“Same blend as they serve at the diner,” Xander told him. “I talked Holly into sharing her secret.”
“She gave us a significant supply as a wedding gift,” Calliope added. “Which reminds me, Xander, we need to get going on that Christmas gift for Zoe and Jacob.”
“Right. I just want to consult with Simon before I lock in the final plans.” Xander glanced at Roman. “Holly and Luke’s twins. Calliope’s Jacob’s godmother. She wants to build them a custom playground in their backyard.”
“Sounds time-consuming.”
“It will be. The trick will be surprising them with it.”
“We’ll find a way. We always do.” Calliope set a platter of steaming biscuits on the table. “Those look incredible.” Roman spoke so they wouldn’t hear his stomach growl. He’d been delighted last night to find the station house refrigerator stocked with casseroles, meat loaf and, his personal favorite, a pot of homemade macaroni and cheese, but that seemed ages ago now. “Thank you. If you need any help with the construction, say the word. I’ve overseen a number of playground projects over the years. I might be able to give you some pointers.”
“You see?” Calliope smoothed a hand over Xander’s T-shirt–clad shoulder. “I told you we’d find a way. Kendall MacBride is on board, as well. She’s our local handywoman, and she’s already built one before for her stepdaughter, Phoebe. Among the three of you, I’d say the project is in excellent hands.”
“Especially if it frees Calliope up to be the distraction so we can surprise the entire family,” Xander said. “So, Roman. How are you finding Butterfly Harbor?”
“Interesting.” Roman bit into a piece of crisp bacon that Calliope had offered and nearly sighed. She’d baked it in the oven with brown sugar and a touch of maple syrup. “Wasn’t entirely sure what to think of such a small town. Everybody seems to know each other.” And their business.
Calliope sat next to her husband and began to eat her breakfast. “And Frankie? Are you two getting along all right?”
Ah, Frankie. She’d grunted a few pleasantries at him that morning, but he could practically see the gears racing in her head and had opted to leave her with her thoughts. “Sure.” He didn’t miss the look that passed between Xander and Calliope. “Why? Have you heard something I haven’t?”
“I’m sure we’ve all heard the same thing.” Calliope smiled over the top of her coffee mug. “I have no doubt she’s disappointed you’re here, especially given all the plans she had in mind for the department, but we tend to be given what we need. Not necessarily what we want.”
Roman inclined his head. Now that was a way of looking at things he’d never really considered before. Wait. Frankie had plans for the department? “I don’t suppose I’ve earned enough goodwill yet to maybe get some hints as to how to handle the situation?”
“Afraid I can’t help you there.” Xander dug into his own breakfast. “I’m still figuring out how to handle this one.” He glanced at his wife, who, instead of taking offense, appeared delighted at the statement.
“My plan is to keep you figuring me out well into our dotage. Frankie’s not that complicated, Roman. If you’re straight with her, she’ll be straight with you. Once her pride recovers and she realizes that her job title doesn’t define who she is nor what she means to this community, things will settle. For both of you.”
“Think that might happen by Monday when I officially take over?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Xander added. “That’s pretty much Calliope’s motto for everything.”
“The eternal optimist?” Roman said.
“Something like that.” Calliope nibbled on a piece of bacon before reaching for an apple. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best check on Stella and our customers. Do you cook, Roman?”
“It’s kind of in my blood. While my Dad had Spanish roots, I’m Italian on my mother’s side. I was helping my grandmother make sauce from the time I could stand on a stool.” It was one of the things he assumed he’d miss most, with such a small department. Not getting the chance to cook very much for his fellow firefighters.
“Excellent. Take one of our flyers. That garden has just about everything.” She retrieved one from the cubby by the door and set it in front of him. “We provide delivery services for whatever frequency you’d like. And we’ll soon be expanding to fresh eggs. We’re getting chickens.”
“We’re talking about getting chickens,” Xander corrected.
“Stella has expressed an interest, so we will be getting chickens,” Calliope continued smoothly. “Just a few at first, but I anticipate adding them to our inventory of offerings quite soon. Will your family be joining you for Thanksgiving, Roman?”
“No. My mother’s currently on a cruise with her sisters, so it’ll just be me this year.”
“No one spends Thanksgiving in Butterfly Harbor alone,” Calliope stated on her way to the door. “We’re having a potluck Thanksgiving here at the farm. You’re welcome to join us.”
“I—” She walked out the door before he could respond. “I’ll probably be on duty,” Roman told Xander. “You’ll explain if I don’t show up?”
“I won’t have to,” Xander smiled. “She’ll know.”
* * *
“WATCH YOUR STEP, Mrs. Manning.” Frankie held out her arm for the elderly woman to use as a guide as she dropped out of the SUV. “And take your time. We have all that you need.” She waited until Alice Manning was securely on the sidewalk before Frankie closed the door and rotated to keep the frail, trembling hand in place.
“Got lots to do before tonight,” Alice told her. “Did you get my groceries?”
“I’ll bring them in once you’re settled.”
“Appreciate you answering the call, Frankie.” Alice put her hand on Frankie’s as they made their way up the ramp of the unique-looking three-story Victorian. The stately home took up a good portion of the corner where Red Admiral Lane met Milk Thistle Way. The place had always reminded Frankie of one of those old Hollywood sets, with a rusted chicken weather vane situated on top of the peaked tower, and worn gray wood shingles lined up like good soldiers along the expansive roof. One of the original houses in town, the building had once served as city hall, a speakeasy, an orphanage and, most recently, a doll and dollhouse museum.
Currently, the house was residence to the members of the Cocoon Club and had been dubbed Senior Central by others in town. Home to ten senior citizens, including Alice, it had, quite by accident, also become something of a social hot spot. Especially during the Saturday-evening Mexican Train tournaments. Not to be confused with the once-a-month Bunco Babes group, which met at the Flutterby Inn, or the weekly bingo games rumored to be moving to the newly built youth center to allow for larger numbers. Then there were the bocce ball challenges Oscar Bedemeyer and Harvey Mills held most Sunday mornings. With detailed schedules and event planning, the Butterfly Harbor seniors had it going on. It exhausted Frankie just thinking about it.
Frankie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and without missing a step, she pulled it out, glanced at the screen and smiled.
“Good news?” Alice asked as she gripped the railing to continue up the ramp.
“Bud’s en route to the station. Mrs. Willingham forgot to fill her bronchitis prescription last week, so he ran it over to her. He doesn’t have any idea about tomorrow night.”
“Going to be the best retirement–slash–going-away party anyone in this town’s ever seen.” Alice beamed. “Shame to see him go, but life goes on.”
“Yes, ma’am, it does.” Frankie walked beside Alice, trying not to let her sadness about the older woman’s quickly advancing Parkinson’s drag her down. The tremors were getting worse, and Frankie could see Alice’s legs shaking with each step. But there was little that dimmed the determination in the woman’s bright blue eyes.
“I’ll just sit here on the porch while you get my groceries.” Alice was heading for the rocking chair before Frankie could argue. “I do hope I got the right salsa. I know Elliot says he wanted the spicy, but between you and me, the man shouldn’t go within ten feet of a jalapeño.”
“It’ll be our secret,” Frankie laughed and jogged back to the car. When she returned, she found Alice dozing in the chair, and, rather than waking her up, Frankie went directly inside.
“Special delivery!” she announced as she walked past Oscar, Marty and Eloise setting up ancient folding tables and chairs, to the kitchen beyond the staircase fully equipped with a motorized lift chair. The wood floors were bare of any rugs that would be considered tripping hazards. Family photographs from each of the residents took up nearly every inch of flower-papered wall space. The eclectic collection of pictures warmed her heart every time she walked past them. “Hi, Delilah. Myra.” Frankie dropped the three reusable grocery sacks onto the center island and looked suspiciously at the decanter on the counter. “Someone making their famous rum punch?”
“Maybe.” Myra’s sharp chin went up, and her tangerine-colored hair glinted against the overhead lights. “We’re of legal age.”
Frankie cast a disapproving glance before walking over and popping off the lid. Her eyes watered instantly. “Wooo, Myra. You were not stingy with the rum.”
“Too much?” Delilah, her partner in crime, sauntered over and inhaled. “Ah. Smells exactly like my youth. Did I ever tell you about the time I met Castro—”
“Only about fifty times,” Myra muttered. “More simple syrup, you think?” she asked Frankie.
“Maybe a bit.” Frankie could have used the concoction as paint stripper back at the firehouse. “Alice is on the porch. I think the trip wore her out.”
“Poor thing isn’t sleeping well.” Delilah clicked her tongue as she unloaded the groceries. “I offered to do the shopping for tonight, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Thank you for taking her, Frankie.”
“You’re welcome.” Unease tightened in her stomach. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep answering these calls, though.”
“What? Why ever not?” Myra blinked her overmascaraed eyes at Frankie before dumping not one but two cups of sugar into the saucepan on the stove.
“Well, we have a new chief, remember. And he’s a bit more by the book than Bud or I am.”
“Surely he’ll understand you go where you’re needed.”
“Technically, we go where there’s an emergency.” Frankie had been dreading this conversation ever since she’d learned she’d been passed over for the job. People were used to relying on her, especially this group of people. She hated the idea of having to let any of them down. “And helping you all with your errands doesn’t exactly constitute one.”
“That’s why you’ve got that contraption of yours, isn’t it? An emergency comes up, you hop to. You always have.” Delilah’s wrinkles multiplied exponentially when she frowned.
“I’m not sure the new chief will see things that way.” Truth be told, Frankie wasn’t entirely sure what Roman would think about anything. Yesterday he’d taken her by surprise with the offer to help secure Jasper a position in the department, and now pretty much every thought she’d had about him had to be reconsidered. “I want you all to be prepared, just in case.”
“Forewarned is forearmed.” Myra added two cups of water to her pan and began to stir. “We’ll talk to him.”
“Um.” Frankie winced. “I’m not sure—” She broke off when Myra and Delilah both looked at her. “Never mind. Yep. Go ahead and talk to him. How many are you expecting tonight?”
“Sixteen. Including you. Monty coming?”
“Afraid not,” Frankie said. “He’s taken a charter up to San Francisco for the weekend.”
“Hmm. Fifteen then. Unless you can find a partner.” Myra arched a thin orange brow in her direction.
“Depends. What’s on the menu?”
“I’m making jambalaya. Oh, good. Alice got the right salsa. My secret ingredient.”
Frankie took one look at the spicy pepper on the jar and made plans to line her stomach with steel before she arrived. “I’d best get going. If you forgot anything, let me know. I can stop on the way.”
“See you tonight!” Myra called after her.
Frankie stopped long enough in the living room to say hello to Oscar, Marty and Eloise, then, on her way out, scooped up one of the crocheted granny-square afghans off the shelf by the sofa. She draped it over Alice’s lap, gently settling her hands beneath it, as well. Just as she stepped off the ramp, her phone buzzed.
“Hey, Ozzy. What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a report of a crashed car up on Field Crescent. Description of the car tells me it might belong to Oliver Hideman. Luke’s tied up in a meeting, and Matt and Fletcher are on patrol on the other side of town.”
“Don’t worry, Oz. I’ve got it.” Frankie hopped into the car.
“No, Luke would kill me if he knew you were handling it on your own. You know Oliver. He’s mean as a cat when he’s drunk, and we both know he’s probably—”
“Half in the bottle? Yeah, when isn’t he? Don’t bother Luke with this. I’ll get backup.” She made a tight U-turn and headed into town, lights flashing but siren silent.
“Who?”
“You’ve got Salazar’s phone number in the system yet?”
“Next on my list. I was just getting—”
“I don’t need him called.” She put her sunglasses on. “Just tell me where he is.”
* * *
“MAYOR.” ROMAN WAS happy to meet the man, but tried to keep his surprise to himself. Given what he’d heard about Gil Hamilton, he’d been expecting someone who was about ready to join the Cocoon Club. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a guy close to his own age with sandy blond hair, looking as if he were waiting for Biff and Chip to go catch some waves. “I’ve been trying to track you down for a couple of days now. Good to finally meet you.”
“Oh, right. Hello.” Gil offered a weak smile, then double-checked the placement of his yellow hard hat. “Sorry. Been an eventful couple of days. Didn’t mean to dodge you.”
And yet Roman had the distinct feeling that’s exactly what Gil had been doing. “If you have a few minutes now, I wanted to touch base. Won’t take long. And it’ll save both of us from needing a formal appointment later.”
“Yeah, sure.” Gil shifted from one foot to another. “Do you mind, Xander?”
“Not at all,” Xander said. “Want to check in with Alethea anyway.” He jerked his thumb toward the food truck at the far end of the site.
“Alethea’s his sister, right?” Roman asked as Gil led them toward the trailer office on the edge of a thick outcropping of eucalyptus trees.
“Yes. She works for Jason Corwin up at the Flutterby’s restaurant. He’s branching out and asked her to run the food truck. Have to admit, man’s got a great nose for business. He’s turned Flutterby Dreams into a major tourist attraction, and that truck makes a killing. Also helps that Alethea’s a great cook. So.” The door snapped shut behind them. Gil walked behind a desk and took a seat, his beige chinos and yellow-and-green-striped polo shirt nearly fading into his surroundings. “How are you settling in?”
“As well as can be expected given the circumstances.” Refusing the offered seat, Roman leaned against the wall, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his cargo pants.
“What circumstances are those?”
Roman grimaced. There wasn’t a lot that ticked him off. He could slow burn a temper through an entire fire season. But he’d worked with men like Gil Hamilton before. Slick, entitled types who had developed a talent for slinging tall tales with as little effort as Roman slung a hose. People like that really got under his skin. Roman would be as blunt as he liked. “Frankie Bettenc
ourt. Why’d you pass her up for the job?”
“Who says I did?”
Roman angled his gaze to Gil’s. “Just about everyone I’ve met so far. Look, I get the whole politics game. I don’t like it, but I get it. Though there’s something I like even less. Stepping in front of someone who was clearly as, if not more, qualified. It’s not only rude, it’s wrong.”
“No one’s arguing she wasn’t qualified.” Gil leaned back in his chair and pinned him with an assessing look. “She just wasn’t a good fit.”
“If that’s code for she’s a woman, then we’re going to have a problem.” Roman didn’t know a lot about Frankie Bettencourt, but he’d bet every last nickel he had she wouldn’t appreciate what Gil seemed to be implying. Roman wouldn’t, either. “You two have a history?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking.” Irritation sliced across Gil’s features. “And no, it had nothing to do with her being a woman and everything to do with her being Frankie. What does all this matter to you, anyway? You have what you wanted. You get to put a nice check mark next to small-town fire chief. Just the type of thing the feds look for on a résumé.” He nodded at Roman’s blink of surprise. “You didn’t really think I wouldn’t do my homework, did you? I’m meticulous in my research and in my choices. I know this is just a stop for you, not a destination.”
“So when I’m gone, Frankie’s next in line?”
Gil looked at him for a good long moment. “What happens when you leave is up for debate. For now, I’d suggest you settle in and make the job work for you.”
Translation, shut up and go along. Irritation slipped through Roman. He didn’t like being used, especially against someone who, as far as he could tell, didn’t deserve it. That said, Gil did have a point. Why did he care so much? Frankie wasn’t any worse off than she was before Roman got here. In truth, she might be in an even better position, given how everyone in Butterfly Harbor was coming to her defense.
The Firefighter's Thanksgiving Wish Page 7
