Hearts on Fire
Page 16
It didn’t take long to come to one of Shari’s posts. “Birthday party for Sophia at the waterpark!” In the photo, a gaggle of girls lounged around a pool on giant round floats. Becca zoomed in on the picture with her fingers. Jacqueline Michelle was in the center of the group, wearing a navy one-piece swimsuit, her hair in a long wet braid, squinting and grinning happily at the camera. The picture took Becca back almost twenty years, to pool outings with her sisters—long, lazy afternoons that ended with them all tanned and waterlogged.
Her thumb hovered over her phone. She didn’t “like” Shari’s photos, as a matter of course. It had been Shari’s idea for them to be “friends” online, but it made Becca uncomfortable to be a visible presence. It was an open adoption but she felt she owed it to Shari to leave her alone.
Her thumb tapped the screen. You and 16 other people liked this.
She slipped the phone back into the pocket of her Bermuda shorts before anyone else came upstairs. She was supposed to run demonstrations on hand quilting and improvisational piecing in the classroom today. Everything was set up and ready to go—sample squares of fabric and batting for people to practice hand quilting, and large cutting boards for the improv piecing.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket again. She pulled it out, her eyes widening at the name on the screen. No no no. She couldn’t accept a friend request from Jack. She couldn’t risk him seeing a photo of Jacqueline Michelle. There was very little physical resemblance between Becca and their daughter; no one would guess the relationship. But Jack … that was a different matter. He and Jacqueline Michelle shared hair color and height. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. But maybe he would.
Back into her pocket the phone went, and just in time as footsteps and excited chatter sounded on the stairs. A moment later, Cassidy appeared with four of the shop’s long-time customers, women Becca had known since she was knee high to a grasshopper.
“There she is!” one of the women cried out, holding her arms out for a hug.
“See, I told you she was back in town,” Cassidy said.
Becca allowed each woman to hug her, in turn.
“So grown up!”
“Love this hair color.” Tug on Becca’s ponytail.
“Oh look at this stitching, will you? This is insane.”
One of the women picked up a sample Becca had created for her hand quilting demo.
“Are you home for good?”
Becca was brought up short by that question, though it was one she should have expected. “For awhile, maybe,” she waffled.
“She’s thinking about taking some classes at the college in the fall,” Cassidy interjected. “Right?”
Becca shrugged. “Maybe. If I get in.” Truth be told, the thought of staying in St. Caroline beyond the summer felt sort of … lonely. The off-season had always felt that way to her when she was younger. With the summer people gone, the town felt smaller and even quieter. And whom did she know here other than her parents and sisters? Tamara Rossi. Jack. And Jack was leaving town soon, too.
Suddenly, the thought of being in St. Caroline without Jack felt very lonely.
“You’ll get in,” one of the women said. “You’re a smart girl, Becca. Now show us this improvisational piecing. Your mother said we’ll all be making art quilts by the end of the summer.”
Becca spent the rest of the day conducting demonstrations in the classroom. Charlotte brought her a chicken salad sandwich and bottle of iced tea just after one o’clock, but the sandwich went untouched. She never even got hungry.
“Having fun?” Her mother appeared at her side.
Becca nodded. She was having fun, actually. More fun than she could remember having in years. Life with Brandon hadn’t exactly been a barrel of monkeys. But today, she could practically feel herself glowing. Teaching was giving her some kind of endorphin rush, and it felt good. No, better than good. Downright amazing.
A fortyish woman sidled up to the table to check out the quilts spread out as examples on the table. They were all art quilts—not traditional patterns like Ohio Star or 54-40 or Fight—but freeform landscapes and outright abstract designs. They were smaller, too, made to be hung on a wall, not draped over a bed. These were the kind of quilts Becca most loved to create. No points to match up or seams to align. Both her mother and Natalie were all about the precision. Becca was about going with the flow, enjoying the journey as much as the destination.
The woman studied the quilts carefully. Becca couldn’t tell whether she approved or disapproved. Some people just didn’t like art quilts. She tried sizing up the woman, to steel herself for a negative reaction. In her expensive clothes, she was clearly a summer or weekend resident. Becca knew fabric and could spot high-end from a mile away. The woman wore a sleeveless silk blouse that buttoned down the front and was tucked neatly into crisp linen shorts. Expensive linen, unlike the cheap stuff Becca was wearing. The woman’s hair was a medium brown shade but expertly threaded through with gold highlights. Also not cheap.
“These are beautiful quilts,” the woman said at long last.
Becca fought the urge to let out her breath in one long, theatric sigh.
“All made by my daughter here,” her mother replied, holding out her hand in greeting. “I’m Michelle Trevor, owner of Quilt Therapy. This is Becca.”
The woman shook Becca’s hand, too. “Wendi Brown. Nice to meet both of you.”
“Are you a quilter?” Michelle asked.
“Used to be. Don’t have time anymore.” Wendi laughed. “Doesn’t stop me from buying fabric, though. I stopped in to ask if you know of anyone who does commissions?”
Michelle gave Becca a meaningful look. Quilt commissions? Becca had no idea what to even charge. But the idea was undeniably appealing. She could pay off her parents’ insurance deductible much quicker.
“What kind of commissions?” she asked.
Wendi glanced down at Becca’s quilts. “I’m moving my company into a new office building where we are the only tenant. I want to hang art quilts in the lobby. I’ve got a lot of wall space and it’s a very modern interior. I was thinking quilts might warm it up.”
“So you’re talking large quilts.” Becca extended her arms.
“Yes. Right. Colorful and abstract were my thoughts. I saw the Gee’s Bend exhibit in New York a few years back.”
Becca nodded. “We went up to see that too.” The entire Trevor family had taken the train from Washington to New York. A family pilgrimage. The quilts were made by four generations of African-American women in the town of Gee’s Bend, Alabama, and had as much in common with modern art as with quilting.
The woman unzipped her leather purse and fished out a business card. She handed it to Becca. “You’re very talented. Call me if you’re interested.”
The candle’s scent assaulted Jack’s nose the instant he pushed open the door to his parents’ house. It was the apple pie candle. I’m a man. I shouldn’t be able to identify candles without reading the damn label. But he could. This one had a smoky cinnamon odor that gave way to a sharper fruity tang after the second inhale.
Still, it didn’t entirely mask what it was intended to. Not for Jack, anyway. Not for anyone who spent any amount of time in the house.
The smell of sickness.
He swallowed the urge to argue with God again.
A man’s voice was coming from the sunroom, where his mother spent her days. She tired easily now and his father had set up the sunroom so everything she might need was within a few steps. It was shocking how quickly she was deteriorating.
Take me instead.
Yet every morning, he woke up on the sleeper sofa in Matt’s cabin, his back aching from the worn-out cushions and sprung springs.
He found Dan Trevor in the sunroom with his mother. It must be the Trevors’ day to feed his parents. The town seemed to have set up a schedule for dropping off meals. The woman who had fed him and his brothers for years could no longer stand long enough to cook a simple meal.
“Hey there, Jack.” Dan held out his hand and Jack shook it. Then Jack leaned over his mom and kissed her cheek. Even her skin smelled different now. Maybe that was nature’s way of preparing him for what was coming.
Nature, you hear? Atheism had been on his mind lately. Because you don’t exist. If you did, this wouldn’t be happening. He began to straighten but his mother cupped his head with her hand and weakly pulled him back down. She pressed her dry lips to his cheek. He closed his eyes. You are not going to see me cry.
Benevolent God, my ass.
He pulled back to stand with Dan, but the expression on his mother’s face said that she had caught his distress.
“How were the fireworks out on the water?” Dan asked. “You know, I’ve never seen them from out there.”
“They were good. It’s a good place to watch them from.”
“Becca must have loved that. She’s like a little kid when it comes to fireworks. Adores them. Always has.”
Jack thought back to the boat. Had Becca seen any of the fireworks?
“Mason said Cam got scared and stayed below deck with Becca,” his mother said.
“Yeah, I’m afraid she didn’t get to see much,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize Cam had a problem with them.”
“Well, I’m sure Becca didn’t mind much. She’s always been good with kids. She was the shop’s unofficial babysitter while the moms shopped.” Dan chuckled and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”
“Thanks for dinner,” Angie said.
She barely got the words out before the fire department pager on the side table squawked. The dispatcher’s voice barked out an address. All three of them cocked their heads to listen.
“Isn’t that—” she started to say.
“The Secretary of State’s house,” Dan finished her sentence. “Mona Barrett and her husband.”
“Hope it’s a false alarm,” Jack ventured quietly.
No such luck. A minute later, another call came over the pager.
“They’re calling for mutual aid,” his mother said, just as quietly.
Jack’s muscles sprang into high alert. St. Caroline was calling in other fire departments for help. For a high profile person’s home.
“I’m heading out there,” he said without thinking. Then he looked at his mother. “If you’re okay, that is.”
She waved him off. “Go see what’s going on.”
Jack could see the plumes of thick, dark smoke before he even hit the edge of town. The Barretts’ house was a stately old home sitting on a lush green lawn that sloped gently down to the waterfront. The type of home you expected to belong to an important person—which Mona Barrett certainly was. Even in the universe of important people who owned property in St. Caroline, she was impressive.
The Barretts’ house was built in the nineteenth century. Those older homes tended to burn more slowly than newer construction, but the amount of smoke Jack was seeing was not a good sign. He parked his car a good ways down the road to stay out of the way of the fire trucks arriving from other nearby towns. Most of those towns were as small as St. Caroline, though, and some not nearly as well off. Annapolis was bigger, but an hour away.
He walked slowly along the road, sizing up the scene as he went. One end of the house was nearly fully engulfed and he wondered what had sparked a fire that spread that quickly. The smoke got thicker as he drew closer, and small particles of debris floated in the air. He lifted up the hem of his tee shirt to cover his mouth and nose.
His leg muscles quivered in readiness. The pull of the fire was strong. He wanted to be in there with his dad and brothers. He didn’t mind donning the Max the Fire Dog costume and going to the local summer camps to talk about fire safety, or helping to plan the fall fundraisers. But it was hard to stand by and watch when they so clearly needed all the help they could get.
It took hours but by four in the afternoon, the fire was out and the trucks from the other towns began to load up and leave. He watched as his father, clearly exhausted and overheated, peeled off some of his gear. The St. Caroline firefighters were a quiet bunch as they decided who would stay for awhile longer, just to make sure the fire didn’t reignite. Without a word, Jack retreated to his car down the road. He was never in the mood to chat after a fire like this. He respected that the others probably weren’t either.
Putting out a large fire was a humbling experience. There was so much one couldn’t control, and so many things that could go wrong no matter how prepared the crews were. A change in wind direction … unknown structural problems in a building … plain old bad luck. And when it was over, Jack always crashed from the rush of adrenaline straight into utter exhaustion.
Back at the station, he helped the guys clean the trucks and put away equipment. His father headed straight to his office, and closed the door. Within minutes, he was on the phone, his head resting heavily in his hand.
“I don’t even want to think about who’s on the other end.” Matt clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help.”
“I could help more.”
“So come with me to pick up the sandwiches Ollie called into the deli.” Matt headed for the open bay door. Jack followed. Outside, it was hot and sticky—typical Eastern Shore summer weather—but even a slight breeze would have been welcome after the fire.
“I can help more than that,” Jack said as he yanked open the passenger side door of Matt’s pickup.
“Yeah, you can do my laundry for me.” Matt laughed as he turned the key in the ignition.
On his phone, Jack pulled up the web page for the fire department in California, scrolling until he found the list of volunteers. When Matt pulled the truck into a parking spot in front of the deli, Jack handed over his phone. His brother’s eyes widened in surprise, then settled into a gaze of respect Jack didn’t often see from Matt.
“Dad know this?”
“Yes. But he won’t send me on calls.”
“What about mom?”
Jack shook his head. “No. I haven’t told her. And dad said he won’t.”
“Uncle Jackie …”
“I know, all right?” Jack knew he should feel honored to be named after his uncle. His uncle had been his mother’s twin, and Tim Wolfe’s best friend since childhood.
His uncle was twenty-eight when he died—only three years older than Jack was now. It was completely understandable why his mother wanted one person in the family doing something other than running into burning buildings. But there was nothing else Jack wanted to do more.
He and Matt picked up the sandwiches and returned to the station. Jack leaned against a truck and ate while he watched his father through the glass window of his office door. He was still on the phone. For the first time, Jack noticed how deep the wrinkles were on his father’s face. He looked older than fifty-five. His wife’s illness was taking its toll. At long last, Tim Wolfe ended the call and rubbed his temples. Jack waited a moment, then knocked on the door. His father waved him in.
“That was the governor,” his father said without even being asked.
Not a good sign.
“Put me on a crew,” Jack said matter-of-factly.
His father shook his head.
“It makes no sense when you’re calling in mutual aid and you have someone right here who can help.”
“We still would have needed mutual aid today. One more person wouldn’t have prevented that.”
“What did the governor want?”
“He said that, with all the dignitaries who own property here, St. Caroline has to be more than just a small town fire department. I told him we only have a small town budget because dignitaries contest their property tax bills every year.”
“What did he say to that?”
“What do you think he said? He’s the person
they call when our property assessor gives them a number they don’t like.”
Jack leaned over his father’s desk, his weight heavy on his hands for emphasis. “Add me to the department. You don’t have to pay me, even. But you’re short-staffed already.”
He locked eyes with his father. There were other words he wanted to say, but held back. I’m not a kid anymore. Let me make my own decisions. “You’re putting other people at risk because you don’t have enough personnel,” he said quietly, continuing to hold his father’s gaze. “And no one else is going to walk in off the street and be immediately trained like I am.”
Finally, his father broke Jack’s stare and looked over his shoulder. Jack was sure Matt and Oliver were out there, watching the standoff. Jack straightened up, sensing that he had won.
“Fine. And I will pay you.” His father pushed back from his desk. “I’ll tell your mother.”
“No, I’ll do it.”
Chapter 20
Becca’s fiberglass paddle sliced into the dark water of the cypress swamp. Behind her in the tandem kayak sat Jack, his paddle doing most of the work as they glided beneath a low ceiling of leaves. This was their first real date, as in a date the two of them had agreed to and set up. No parents involved this time.
They picked up the kayak and paddles at Oliver’s house, said hello to Serena and the boys, and then drove the hour and a half to Snow Hill. She had to admit, she’d been more than a little skeptical when Jack suggested kayaking in a swamp. For starters, she had never kayaked before. And, while she had heard of the bald cypress swamps in Maryland, they didn’t sound like a place she’d want to spend an afternoon exploring.