by Rula Sinara
“I just told Dad we went to see Dr. Peterson to make sure your headache isn’t because of a virus.” She hoped Ciara wouldn’t mention the tests or anything else related to their busy morning because the expression on their father’s face was proof that he’d overdramatize things.
“I picked—I picked Sound of Music,” Ciara said, unwrapping her burger. “When the songs come on, will you sing with me, Finn?”
“You bet I will.” She passed Connor his meal.
He held up a hand. “I’m not the least bit—”
“Ciara wanted to make sure we brought you a burger because she knows how much you love them. Isn’t she the sweetest, most thoughtful little thing?”
Fortunately, he got the message. After popping a fry into his mouth, he said, “Ran into your boyfriend downtown.”
Finn felt the beginnings of a blush creeping into her cheeks. “Boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“You mean—you mean Sam?”
“Yup.”
“Then, Finn’s right, Dad. She doesn’t have a boyfriend. Sam is a man. So you have to say, ‘I ran into your man friend.’”
Ciara meant well. Ciara always meant well. Still... Please, Kee, don’t try to help me.
“When you’re right, you’re right.” He chuckled and faced Finn. “Your man friend said to tell you hi, and that he’d call you tonight.” He paused to take a bite of his burger. “Something to do with date night, I think.”
Ciara perked up. “You and—you and Sam are going out on a date?”
“It isn’t a date. It’s just three friends, spending an evening together.”
“Three?”
“You don’t think I’d see Garth Brooks without you, do you?”
“Garth Brooks? For real?”
“Sam got tickets,” Connor said. “And he’s taking you to some big fancy restaurant before the show. So you two will have to get all dressed up, like a couple of Hollywood movie stars.”
Ciara stared at Finn. “He is? We are? I do?”
Finn laughed. She didn’t know which question to answer first, so she said, “Yes, yes and yes!”
“What, what day?”
“I’m not sure.”
Connor pulled the straw in and out of his cup, and Finn cringed at the hee-haw, hee-haw sound.
“I reckon that’s why he’s calling Finn tonight, sweet girl, so he can firm things up.”
A wistful, dreamy smile lifted the corners of Ciara’s mouth. “I like Sam. I like him a lot.” She met Finn’s eyes. “Do you like him a lot, too?”
She liked him more than anyone she’d met in years. Don’t forget...he’s a musician. And the boss of musicians.
“He’s a very nice man.”
Connor cleared his throat. “Did I ever tell you girls that when I was a boy, I spent a lot of time at my grandpa’s Texas farm?”
Together, the sisters said a bored, “Yes.”
“So you know that they had mules named Maw and Paw?”
“Yes,” they droned.
“And that they were the most stubborn, ornery critters in the barnyard?”
Did he really crave attention that badly? Or was this his way of controlling them, if only for the moment?
Ciara tore the corner from a catsup packet and squirted some onto her fries. Finn wondered if Connor realized she’d already lost interest in his mind game.
“Finn reminds me of those critters,” he said, unfazed by their lack of enthusiasm.
She rolled her eyes and made no attempt to hide it. “Gee, thanks. No chance I’ll get a big head with you around... Dad.”
“Didn’t mean it as an insult, honey. Just stating a fact to help Ciara to understand that if you don’t want to talk about something, you’re not gonna talk about it. No matter what either of us says or does. At least, not until you’re good and ready.”
It was nice having him here, where she could see and hear that he was all right. But his presence also reminded her of the hurtful things he’d done, and everything he’d neglected to do. The back-and-forth emotions underscored the need to keep Ciara’s situation under wraps. Because at the conclusion of his Father of the Year performance, he would hit the road—probably before the ice melted in his soda. And that would break Ciara’s heart.
As if on cue, Connor scooted closer to her on the couch.
“You forgive me, don’t you, Kee, for staying away so long?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“And you know I would have called you, if I could?”
“Um, yeah...”
He slid an arm over her shoulders. “I love you to pieces. You know that, right?”
Ciara squinted one eye as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Me, too, Dad.”
Finn cringed when he looked in her direction. If he thought she’d respond in the same accepting, tolerant way to his lies as Ciara always had—
“Don’t ever play poker,” Pete used to say, “because every thought in your head is written on your face.” There must have been more truth in his words than she realized, because Connor quickly averted his gaze. She’d lived most of her life making sure Ciara always felt safe, protected and happy. If putting up with Connor for a while ensured that, so be it.
“Finn, honey?”
So. She’d misread his expression and demeanor, had she? For an instant, she almost envied his acting skills.
Almost.
She clamped the soda straw between her teeth. “Hmm?”
“What’s it gonna take for you to forgive me?”
Dozens of times, he’d vowed to get clean and sober and hadn’t. Held up his right hand and promised never to leave them again and had...usually without bothering to scrawl a goodbye note. What would it take to forgive him? A magic spell, perhaps, to erase her memory of every time he’d broken Ciara’s heart. Or a miracle, so she could believe he had the capacity to become a man of his word.
Unfortunately for Connor, it had been a long, long time since Finn believed in magic or miracles.
Ciara waved her hand, like a child in school. “Finn? Oh, Finn? Dad asked you a question.”
Only one answer would satisfy her sweet, innocent sister. And to deliver it, Finn needed time. Time to come up with something other than a bald-faced lie.
Her cell phone rang, startling her. One of the contractors, she hoped, calling back to reschedule the walk-throughs she’d postponed.
Saved by the bell, she thought.
“Bet you five of these that it’s Sam,” Ciara said, holding up a French fry like a dueling sword.
Finn didn’t recognize the number and almost didn’t take the call.
“Finn, darlin’! It’s so good to hear your voice!”
Should have followed your instincts, she thought as Ciara leaned closer to Connor.
“Why does—why does she look afraid?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Well, it can’t be Sam. She likes talking to Sam.”
Finn tightened her grip on the phone...and on her self-control, too.
“I have an audition next week with This Side Up Records, and I’d love to spend some time with you while I’m in town. Do you still have that pull-out sofa?”
“Yes, but that’s where I’ve been sleeping. Temporarily.”
Connor pursed his lips and ground out, “Now I know why she looks like she’s seen a ghost.”
Ciara glanced from Finn to her father and back again. “Why?”
“Because,” he said slowly, “she’s talking to your mother.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“SO LET’S RECAP,” Sam said, walking between the tables. “You’ll be expected to recall street names, numbers, people’s names, floor plans of buildings and houses. Who can tell me the point of all t
his memory stuff?”
“Gotta get to a fire before we can put it out,” said one student.
Another agreed. “Dispatch won’t repeat addresses over and over, so we need to remember where the fire is.”
“And once we get inside,” said a third, “we’ll need to pay attention to where the doors and windows are. Escape routes...”
Sam nodded. “Excellent.” He distributed handouts. “Print your name at the top. You’ll have five minutes to read this paragraph. When the timer dings, turn the papers facedown and answer the first set of questions on the back.”
Sam set the device for five minutes and the students fell silent, reading. All but Epps, who muttered and fidgeted like one of his cousin Emily’s elementary-school-age kids. He stood beside her desk, hoping his presence would be enough to settle her down before she distracted those seated near her.
It wasn’t.
He should consider himself fortunate; of the hundreds of recruits who’d gone through his classes, Sam could count the jakes on one hand. The timer buzzed, and he instructed the class to turn their papers over.
“I hope you took your time, absorbed every detail from that paragraph. Because I’m going to reset the timer, and this time, you’ll have ten minutes to answer the second set of questions.”
“Aw, bummer,” someone complained. “These are multiple choice. I’ve never been very good at multiple choice.”
Sam chuckled. “Not my favorite, either. But we do what we have to, right?” He paused. “Ready?”
Unenthusiastic nods and yeses floated around the room. Sam watched them, hunched over their papers, some gnawing on their pencils, others frowning as they tried to recollect details provided in the paragraph that described which extinguishing agent was effective against a propane fire, and whether faulty brakes or hydroplaning had caused a fiery highway accident.
When they finished, Sam collected the papers and gave them another set of questions.
After gathering up the fourth handout, he reiterated lessons on mechanical aptitude and asked them to call out the various tools a firefighter needed on the job. Calipers and depth gauges, combination squares and spring dividers. A dozen types of saws, a variety of hammers and screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers and even belt sanders. In all, there were nearly a hundred hand tools that might be used in fighting a fire or assessing its cause afterward...and to pass the exam, they had to be able to identify—and use—them all.
“The written test isn’t easy,” he stressed, “so we’re going to take practice exams. Two, six, ten...however many it takes you to feel confident when it’s time to sit down for the real thing. I’ve put you through your paces, mentally and physically. On the day of the physical exam, most of you will be able to lift a sixty-pound ventilator fan from an overhead bar, to the floor and back again. You’ll have very little trouble carrying unconscious citizens because you’ve done countless arm curls. You’ve hefted that eighty-pound pipe up all seven flights of the training tower in one minute flat—and know better than to call it a hose. And although a timed trial wasn’t required, most of you ran up the aerial ladder in your firefighter coats and masks—carrying full air tanks—in record time.”
Epps raised her hand. “Do we all have to crawl through that tunnel maze?”
“Yup.”
“What about scaling the wall? Do I have to vault over it without a rope or a ladder?”
“Yup.”
She studied her palms. “But...what if I can’t connect and disconnect the hose couplings in under a minute?”
“Then, you take the test again, until you can.”
“And breaking into somebody’s house or office building.” She groaned. “Is that really a requirement?”
He tried not to acknowledge her classmates’ eye-rolls and sighs of frustration, tried to ignore it when someone whispered, “What a jake.”
Here on the East Coast, the term was reserved for quality firefighters. Where he came from, it was an insult. Sam gave a nod to the student...a guy from Detroit, where oddly, they spoke the same language as Colorado firefighters.
“We’ve been all through this, Epps, more than once. Those are the rules, for your sake and for the benefit of the civilians you’ll serve.”
A voice from the back said, “So you really think we’re ready for the exams, Sam?”
He avoided looking at Epps. If anyone failed the test, it would be her, and for no reason other than that she rarely tried and always expected special treatment.
“Would you mind going over the oral interview one more time?” a student asked.
“Don’t mind at all.” He rifled through his lecture notes and slid a page from the folder. “The questions will be all over the place,” Sam reminded them. “Things like why you decided to become a firefighter, for example.”
“Because I want to help people,” one guy said.
Another chimed in with, “And make a difference in people’s lives.”
“Good,” Sam said. “Real good. Now, how do you know you’re qualified for the job?”
“Because Captain Sam Marshall was our instructor.”
Amid the quiet laughter, Sam said, “Too bad flattery isn’t worth any points on the test.” He sat on the corner of his desk. “But on a more serious note, you need to sum up your training in three, four sentences, tops—tell the panel how many hours you spent studying for the written exam. How many you put in working on the strength and dexterity stuff. And—without sounding cocky—how well you did during training exercises. Make it known that you’ve worked hard because the job was worth the effort and because you understand how important it is to be ready when that bell rings in the station house.”
Some students made notes, some sat nodding...
...and Epps drew curlicues on the cover of her notebook.
“They’re going to ask you to talk about yourself, too. Not résumé-type stuff...they’ll have your application for that. So tell them things that prove you’re well-rounded. That you’re a good communicator. That you’re a team player who has no problem taking orders. They might ask about a previous boss. Even if he was an incompetent jerk, you’re not going to admit it. Instead, you’ll say that he taught you the importance of prioritizing tasks, that he pushed you to work harder and meet goals you didn’t even know you had. And you’ll cite an example or two.”
Now Epps inspected her fingernails. While chewing a wad of gum. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” he asked her.
“Retired. Or maybe doing your job!”
The guys laughed, and she smiled.
But Sam found no humor in her reply. “What if the panel wants to know what you see as your greatest weakness?”
She sat blinking then said, “Well, I’m terrible at answering stupid questions.”
Sam was still not amused, and he stared hard at her until she responded.
“Math. Math is a huge weakness. I hate it.”
“Because...?”
“Because, well, when am I ever gonna need geometry to douse a fire or rescue a person?”
The guy beside her shook his head. “Basic math is important, Epps. Everybody uses different levels of oxygen, especially under stress. If you can’t do basic math, your tank could run out while you’re in the middle of a rescue.”
“Great point, Burke.” Sam faced the class. “Here’s a favorite question of the panel—what are your salary requirements?”
The students recited annual earnings expectations, and when they quieted, he shook his head. “Do your homework. Find out what the going rate is for someone in your position. Go into that interview expecting an appropriate income amount, based on your work history, your exam scores, your hopes for a future with the department. And when they ask why they should hire you instead of some other candidate, what will you tell ’em?”
>
“Because my grandfather is Jack Epps.”
“You might think that’s funny,” Sam told her, “but, trust me, the panel won’t.” He wondered if she really believed she could waltz in there and walk out with a seal of approval simply because of her surname.
But he’d already given her more time than she’d earned. Sam faced the class again and laced his fingers behind his back. “They’re going to ask what you see as your biggest flaw. So be prepared to tell the panel how you’re working hard to overcome your stickler-for-details tendencies. Or maybe you’re a workaholic. You habitually show up early and leave late. And if they want to know what your friends think of you, don’t give ’em some vague answer like, ‘They like me ’cause I’m fun.’ Be specific.”
“What about...I have a pickup truck so I’m always available to help them move?” a guy at the back chimed in.
Sam joined his students’ laughter. “That’s not a bad answer, actually. It shows you’re willing to help folks, even when you’re off duty. Talk about your hobbies. Your favorite sports. Maybe you volunteer at a local soup kitchen, or you helped a political candidate hand out fliers on Election Day. See where I’m going with this?”
“Yeah,” Epps said drily. “We lie.”
Silence fell over the room, and it must have unnerved her because she added, “Um, we make sure the panel understands that we’re well-rounded individuals, like you said.”
He erased his notations from the whiteboard. “Questions?”
When no one spoke up, he said, “See you next time, then.”
Everyone left, except for Epps.
“I’ll never pass the tests,” she said, wringing her hands. “I really am awful at math, and my memorization skills are even worse. I can’t bench-press a box of chicken nuggets, and I run out of steam halfway up the aerial ladder.” She stamped one foot. “I’ll be the first Epps to flunk out of the academy.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
She looked hurt and shocked and angry, all rolled into one.
“You can’t be serious. They’ll disown me!”
“I doubt that. They’re family. They want you safe. And happy. You don’t seem to have any interest in the profession, so I don’t understand why you’re here.” He stuffed his teaching materials into his backpack. “It’s pretty clear you’d rather be anywhere else.”
