Matt frowned down at the ground. “No. I don’t need to keep reminding them about that day.”
“I’m sure they remember anyway.”
“Yeah, well...” He took a deep breath and met her gaze. “I wouldn’t know what to say. And I doubt it would make any of us feel any better.” He’d already said too much.
They were silent for a couple of minutes, the breeze shifting her hair ever so slightly. He liked the quiet—it didn’t require anything of him, and he could just sit here with this beautiful woman at his side. She glanced up at him.
“I remember being so angry with Ed. He had a habit of turning his phone off and completely forgetting to turn it back on. It drove me crazy, and that night, I’d been trying to reach him for hours, and Christopher was already in bed asleep. I was furious with him. Then the police knocked at my door with the news that he was dead.”
Matt winced. “Do you feel guilty for being mad at him?”
“No, not anymore.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I’m still mad at him for dying, though.”
“Inconsiderate.” He shot her a sad smile.
“Completely.” She shook her head. “But these things happen in life, and I know I’m not the only one to lose someone I loved.”
“Did it really help to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not to my friends.” She pulled her fingers through her dark hair. “I find that when you go through something like that, people shy away. They don’t want to hear about it. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare.”
“Yeah, I could see that. So, who did you talk to?”
“My church had a support group of widows. Most of them were elderly ladies, but they fully understood what I was going through, and that was the place where I was able to really talk it through.” Rachel looked over at him thoughtfully. “I’m sure the fire station has therapists for you guys.”
He nodded slowly. “And I recommend them to all my firefighters.”
“But you don’t use the services,” she concluded.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “I don’t need it.”
Her laughter bubbled up, soft and lightly amused. “Everyone needs to talk, Matt.”
“Maybe so, but not everyone needs therapy.”
He knew his aversion to therapy was rooted in his male pride, but he couldn’t bring himself to call up a phone line and have some twenty-five-year-old with next to no life experience ask him, And how does that make you feel? He could do that himself. He was well aware how he felt. He felt responsible for a little girl’s death. He felt sad for everything she would miss, sad for her parents who would never be the same without her. He felt angry at God for not stepping in, and irritated with the town for grieving so publicly. People who didn’t even know the girl held candles at vigils. People who only saw her picture in a paper waxed poetic about a life lost too soon. It was one big outpouring of public grief—complete strangers never once thinking that their cathartic release might be pure torture for someone else.
“I get it,” she said quietly.
“Do you?”
“Some things you need to sort out with a little privacy.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, eyeing her with mild surprise.
She nodded slowly. “Everyone means well, but no one seems to really understand, do they?”
“You seem to.”
A small smile tickled the corners of her lips, and a soft blush rose in her cheeks. “I came to Haggerston to give my son a new start...” She pressed her lips together and shot him an uncertain look. “Is it terrible that I’m glad to get away from the sympathy?”
“You don’t like people to give their condolences?” he asked.
“I sound heartless, don’t I?” She shook her head. “I just prefer some privacy when I deal with personal things.”
He chuckled softly. “We’re more alike than I thought.”
“We are.” Her eyes crinkled into a smile.
Matt’s phone blipped, the signal for an incoming email. He slid his finger across the screen, and the email popped up.
Mr. Bailey,
It was a pleasure to meet you the other day, and I’m recommending that you go further in the interview process. The next step will include an evaluation by myself, or another member of the hiring committee. I will be in touch about the details soon.
Good luck and all the best,
Abe Bernard
Matt slipped his phone into his pocket. This job as fire chief in South Maitland wasn’t guaranteed, but it would be a welcome escape from Haggerston’s barrage of memories. Didn’t they say that a change was as good as a rest? A step up in his career, and a step outside the town that held his biggest regret seemed like the answer—at least to him. He glanced over at Rachel to find her eyeing him curiously.
“Just a work email,” he said, and she nodded. “I should get going, actually.”
“Sure.” She rose to her feet, and as he stood up next to her, he realized that some of the tension he’d been carrying around the past few weeks had seeped away.
“Thanks,” he said. “Are we still on for Friday—that talk at the church?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “Just tell me how much advice you want. I don’t want to overdo it.”
“I can take it.” He chuckled.
“Mom!” Chris called from a church window. “Do you see me?”
Her attention moved away from him to the little boy hanging out a basement window. She moved toward the church, laughing at her son’s antics, then glanced back at Matt.
“See you Friday!” she called over her shoulder.
Matt waved and turned back toward his truck. He looked up at the church as he passed, the wind-blasted wood, the gravestones, the oldest of which were tipping dangerously, and the expanse of field beyond. Rachel wasn’t responsible for the Montana scenery, but it certainly felt different with her standing in the middle of it all.
Chapter Six
Friday evening, Rachel stood in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in one hand and a muffin in the other. She’d already called Christopher to come down nearly an hour ago so he could eat something before Aunt Louise arrived, and he’d mumbled something about not being hungry, which she didn’t entirely believe. He generally chose play over mealtime—especially when dinner was something he didn’t like, such as beef stew—which left Rachel now standing in the kitchen, wondering what she could leave for him to eat while she was gone. He wouldn’t eat the stew she’d made. She grabbed her son’s favorite box of cereal and deposited it in the center of the table with a bowl and a spoon.
“If he doesn’t want to eat at mealtime, I should let him get his own cereal,” she muttered to herself. She spoiled him, and she knew it, always doing everything for him instead of making him do it for himself. In a concession with the other side of her brain, she left the milk in the fridge for him to fetch on his own.
“That will teach him—” Something. Self-reliance? An appreciation for refrigerated dairy products? Who was she kidding? She’d leave Louise money to order pizza anyway. This was mostly bravado—a warning about what happened when a boy didn’t listen to his mom about mealtimes.
This was most definitely a power struggle, and now wasn’t the time for power struggles. She hoped her aunt was right, and the birthday party would make a difference—give him a sense of belonging with this mishmash of Emmetts.
She took another bite of muffin and chewed thoughtfully, letting the crumbs fall into the sink. The kitchen was already taking on a new feel from when they first moved in. The scent of her grandmother’s house was dissipating, being replaced by the nonsmell of her own stuff. She knew she must have a scent, too—one that would be identified by her own grandchildren, hopefully without a wri
nkled nose. The old childhood memories of this room were fading, turning cloudy and thin, where a few weeks ago they’d stood as solid as real people, sitting on kitchen chairs and using up the counter space. She was slowly, unintentionally creating her own memories here and cluttering up her grandmother’s kitchen with her own dishes, fridge magnets and boxes of still-packed china.
The front door opened and Aunt Louise called out a cheery “I’m here! Hello, hello!”
Rachel swallowed her last bite of muffin before calling a dry “In here!”
Aunt Louise came through to the kitchen. She smiled brightly and looked around. “It’s coming together, isn’t it?”
“It seems to be.” Rachel smiled back. “How are you?”
“Not too bad. I can’t complain.” Aunt Louise always said the same thing, whether the earth was caving in or not. “Did you know Uncle Herman?”
“No... Wait. I think I met him once when I visited Grandma. Does he own a cherry orchard, by any chance?”
“That’s him. He passed away.”
“What?” Rachel felt an unbidden wave of sadness at this news.
“Yes, it was quite sudden. A stroke.”
“Will there be a funeral?”
“No, no. He was a private sort. He’ll be cremated, they say, and his son will take his remains back to South Dakota.”
“Oh.” Rachel frowned. “I’m really sorry. That’s awful. Were you close?”
“He was my cousin. We grew up together.”
“I didn’t really know him well,” Rachel admitted. “But I still should have called him or something. I meant to.”
“Time gets away from us,” Louise replied sympathetically. “The phone works both ways, you know.”
Rachel felt the smile tug at the corners of her lips. “You are very pragmatic, Auntie.”
“There’s no virtue in carrying around a load of guilt” came the reply.
“I’d meant to bring Chris to that orchard, and I’d forgotten who owned it,” she said. “I can’t seem to re-create it all for him.”
“Re-create what?”
“Grandma’s house, the lazy summer days, that feeling of being part of a big family...” She took a sip of coffee.
“And you won’t be able to. Grandma’s gone. Time marches on. It’s not your childhood anymore, dear.”
“He needs something, and I’d hoped Haggerston would be the right thing for him.”
“This is a fine town, but it’s going to be something different for him. He’ll remember you, not Grandma. He’ll remember his own little adventures and lessons. He’ll never know your mom and dad, God rest their souls, and he’ll never know Uncle Herman.”
“Which is sad.”
“It’s very sad that he won’t know your parents, but he’s not missing too much with Herman,” Louise retorted. “Herman had gotten quite rude in his declining years. He spent most days screaming at the TV. He hated politicians. I kept away, too.”
“Oh.” Rachel chuckled softly. “He seemed nicer when I met him.”
“That was twenty years ago, dear. A lot of things change in twenty years—including my waistline, might I add?”
Rachel rolled her eyes, then called up at the ceiling, “Chris, Aunt Louise is here! Come down and say hi!”
There was no answer, and Rachel sighed.
“So, what are your plans for tonight?” Louise asked, nonplussed by her great-nephew’s lack of manners.
“Matt is doing a fire-safety presentation at a local church, so I’m going along to see him in action and give him a few tips.”
“Ah.” Louise grinned. “A good reason to get together.”
“Oh, stop that.” Rachel laughed. “This is professional.”
“Entirely.” Louise nodded sagely, but a smile still tickled the corners of her lips.
Rachel grabbed some bread and popped it into the toaster, and she was about to holler up the stairs once more when she smelled the acrid scent of smoke coming from somewhere outside.
“Do you smell that?” Rachel asked. She heaved open the kitchen window and craned her neck to see past the lilac bush, just far enough to make out a belch of black smoke.
“What on earth?” she muttered and hurried to the back door to get a better look. Standing on the steps, she was met with a sight that chilled her blood. Chris stood next to a metal trash can, flames leaping out of it. They shot straight up into the air, high enough to tickle the eaves with smoky tongues of flame. The boy seemed frozen, staring up at the blaze in mute horror. Her stomach dropped. She’d thought he was still upstairs—how did she miss this?
“Chris!” she shouted. “Chris! Get back!” Turning back to her aunt, she barked, “Call 911!”
Rachel dashed forward, and inside the house the fire alarm went off in a piercing whistle. She grabbed Chris by the shoulder and pulled him farther from the blaze, then looked around impotently for something to squelch the flames.
Oh, God, help me!
Rachel’s eyes lit upon a roll of old carpet sticking out from the garbage pile waiting to be picked up later that week. She ran for the carpet and pulled it jerkily from the heap. Limbs, trimmed from nearby trees, fell away from the pile, scattering around the grass as Rachel dragged the carpet toward the trash can. She wasn’t sure what she intended to do with the massive roll—beat the fire or smother it being her first instincts—but she couldn’t get past the blistering heat. She simply stood with the roll in her quivering arms, staring at the flames as they stretched closer to the wooden siding of the house, flames leaping across the divide.
I’m going to lose this old house, she thought in one moment of dismal clarity. I’m going to lose it all.
* * *
As Matt’s truck cruised down Rachel’s street, he was mentally going over the presentation for the youth group. Maybe it was male pride, but he wanted Rachel to see him at his best tonight, and as much as he argued with himself otherwise, it wasn’t only about the job. Her words from their talk in the graveyard had been going through his mind the past couple of days—more accurately, she had been going through his mind, and he hadn’t been able to chase her out.
Golden evening sunshine slanted down from a bright, cloudless sky. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees lining the street. It was a perfect day, except for the scent of smoke hanging in the air. Matt glanced around, slowing his vehicle. He wondered if someone was burning some brush in their backyard, but the closer he came to Rachel’s home, he made out the piercing beeps of a fire alarm growing louder.
“That’s no bonfire,” Matt muttered, and he picked up his radio and pushed down the button.
“This is Deputy Chief Bailey. We’ve got a fire on Elm Street—visible smoke and fire alarm going off. We need a unit down here ASAP.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but dropped the handset back into its holder and slammed on the brakes in front of Rachel’s home. Smoke billowed from behind the house, wafting over the roof in an ominous, acrid cloud. The fire alarm was shrieking from an open window, and a dog next door was barking in frantic response. Without another thought, Matt reached behind his seat and hoisted out a large fire extinguisher, his muscles straining with the weight of the cylinder and the awkward reach. Heaving it free, he kicked open his door and jogged around the side of the house toward the source of the belching smoke.
Roaring flames were leaping up out of a garbage can. Rachel stood by, a roll of carpet on one shoulder, her eyes red with smoke and an expression of horror on her face. The orange tongues licked at the side of the house, a black scorch mark growing ever larger.
“Rachel!” Matt shouted, and she turned her wide eyes toward him. It took a moment for her to register him; then she snapped out of her frozen state. She took a step back and planted a hand in the middle of her son’s chest, p
ressing him back, too. Louise stood behind them, a cordless phone in one hand.
Matt pointed the hose toward the base of the fire and pressed the lever to release the pounding flow of foam. The cylinder trembled in his hands from the sheer force of the pressure, and he walked closer, shooting the contents of the fire extinguisher straight into the garbage can, then up the side of the house to squelch the last of the licking flames.
A siren wailed up the street and a fire truck eased to a stop in front of the house. The familiar sound of boots hitting pavement registered in the back of his mind, but his gaze was fixed on Rachel. She stood in the same position, her hand on her son’s chest, and her red-rimmed eyes welled with tears. She dropped her arm and wiped her cheeks with the flats of her palms.
“You okay?” He angled his steps around the charred garbage can.
She nodded and sucked in a deep breath. “Thank you.”
For a moment, Matt considered his professional reserve, but there was something about those dewy eyes that forced it from his mind. He stepped forward, put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. She didn’t resist, and she leaned her cheek against his shirt, the dampness of her tears seeping through the fabric and pressing against his skin. He rested his chin on the top of her warm head and smoothed down her tangled hair.
“Are you okay, kiddo?” he asked Chris.
Rachel pulled away from Matt’s embrace and she dropped to her knees in front of the boy, just as the firefighters came into the backyard. They tramped across the grass in full gear, their movement heavy and strong.
“Hey, DC, everything under control?” Firefighter Johnson asked, his headgear under one arm.
“Yeah, it was pretty well contained. Took one fire extinguisher. It looked worse from the front of the house.”
“It’s a good thing you were here” came the reply. The big man eyed the scorched side of the house. “Could have been worse.”
“True enough.” Matt nodded. “I’ll take care of the rest. You guys can head back.”
Johnson nodded and beckoned the others back toward the truck, but he did cast one curious glance toward Rachel, a smile flickering at the corners of his lips. Matt caught Johnson’s gaze and held it, raising one eyebrow questioningly. Red suffused the man’s face and he headed back around the house toward the truck, and this time, he didn’t look back.
Love Inspired May 2015 #2 Page 49
