saw them single you out of the whole audience.”

  “We, ah, became good friends during the preparations.”

  “Lucky man.”

  Hmm. “He’s gone now.”

  “Stupid man.”

  Hmm, hmm. There was absolutely nothing wrong with a nice, normal man. Except I’d sworn off all men. I changed the subject quickly. “Thanks. I believe some experts are coming soon to get rid of the infestation.”

  He politely accepted the change. “That’s good. So far I’ve seen nothing serious, but a plague of venomous insects could be dangerous.”

  He lifted Buddy down from the examining table with ease. The shepherd had to weigh a good sixty or seventy pounds, so the man kept fit. While he washed his hands at the nearby sink he asked, “Do you still have that feisty Pomeranian whose leg I had to amputate?”

  “Who else would take him?”

  He laughed again. “Well, keep him in at night when the fireflies are out. All that hair could turn into a catastrophe. Let’s hope we get a storm soon. Insects don’t like to fly in rain or wind. Either way, their courting season will be over soon, and they’ll stop lighting up to find a mate. Or they might reach their age limits. I’d like to do some research on the species, so I know what I am dealing with for the next bite. Do you think you could bring me one?”

  “NO!” I shouted. “That is, no. It’s too dangerous to capture a live one, and I’ve never seen a dead one.”

  “Maybe I’ll come out and take a look for myself. Where’s the best place to find them?”

  A parallel universe, but I couldn’t reveal that. My backyard, but I couldn’t encourage him. Matt Spenser was an outsider, a danger in itself to Paumanok Harbor and its residents. I had to keep him at a distance, even if I’d feel better having a calm, competent man for a friend, at the least. I tugged on Buddy’s leash to get him headed for the door.

  “You should bring him back in a couple of days for me to check the wound.”

  “I thought you said he’d be okay.”

  “What if he ate the bug?”

  Good grief, Buddy’d be a blowtorch every time he barked. “No, he didn’t. I saw the thing fly away.”

  “That’s good. But bring him in anyway.” He sent me another smile. “I’d like to see you again.”

  Oh. “Maybe my mother will be back by then. I’ll tell her.”

  “An amazing woman, your mother. Do you know she’s the reason I settled on this neighborhood? She convinced me this was the perfect spot for a new practice. She was right. And know what? She said I’d be happy to meet you. She was right there, too.”

  My mother ought to be sent into space to rescue Canis Minor. On the other hand, there really was nothing wrong with having a cup of tea with a nice, normal man. Nothing except blazing bugs and babies.

  CHAPTER 8

  PEOPLE ACTUALLY VOLUNTEERED for this?

  I’m sorry, Mom, but your hopes for grandkids just went down the toilet, along with a lot of disgusting unmentionables. I admire women who can do this, who get real pleasure out of changing diapers, spooning slop into uncooperative mouths, singing the itsy bitsy spider ten times. I am not one of them. I doubt I’d feel any different if the infant were mine.

  Elladaire is cute and lovable. I’d love to buy her books and stuffed bears and pretty dresses with flowers on them. Spend another day keeping her happy, keeping her from the electric cords, the dogs’ tails, the house plants, the bric-a-brac, everything else dangerous, inedible, or irreplaceable? No thanks.

  It was raining. No nonflammable beach. No playground. No stroller rides. I couldn’t pop her in the car and head for stores that carried toys and baby videos and board books. Not when a single wail could set the car on fire.

  “It’s just you and me, kid, but today’s the last day. Your auntie Jane can take over from here. I wasn’t the one who let you teethe on a bug bigger than a praying mantis. I know it’s not your fault, but I’m not cut out for this job.”

  It started too early, for one thing. Janie arrived with Elladaire before I could shower or change or make breakfast.

  “Here’s her oatmeal, her bottle, more clothes, more diapers. I have to meet with Mary’s insurance agent about her house and how much fire damage they’ll cover. Lord knows what they’ll put down as cause.”

  Elladaire was fussy, which was a polite way of saying she was difficult. She spit the oatmeal all over my sleep shirt, threw the bottle across the kitchen, mashed her bananas and Cheerios into my hair when I picked her up, and peed on the couch while I was changing her. Her eyes filled with tears, her lower lip started to quiver.

  I stood ready with wet towels and a fire extinguisher. I was exhausted, hungry, and filthy, and couldn’t do anything about any of it because I couldn’t take my eyes off her for a second, not until she took a nap. Here I was, wiped out and at my wit’s end, and it wasn’t nine o’clock in the morning yet.

  Bad mother that I am, I found some idiot kids’ show on the TV. A goofy clown sang and danced and flashed bright colors. Elladaire was fascinated. I put the wet towel on my forehead.

  Then I heard the thunder. The rain was bad enough, but now we had an electric storm, too? Elladaire and I could hide in the bathroom. No, then she’d grow up afraid of lightning like me. For now she just seemed startled.

  I wondered about the fireflies. Where did they go in the rain? For that matter, where did butterflies and ladybugs go so their wings didn’t get wet? Under trees, I guess, though I’ve never seen any during storms.

  I waited for the next flash or boom, but the thunder rolled on, louder, closer. Elladaire’s eyes got wider.

  That was not thunder, I realized, but a truck barreling too fast down the private access. It was most likely a wholesaler desperate for Grandma Eve’s fresh produce. Or a manure deliveryman in a hurry to get back on the main street before our dirt road turned to muck in the rain. What if Elladaire and I had been walking down to the farm? Worse, what if the loud noise frightened the baby into crying? I felt like shouting to the dumbass driver what I thought, except this wasn’t mid-Manhattan, and I couldn’t use those words in front of a child.

  The truck screeched to a halt in front of my property. Maybe I’d have the chance to vent my anger after all. I went to the door and saw a battered, mud-spattered camper stopped there.

  “You’re lost,” I yelled, then pointed. “The farm is that way, and you are driving too fast.”

  The driver of the rusty RV rolled down his window. “You Willow Tate?”

  A mad stalker? Elladaire’s drugged-out father? An avid entomologist? An ira
te tourist whose campground was shut because of the brush fire danger?

  “Yes, I am Willow Tate.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I felt. A stranger was getting out of the camper. He wasn’t real big or broad, but he seemed threatening anyway. I couldn’t tell his age from here, not through the rain, but he didn’t move stiffly like an old man, or fluidly like a young one. He just seemed tightly coiled, controlled, determined. His light hair was buzzed short, but he had a scruffy start-up beard, maybe to cover some of the angry red marks on his left cheek. Damn, he’d been in a firefight with the lightning bugs, and lost. Now he was blaming me.

  He took a couple of steps up the path to the porch where I waited. I clutched Elladaire a little closer to my chest. If he got too close, made a hostile move, I was ready. I wasn’t any meek little pen pusher waiting to be shoved around. I had a weapon and I wasn’t afraid to use it. “I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered to Elladaire as I got ready to pinch her into crying. If this angry man thought the fireflies were bad, he hadn’t seen a flame-throwing toddler.

  He came closer still. Little Red barked furiously and ran past me to attack his ankle. The man looked down. He had more scars or burns on the top of his head. I couldn’t help my imagination taking over. Here was the villain of my fire wizard book. This was one evil dude, the perfect foil to my do-good hero. I could see them fighting, casting thunderbolts at each other while a hapless village smoldered beneath the mountaintop confrontation.

  Then he asked, “So where’s the fire?”

  On the mountaintop? I did a mental blink. “If you are a volunteer firefighter, you’ve wasted your time. There’s no fire. Not now. “

  “Of course not. I’m here.”

  Oh, boy. Angry and crazy, not a good combination. He ignored Little Red snapping at his pant leg and took another step closer.

  He wanted a fire? I pinched Elladaire. She wailed, but nothing happened.

  “Lady, it’s raining. Are you going to invite me in or not?”

  Definitely not. “I’m a little busy right now . . .”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Listen, I spent the last week in the hospital, and was supposed to have a week’s vacation. I drove all night to get here, without the pain meds that make me sleepy. So do you want my help or not?”

  “Help?”

  “You called for help with a fire problem, didn’t you?”

  “I called . . . DUE sent you?”

  “Shit. Didn’t you get the email? They said they’d contact you.”

  I stood aside so he could come into the house. “I haven’t been able to get to the computer. The baby . . .”

  “I heard all about the baby. She’ll be fine.” Without a by-your-leave, he scooped Elladaire out of my arms. Just in time, too, so I could grab Little Red before he sank his teeth into the guy’s ankle.

  The baby didn’t like being plucked away, or strangers. Maybe she didn’t like men, considering the father she had. She started to cry in earnest, but with tears, not sparks. The visitor jiggled her and made funny sounds. She stopped crying.

  “How did you . . . ? That is, what did you do to make her stop?”

  “Babies like me, that’s all.”

  “Not the crying. The . . . the other?”

  “I told you, I put out fires.”

  I turned off the TV, shoved a bunch of stuffed animals and plastic blocks off the sofa so he could sit, the baby on his lap. I nodded in her direction. “That’s Elladaire Brown. The dog is Little Red. You already know I am Willow Tate. Who in the world are you?”

  “Piet Doorn, at your service. Not exactly willingly, but I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

  “Pe-et?” He’d pronounced it in two syllables.

  He spelled it out. “Like Mondrian. Only the artist’s name is pronounced Pete. My mother thought that was too common, so she insisted on her own version. It stuck.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “My grandfather’s. His family came from the Netherlands generations ago. They like to keep some traditions. My sister is Katrinka. What kind of name is Willow?”

  “A family tradition, too,” I told him while I started the coffeemaker and put on a pot of water for tea. I put out two scones and the last of the farm stand’s raspberry jam. “My grandmother named her daughters Rose and Jasmine. We also have a Lily in the family.”

  “What about Elladaire? That’s a strange one, isn’t it?”

  The baby was playing with his keys. She looked up at him when she heard her name and batted her eyelashes. Flirting, at her age! And with such a peculiar man.

  “Her mother was living with an abusive husband in a rundown trailer parked in a weedy lot. She wanted better for her baby girl, something prettier than the world she was looking at. Besides, her name is Mary Brown. She wanted a unique, elegant name for her daughter. I guess she made it up.”

  “Edie’ll do for now.”

  He was making changes already? Just who did he think he was? “Her name is Elladaire. Tell me again why the people at Royce sent you?”

  “That’s easy. I put out fires. I don’t know anything about bugs, but I do know about forest fires, oil field burns, electrical malfunctions, that kind of thing. They tried to send me to the war zone, but it didn’t work. I could put out the fires, but I couldn’t stop the explosions when the bombs hit the trucks. I saved a couple of soldiers, lost a couple before they pulled me out. That was hard. Brush fires are easier.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  He bounced Elladaire on his knee and had her giggling. “How do the Royce descendants know truth from lies? How do you befriend beings no one else can see?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do something or I wouldn’t be here. There’s no explanation for any of it. Just magic. From what I hear, you should be used to it, living in Paumanok Harbor. Some people talk to dogs, some change the weather. I put out fires.”

  “You don’t start them?”

  “Nope. Never have, never could. My father couldn’t figure out why his leaf pile wouldn’t burn; my mother had to get a new electric stove. I was the only kid thrown out of Cub Scouts because he couldn’t get a fire started. Neither could any of my den mates when I was nearby. I never tasted a s’more or had a charcoal fire barbeque. No beach parties around a bonfire, no romantic candlelit dinners either.” He looked toward the stone fireplace, a bit wistfully, I thought. “Never sat by one of those on a cold winter night.”

  I’d seen some strange stuff recently. This was bizarre, even by Paumanok Harbor’s standards. “Show me.”

  He tipped Elladaire back and tickled her belly until she laughed out loud, which she’d never done for me. “See any flames?”

  “She’s too happy.”

  “Do you want me to make her cry?”

  I’d tried that. “It’s possible Elladaire finally got the bug out of her system, without your, ah, abilities.”

  “Sure it’s possible. Light a match.”

  I got the emergency stash from the kitchen, a box of matches and candles and flashlights for when the power went out. “The matches must be damp.”

  His lips twitched.

  I came back to the living room and tried the long fireplace matches on the mantle. One caught, sizzled, and died. The second didn’t get that far. The battery-run grill starter couldn’t cough up a spark. I looked around, then ran toward the kitchen. The electric coffeemaker was burbling, but my teakettle was still cold. I checked, but I couldn’t start the gas range either. “Wow. Good thing there’s electricity.” I put a cup of water in the microwave.

  “Yeah, I don’t cook much when the power is down.”

  Elladaire started playing with the short stubble on his chin. He didn’t seem to mind, so I asked something that was bothering me. “I don’t understand how you got burned, then. Those are burn marks on your face, aren’t they?”

  He touched his jaw. “They’ll do more skin grafts soon. And Royce has someone in Virginia who can make the scars fade. Th
ey’ve done it before.”

  “My grandmother has an ointment that works, too. I’ll get some from her. But what I meant was how can you get burned when fire won’t work around you?”

  He looked at Elladaire, not me. “Sometimes you just have to run faster than the magic. I happened to come across a bad crash before the cops did. There was a kid trapped in a burning car. Someone had to get him out in a hurry.”

  So they’d sent me a real hero. Piet was the genuine article, not a construct of my imagination, not tall, dark, and handsome, and not a perfect cover model. I went to get his coffee and the scones. When I got back to the living room, Elladaire was asleep against Piet’s chest. Little Red sat on the sofa next to him, shredding one of the baby’s stuffed animals.

  A real hero.

  He looked over Elladaire’s head and scowled at me. “Don’t you go getting any ideas, lady.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “I DEAS? WHAT KIND OF IDEAS? Thinking up new stories is my business.”

  “This isn’t anything new. It’s love and marriage and forever after. So don’t look at me like your next meal.”

  I gasped. “I wasn’t—love and marriage? Why, you arrogant jerk. I just met—”

  “Shh. You’ll wake the baby. I meant I’m not the marrying kind, no matter what the bastards at Royce tell me is my duty.”

  I had a hard time getting enough air in my lungs for another gasp. “They sent you to marry me?”

  “They mentioned you were single and attractive. Twice. They’ve been pushing every unattached, talented female at me since I was seventeen.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Thirty-eight. Feeling a hundred and eight some mornings. That’s why they yanked me out of Iraq so fast. They’re afraid of losing my genes before I get killed. I donated sperm to the cause, but they aren’t satisfied. They suggested I wouldn’t take so many chances if I had a family. It’s all about crossbreeding with them.”

  “They must have taken lessons from my mother.”

  He thought about that, idly stroking Elladaire’s back, ignoring the trail of drool she left on his shoulder. “I guess they push females harder. That ticking clock and all.”