by Kathryn Shay
“Yo, Francesca? Where were you?”
“Nowhere,” she told Dylan. “Come on, I want my chance at the firefighter trivia game.”
“You missed two rounds.”
“I know. Who won?”
“Jake, both times.”
“He’s been reading up on firefighter lore again, hasn’t he?”
“He said he wasn’t.”
Leading her out of the bay to the spacious common room, Dylan crossed to the bulletin board above a big gray metal desk in the corner. Francey could hear the guys cooking in the kitchen, which was off to the right; to the left, some good-natured joking came from a workout area with weight machines, a treadmill and a Ping-Pong table. At six o’clock at night, no one was in the bunk room in the back of the station.
Dylan took down a typed page that had been tacked to the cork. “Read ‘em and weep, sweetheart,” he said in a poor imitation of Humphrey Bogart.
As Francey perused the questions, an announcement came over the PA system. They both stilled and listened.
“Quint/Midi Five. Not for us.” Dylan grinned. “We can still eat.”
Francey looked at the paper and read the questions.
Who set up the first volunteer fire department? That one was easy. Benjamin Franklin.
What year was the first SCBA gear used for firefighting and where did this happen? She knew the city was Boston, because her grandfather had told her. But she couldn’t recall the year.
What nationally known artist got his ideas from his membership in volunteer firefighting? Francey had no idea.
True or false—did the dispatcher who was on in 1871 when Mrs. O’Leary’s cow started the Chicago fire strum his guitar instead of answering the call?
“Jeez, Dyl, these last two are hard.”
“Nobody’ll play if they’re not. That’s how we got the thirty-inch TV and new treadmill.”
He sat on the desk and picked up Report from Engine Company 82, the most popular anecdotal book written about firefighting. Dylan consumed firemanic material—fiction, nonfiction, magazines like Firehouse and manuals with the latest equipment or memorabilia in them. The information about firefighting that he absorbed from these sources formed the content of their two-week rotation trivia game.
Dylan posed four questions. Everybody in each group— there were at four at every fire station—got a shot at answering them for a dollar apiece. At the end of the rotation, whoever had the most right received a third of the profits. Another third went to raising money to purchase station house equipment. The rest they saved to give a whopper of a Christmas party for the School of the Immaculate Conception for Down’s syndrome kids. Because next to firefighting, Dylan O’Roarke loved Christmas and children the most. This routine had gone on for five years.
She told him her guesses for the first two—which were correct.
“Give up on the others?”
“Yeah.”
“Currier and Ives is the artist. And the last one is true. The guy was showing off for his lady friend and didn’t hear the call.”
“Dinner!” Robbie yelled from the hall on his way to the office to get the captain.
When they reached the kitchen and sat down to eat, Francey found she was ravenous. Instead of seafood, tonight’s feast consisted of chicken cordon bleu, green beans, wild rice and crusty Italian bread.
Just as they dug in, another call blared from the PA system. “It’s Thirteen’s,” the captain pointed out, and they relaxed.
“So, France,” Robbie asked, “how long can you string this injury out? We sure like having Huff here.”
She glared at Robbie. Peter Huff, an ex-cop, was thirty-five. He’d been a bit older than most recruits when he joined the RFD, and was a floater, which meant he substituted at various stations when needed. He was assigned to Quint/ Midi Twelve for the duration of her convalescence. Furthermore, he could cook like a five-star-restaurant chef.
“Watch your mouth, probie. I’m never gonna make the two months as it is.”
“You will.” Ed Knight’s reassurance calmed her, like it always did for the group.
“Yeah, kid,” Dylan put in. “You can get through this.”
Another call came over the speaker. Again everybody paused. And again it wasn’t for them.
“That guy you saved seems to be payin’ a lot of attention to you,” Adam said teasingly. “We heard about all the food he sent.”
Francey laughed.
Duke Russo frowned. “I hear the Templeton warehouse fire might be arson.”
“So they say.”
“Did you know that arson is the leading cause of fire in the nation?” Dylan made the statement between bites of a piece of bread.
“Now look what you started, Genier,” the Captain groused.
“It accounts for fourteen percent of all fire injuries and is the second leading cause of fire deaths.”
Robbie threw his napkin at Dylan, though everybody knew the probie thought Dylan walked on water.
“And arson is the leading cause of property damage.”
“So help me, O’Roarke,” Ed told him getting up for more ice tea. “I’ll give you johns to clean for a week if you don’t stop quoting those damned statistics of yours.”
The banter felt good. Along with firefighters’ notorious black humor, Francey had missed their razzing each other the most.
The crew decided to clean up before dessert. Robbie was washing the last of the dishes, Francey was putting them away and Dylan was reading to them about the newest imaging devices available—finally at a lower cost, when the PA system came on again. This time, Quint/Midi Twelve was tapped.
All banter and joking stopped, as if someone had abruptly shut off the TV. Everybody raced to the bay. Out of habit, Francey followed.
They bounded to the rigs, kicking off their boots, which went flying all over the place. One of Adam’s hit her in the arm.
“Sorry, France…too bad, kid…tough luck…” They tossed the words out while they donned their gear, mounted the trucks and buckled up. As driver of the Quint tonight, Dylan waited just until the door of the bay rose to where he’d marked a big red line on the wall—he’d measured how far they had to wait for the truck to clear the height—and then he tore out of the station. The Midi followed right behind.
Swallowing hard, Francey crossed to the button to close the overhead door and pushed it. Metal squeaked on the way down, then banged shut on the concrete with a loud thunk. Silence. For a moment, Francey was stunned by the stillness in the station house. She’d never been alone here before. Her heart sank. They were going to a fire. She was missing a fire.
For two weeks she’d resisted feeling sorry for herself. Even when she couldn’t get the cap off the bottle of painkillers or when she had trouble zipping up her jeans, she’d taken it in stride. Injuries were part of the business, though she’d rarely had one that kept her out of work. Her brothers had taught her to be tough, to roll with the punches.
Making her way to the kitchen, she finished with the dishes, stored the dessert in the refrigerator and turned off the lights. She listened to the PA and heard that Quint/Midi Twelve had a working fire in a store on University Avenue.
Dejected, she walked into the common room, thinking she’d wait for the guys to get back. She dropped onto the couch and picked up Dylan’s Engine 82, but she couldn’t concentrate on the stories.
So she took out her cell to see if she had messages. None. Chelsea was at the gym tonight. Beth was out of town at a conference. Her grandparents were at bingo. Tony was probably having dinner with Erin and the kids. Dad was bowling. Maybe Jake was home.
Staring at the phone, she wondered what Alex was doing.
She could text him. See if he was busy. Maybe he’d meet her at Pumpers for a drink. He could console her about missing a fire, and she could take his mind off the snail-paced investigation into his warehouse fire.
Hey, she thought as she picked up the phone, what are friends for?
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oOo
Stifling a groan, Alex eased himself into the hundred degree water and settled on the bench. He laid back against a specially designed headrest that fit onto the corner of the hot tub built into his deck. Before he closed his eyes, he glanced at the perfectly cloudless sky, just turning dark. Several stars winked at him.
Every one of his muscles screamed in protest at his earlier mistreatment. He’d acted like a sixteen-year-old jock and overdone the exercising. Not only had this been the first opportunity he’d had to work out since he’d recovered from the injuries he’d sustained in the warehouse fire, but he’d been pitifully out of shape before that. Since he returned to Rockford two years ago, he’d let his fitness routine go completely by the wayside.
You didn’t have to try to recoup in one night, jerk, he told himself. But he’d been struggling to keep the demons at bay and hadn’t been careful about how many sit-ups he’d done or how long he’d run on his newly purchased treadmill.
Sighing as the soothing water bubbled around him and drained the tension from his muscles, he acknowledged what he’d been reluctant to admit. He was depressed. Though dark moods rarely happened to him, he knew the signs—and he knew why. The root of his funk was threefold. The warehouse fire investigation was stalled; he was winded after five minutes on a treadmill; and his personal life, he’d come to realize in the past couple of weeks, was a desert with no oasis in sight.
He could call Francesca.
No, not a good idea. They’d had a pleasant two weeks, and he’d thoroughly enjoyed her company. But not once had she initiated contact with him, and that had bored a little hole in his heart. Maybe he was pushing too hard for the friendship. Too bad, because he liked being with her. She had a dry, sometimes black sense of humor, she respected hard work, and she didn’t want to talk about herself all the time. Her lack of concern with her appearance was refreshing—and ironic, given how her looks stopped a guy in his tracks. Alex had found that if he could get past how beautiful she was, he could value her as a friend. Still, he’d wait until she called him this time.
Her stepsister, Elise Hathaway, had phoned him several times—just to see how he was, she’d said. She’d stepped up her campaign big time to snag his interest. As Francesca warned, it was easy to figure out why. The cell had rung earlier, and Alex had let it go to voice mail, because he feared Elise would be on the other end. No one had left a message.
“Hi.”
Alex’s eyes snapped open. Before him stood Francesca. The wind ruffled her hair, her windbreaker was open—she probably couldn’t pull together the zipper alone—and she was dressed comfortably in jeans and a red shirt that complemented her complexion. Bathed in the soft glow of the deck lights, she was utterly lovely. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said.
She hesitated. “Is it okay? To drop in?”
“More than okay. I was just thinking how you’ve never contacted me, not even once.” His tone was scolding. “Like friends do.”
Giving him a half smile, she came closer. “I called. Earlier, from the station house, but there was no answer. I didn’t feel like going home, so I thought I’d take a drive by the lake.” She shrugged. “Out here, to see if you were home.”
He noted the tension in her jaw and the little catch in her voice. “You were at the fire station?”
She nodded.
“Did you have a nice visit?”
“I guess.” Absently, she crossed to the hot tub and sat on the edge. She ran her fingers through the water. “Feels good.”
“Want to join me?”
“I’d love to. But I don’t have anything to wear. And this cast…”
He nodded at the French doors to the right of the Jacuzzi. “There’s a bathroom off the deck. It’s got towels and extra swimsuits in the closet. Something’ll fit. And you can sit in the tub with your arm on the ledge.”
“I won’t ask you what you’re doing with spare women’s suits,” she said, rising, “but I’ll take you up on the offer.” She headed to the door.
“Hey, if you need any help—with zippers and stuff—let me know.”
“Rule number three, Templeton,” she yelled before she disappeared behind the door.
“No sexual innuendo.” He chuckled. Suddenly he felt a lot better. Francesca Cordaro was a mood-altering drug.
The high lasted until she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. The vision of her kicked him in the stomach and made him suck in his breath. She’d chosen a plain navy racing suit one of his cousins had left behind. But beauty-pageant queens didn’t look half as good in their designer suits. The red trim on the top accented firm breasts that needed no support. The spandex dipped into her waist nicely; the French cut emphasized legs so long they could wrap… He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “What have I done to deserve this?”
She’d come close enough to hear and smiled wryly. “Serves you right.”
He opened his eyes and angled his head at her questioningly.
“You’re pretty tempting there yourself, all bare-chested and rumpled.”
“I am?”
“Yeah.” She was eyeing the tub, puzzling over how best to get in.
Alex was warmed more by the simple compliment than the outright passes he’d gotten from other women. “You have no heart telling me that.”
“At least I have a sense of humor about all this.”
“You like being friends, though, don’t you, Francesca?”
Her head came up. “Yes. I’ve enjoyed these two weeks.” When he stared at her, her smile slipped, and for a minute she looked like a shy schoolgirl, not a thirty-year-old woman. “Haven’t you?”
“I’ve more than enjoyed them.” He saw her shiver. “Get in before you get chilled. It’s warm for April, but there’s still a nip in the air.” She swung her legs over the side. “Sit in the corner, across from me where there’s a headrest. Just make sure you keep your cast out of the water.”
“Yes, Dad.” She laughed at him.
“No wisecracks, woman. There’s a built-in mechanism in men that makes them want to take care of their women.”
“You turning caveman on me, Templeton?” She sighed as she slid into the water as far as the cast would allow. “Oh, God, this is sinful.”
For a brief moment Alex was overcome by pure lust. He imagined her sighing with the pleasure he could give her, moaning with it, begging for more.
In a nanosecond, his body responded. Focus on something else, he told himself. Something that would douse his ardor. “What did you do at the station?”
“I had dinner with my group. Peter Huff, the floater, is taking my place, and he’s a gourmet cook. The meal was something else.”
Alex frowned. He felt a spurt of jealousy—for their cook, for God’s sake. “You must adore him.”
“I adore his cooking.” Then she fell silent. “They got called to a fire just as we finished dinner,” she finally said.
He detected the unhappiness in her voice. Though he didn’t understand the mentality of wanting to walk into burning buildings, he’d learned from her over the past two weeks that firefighters devoted their lives to putting out fires and they hated to miss an opportunity to do their job. “And you feel bad?”
“Yep.”
“Want to discuss this?”
“Nope.” She changed the subject. “Any news on the investigation?”
He hesitated, but then answered, “It’s stopped.”
“Stopped?”
“Only temporarily. Bob Zeleny was admitted to the hospital today with pneumonia.”
She sat up straighter, and her lovely eyes widened with concern. “Oh, no, that’s terrible.”
“I hope his condition isn’t too serious. He seems like a good man.”
“He is. He has a nice family, too. His son’s a lieutenant at Engine Fourteen.”
Alex remembered her telling him that the fire department was like family. No wonder she looked so grim.
After a momen
t he nodded to her. “Your hair’s getting wet. Want to pin it up?”
“No, hair dries.” She sighed. “Poor Bob. So many firefighters develop breathing problems.”
“Even though you wear the masks?”
“Yeah. Exposure to smoke happens after the fire, too. We’re supposed to leave our breathing masks on for the overhaul—when we make sure the fire’s out—but not everyone does. And he’s in buildings afterward more than most.”
“Doesn’t sound safe to me.”
“Nothing’s safe about the whole business.”
Her cavalier attitude about her well-being bothered him.
She asked, “Are they still questioning people?”
“I believe so. Zeleny’s assistant said he’d be in touch after he reviewed the case.”
“Your brother, too?”
Alex nodded. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Francesca?”
“I’ve been thinking about something, Alex, and every time I’ve seen you, I thought I should tell you. They’re questioning your brother because the marshals often zero in on the person who calls in the alarm, the one who’s at the scene.”
“Why?”
“More times than not, he’s set the fire.”
“What?” Alex sat forward.
“Look, I’m not telling you this to worry you. Or to accuse anyone. As your friend, I thought you should be prepared for what might come up.”
“I had no idea.” He jammed a hand through his hair. “Why would someone who’d set the blaze stay at the scene?”
“To see the results of his handiwork. Sometimes arson is a vanity fire, where a person helps the firemen and gets praise.”
“Richard would never hurt the company or the family.”
“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “As I said, I thought you should have all the information. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“No, I’m not upset. I am worried about my family, though, in this whole mess. Dad, mainly.”
“You love your family, don’t you?”
