Hearts Afire

by Marta Perry

  Lord, please be with Jake right now. His relationship with his father is beyond my understanding, but You know all about it. Jake has given his life to You. Please guide him now.

  She didn’t know what else to pray for. There was nothing simple or easy to understand about Jake, or about her feelings for him, for that matter. She leaned against the counter, gaze absently fixed on the bowl of yellow chrysanthemums that decorated it.

  Yellow mums for fall. The season was moving on. Jake had been in Suffolk for a month now. Did he feel that he was fitting in, finding a home here? Or did he carry that restless, rootless feeling inside him?

  She had to face facts. Until he’d resolved his feelings about failing Meredith, Jake wouldn’t be free to love anyone else. Not that she was thinking about love in connection with him. She backed away from that quickly.

  If she were thinking that—her mind drifted to her brothers, all happily married now. To her parents. There were plenty of examples of God-centered, solid, happy marriages in her family. That was what she wanted for herself. She wouldn’t make the mistake of letting herself fall in love with someone who couldn’t make that kind of commitment.

  She was still standing there, frowning at the run sheet as if it held the secret of the universe, when the elevator doors swished open. Jake stalked out, and one look at his face told her the meeting with his father hadn’t gone well.

  “Jake—”

  He shot a glance toward the receptionist, shook his head and took her arm. “Let’s go in the lounge.” He piloted her quickly toward the staff lounge, and she could feel the depth of his anger through the taut fingers that gripped her elbow.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Jake released her. He stalked across the room, looking as if he’d like to punch his fist into the wall, then turned back toward her.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Jake had to talk to someone, or he was going to explode. She already knew about his situation with his father. If he talked to her about it, it would only be because she was the one person who knew. Nothing more.

  He turned away, planting both fists on the table, looking down. Tension was written in every line of his body. He looked as if he’d fly apart at any moment.

  “Please, Jake,” she said softly. “Talk to me. What did he say?”

  He straightened, running his hand through his hair as if that would help him put his thoughts together. “Nothing I shouldn’t have expected.” He shook his head. “Oh, it started out well enough. After all, the fact that he was here showed he’d at least been interested enough to keep tabs on where I am.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” There was nothing in that to account for the anger that radiated from Jake in waves.

  His mouth twisted. “You’d think so. Sounds like something any father might do. But he went a bit further. He got in touch with Getz and asked him if he found my work satisfactory.” He sounded as if he were quoting. “Satisfactory! As if that’s the best that could be expected from me.”

  “Whatever your father’s motives, I’m sure Dr. Getz gave a good report about you.” She was feeling her way, not sure what would ease the pain she sensed beneath the anger. Her heart hurt for him.

  “Yes. He did. That’s why my father came to see me.” His hands flexed, then drew tight, the knuckles white. “Since my work has been satisfactory, he’s decided to give me another chance. According to him, I’m wasting my talent here. I’m to give up my work, go back to Boston and take up the neurosurgery residency he’s managed to wangle for me.”

  Go back to Boston. For a moment she faced the prospect of life without Jake. It looked bleak. She took a breath. This wasn’t about her. It was about Jake.

  “That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. No. I’m not sure anymore what I want.” He pressed his knuckles against his forehead. “One thing I know—I don’t want my father telling me what to do. Not anymore.”

  “Jake—” This is about Jake, remember? Not about you. “Look, it sounds as if he went about talking to you all wrong, but maybe you should still think about it. Don’t throw away an opportunity because you’re angry with him.”

  “That’s not it.” He tried, and failed, to smile, and then came quickly back across the room to clasp her hands in his. “I don’t know whether neurosurgery is what I want anymore, but even if it is, I don’t think I’m willing to pay the price my father asks.” His fingers tightened on hers, robbing her of the ability to breathe. “Thank you, Terry. For caring.”

  Caring. Her heart was too full to speak, and she couldn’t kid herself any longer. What she felt for Jake wasn’t caring, or friendship, or sympathy. It was love.

  She was in love with him, whether there was any future in that or not.

  Terry was supposed to be on her way to the clinic, but no one needed to know that she planned to make a stop first. She turned down the lane that led to the Dixon farmhouse. She could only hope she’d find Matthew Dixon at home, preferably alone.

  Depending on Andy to intercede with his father didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere. Each day that passed made it more difficult for Manuela to start school. She hadn’t been much help to Jake the previous day, but maybe she could accomplish something for Manuela if she could talk to Mr. Dixon.

  He might think of her as Joe Flanagan’s little girl, but he respected her father. Maybe he’d listen to her when he wouldn’t listen to his son. Fathers and sons sometimes didn’t respect each other’s opinions—she only had to look at Jake’s relationship with his father to see that.

  Her heart clenched for him. Was Jake giving up something he’d regret later? That was what she feared. It would break her heart if he left, but if he stayed and felt he’d settled for second best, that would be worse.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if that interview with his father was as bad as Jake felt. Had his father really intended to denigrate Jake’s accomplishments, or was Jake reading something into it out of his past pain? She didn’t know, and she probably never would.

  She pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse. She’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of Jake that she hadn’t rehearsed what she was going to say to Mr. Dixon. Well, maybe that was just as well.

  Please, Lord. I believe I’m doing Your will in this. So please, speak through me.

  She didn’t see Andy’s car anywhere. Maybe she’d be fortunate enough to find him out. Andy’s protectiveness toward his father might be admirable, but in this case, she could do without it.

  She went quickly to the screen door and rapped, the weathered door rattling under her assault. She paused for a moment, hand on that door. Had someone called out?

  “Come in.” The voice, sounding querulous, came from upstairs. “Come here and help me.”

  Nobody ever had to say “help me” twice to her. Terry yanked open the screen door and hurried across the hall and up the stairs. “Mr. Dixon? Are you all right?”

  “In here.” Dixon stood in the doorway of a bedroom, barefoot, his white hair ruffled. “Who are you?”

  “Terry Flanagan, Mr. Dixon.” He looked upset, but not ill. “You remember me. Joe Flanagan’s girl.”

  “Course I remember you.” His voice was testy. “Just can’t see you without my glasses, that’s all. Fool boy is supposed to leave them on the nightstand so I can find them, and he didn’t. Can’t even get my shoes on without them.”

  “Suppose I have a look around for them?” She moved past him into the bedroom. Dark, heavy furniture, the relics of an earlier age. Light-blocking shades were pulled down at the windows, making the interior of the room cavelike.

  No wonder he couldn’t find his glasses. She practically had to grope her way across the room to the window in order to flip up the shades, letting sunlight flood the room. Mr. Dixon blinked, like an owl exposed to the light.

  “Those glasses have to be here somewhere. Use your eyes, girl. Find them.” His bark sounded more assured now.

  “Yes,
sir.” The glasses were probably right on the nightstand where Andy was supposed to leave them. But she checked the nightstand and then the floor around it without finding them.

  “Well, where are they?”

  Dixon took a step toward her, his hand out in front of him as if feeling for any obstacles, and she realized how little he could see without his glasses. A wave of pity swept through her. How terrible it must be, to feel so helpless.

  “Not on the nightstand, but I’ll find them in a minute or two, I’m sure.” She checked the bed first, to be sure they hadn’t become tangled with the covers, and then began working her way around the room. The glasses finally turned up on the mantel over the disused fireplace, tucked behind a framed picture of Matthew Dixon and his wife on their wedding day.

  “Here they are. They were on the mantel.”

  He slid them on and peered at her, blue eyes sharp. “He hid them, that’s what he did. Doesn’t like me getting around on my own.”

  “I’m sure Andy wouldn’t do that.” She found a pair of black lace-up shoes in the closet and helped him put on socks and shoes.

  He stood, grasping her shoulder for a moment. “You’re a good girl. I’m going downstairs now.”

  She slipped around to his side, ready to grab him if he seemed tottery, but he went down the stairs as spryly as a younger man.

  “Come on into the kitchen. I need some coffee. You can tell me what you want.” He headed briskly to the kitchen, confident now, a complete change from the helpless soul he’d been a few minutes before.

  He poured two mugs of coffee from the modern coffeemaker that looked out of place on the worn wooden counter and shoved one toward her. She took a sip of coffee strong enough to make her hair stand on end. Dixon downed his with every indication of enjoyment.

  “Now then.” The coffee seemed to complete his transformation. He stood erect, looking at her questioningly. “What was it you wanted?”

  “It’s about the Ortiz family—from the migrant worker camp. Their daughter has been helping us at the clinic, and we’d like to see her have a chance to attend school here for a while. If you could hire her father to stay through the apple harvest—”

  But he was already shaking his head. “It’s none of my concern. That’s taken care of by the crew chief.”

  “You’re the employer, Mr. Dixon. Surely, if you said you wanted them to stay, the crew chief would go along with you.” She was losing him already, the rapport she’d thought she’d built slipping away.

  His face tightened. “Why are you bothering me with this? The farm workers aren’t any of your concern.”

  “They have to be somebody’s concern.” She felt her temper slipping and tried to grasp control.

  “You and your do-gooders.” His face reddened. “I should have known better than to agree to that clinic.”

  “They need the clinic. They need better housing, too. You should be ashamed of the conditions they’re living in.” So much for controlling her temper. She’d end up regretting this, but somebody had to confront him about his treatment of the workers.

  He slammed his cup down on the table so hard it was a wonder it didn’t smash to pieces. “You’re out of line, young woman. My workers have everything they need. My son sees to that.”

  “That’s not what Andy—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “I’ll thank you to get out of my house and mind your own business.”

  “Taking care of other people is everyone’s business.”

  “Out!” His face was so red that she was afraid to pursue it any further.

  She turned toward the door. “Please. Just think about it.” She didn’t dare say more. She went quickly down the hall and out of the house.

  It wasn’t until she was driving down the lane that she realized she was shaking, her hands trembling so that she had to grip the wheel to steer.

  She’d failed. She never should have thought she could deal with Dixon herself. She’d just made the whole thing worse.

  And if Dixon complained to Jake, or worse, to the hospital board, she might have created more trouble than any of them could handle.

  Chapter Twelve

  Terry rubbed the polishing rag along the chrome trim of the rig. The firehouse was quiet, with most on-duty personnel upstairs having lunch. The quiet suited her. She and Jeff had decided the rig needed a thorough cleaning, and the routine chore combined with the quiet soothed her.

  Jeff was inside the rig, taking inventory of their supplies. His tuneless whistle was part of the background to her thoughts. Unfortunately, letting her mind stray from how many inches of chrome she had to polish was a good recipe for disturbing her mood.

  She was certainly better off here than trying to intercede on Manuela’s behalf. She’d messed that up thoroughly when she’d tried to talk to Dixon about her.

  Her polishing cloth slowed its circular movements. She’d been waiting for the shoe to drop for over twenty-four hours—waiting for an irate call from Jake or a stern one from the hospital board. So far, nothing had happened. Apparently Mr. Dixon hadn’t complained about her. Yet.

  Ripping off a paper towel, she wiped down the headlight, running the towel into the seam. Odd, what Dixon had said about letting Andy handle everything to do with the migrant worker housing. That hadn’t been the impression Andy gave.

  Maybe the truth lay somewhere in between. Perhaps the elder Dixon gave Andy the work, but without the authority to make any changes. Fathers and sons seemed to have far more complicated relationships than mothers and daughters, from what she could see.

  She might never really know the answer. Andy didn’t have any reason to confide in her, even if he did claim friendship from kindergarten.

  And as far as confiding was concerned, she had some of that to do. She ought to have told Brendan what happened with Dixon. Maybe he could come up with some other way to help the Ortiz family.

  And she ought to tell Jake, as well. Her throat tightened at the thought of forcing those words out. He would not be happy with her. He’d warned her to tread cautiously with Dixon, and she’d plunged in as if everything depended on her.

  If Dixon decided to complain, she’d put the work of the clinic in jeopardy. And even if he didn’t, her actions might mean that he wouldn’t agree to allow the clinic access to his workers next year.

  Jake felt that any complaint about the clinic could reflect on him. She found it hard to believe that the board would refuse him a permanent contract based on her mistakes, but what mattered was what Jake believed. She had to confess to him, and the sooner, the better.

  “Are you Ms. Flanagan?”

  She straightened so sharply she nearly cracked her head on the rearview mirror. She had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard the woman approach, although those high heels must have made noise on the concrete floor.

  Fashionable, expensive heels, matching an equally expensive leather bag. A lightweight gray suit that echoed perfectly coiffed gray hair. This was not the sort of person one expected to find in the firehouse.

  “I’m Terry Flanagan. May I help you?”

  The woman let her gaze drift over Terry from head to foot, and Terry found herself squaring her shoulders. Okay, maybe she didn’t look like a fashion plate in her paramedic uniform, with a cleaning rag in her hand. She didn’t intend to.

  “I’m Lila Landsdowne. Is there someplace we can speak? In private.” She frowned at Jeff, whose startled face had appeared in the window above her.

  Lila Landsdowne. Jake’s mother—she had to be. Terry’s stomach tied itself into knots. This couldn’t be good. What did Jake’s mother want with her?

  “Well—” She looked around, finding nothing suitable for a private talk in the engine room. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted a private talk with Jake’s mother. Did he know she was here?

  Jeff slid out of the rig. “I’ll go up and have lunch, Ter. I’ll make sure nobody comes down to bother you.” He gave Mrs. Landsdowne an awkward nod and
hurried toward the stairs.

  The woman let her gaze follow him until he was out of sight. Then she turned back to Terry, one silvery eyebrow lifted.

  She was not going to let the woman intimidate her. This was her place. She managed a smile. “We’ll be private enough here. I’m afraid there’s no place to sit, unless you’d like to get into the rig.”

  A pained expression crossed Mrs. Landsdowne’s face. “No. This will do. I understand you’re a friend of my son’s.”

  “Did Jake tell you that?” This visit seemed odd, to say the least.

  “No.” Her lips tightened, lines showing beneath perfect makeup. “I haven’t spoken to Jacob in some time.”

  “Then how—”

  “Really, Ms. Flanagan, we’re wasting time. I make it my business to know what my son is doing. I know about your relationship.” She looked as if the words left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “Jake and I are friends,” Terry said carefully. “That’s all.”

  “If that’s true, I’m sure you’ll see the wisdom of doing what I ask.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I want you to encourage him to come back to Boston, where he belongs, and take up the position his father has arranged for him.”

  Terry could only stare at her for a moment. Mrs. Landsdowne looked at her with, apparently, every expectation that Terry would accede to anything she wanted.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t?” She looked as if no one had ever said the word to her before.

  “It’s Jake’s decision, not mine. It’s none of my business.” She had no doubt that Jake would agree with that sentiment.

  “Don’t play games with me.” Her voice sharpened. “I’ve been told you have influence over Jacob. I’m asking you to use it.”

  Her patience was fraying. “Your source is wrong. And if I did have influence over him, I wouldn’t use it.”

  The woman blinked. Her lips pressed together for an instant, and then she produced something that might be a smile. “I suppose I’m approaching this all wrong. I didn’t mean to offend you.”