by Teri Wilson
Woof.
Woof.
Woof.
And then, just as Sam started to relax, the barking stopped. Cinder went completely still for a prolonged moment, and then she tipped her head back to let out a warbling, coyote-style howl.
Sam closed his eyes and prayed for a rogue tidal wave to come carry him away. No such luck.
The kids found the incident hilarious and immediately began echoing Cinder, howling like a pack of surfing werewolves.
“Dude,” one of the surf instructors said. “Not cool.”
Sam just nodded, acutely aware of just how uncool he was.
“I’m sorry. She seems to be a little distracted,” he said. Understatement of the century. “We should probably move on to something else.”
The presentation proceeded to go from bad to worse. When Sam tried to get Cinder to stop, drop, and roll, she plopped onto her belly, rested her head on her paws and yawned. When he gave her the cue to commando crawl, she rolled over. Every time the Dalmatian made a mistake, the children started howling again.
Sam didn’t bother trying to teach the no-playing-with-matches lessons. He just wanted to end this embarrassing episode and hide in his office for the rest of the day. Or week. Or year.
When the presentation ended forty-five long minutes later, Sam cringed as the surf instructors eyed him with pity and shook their heads. He doubted the kids had learned a thing. About halfway through the excruciating ordeal, he’d stopped giving Cinder commands altogether. He’d almost been desperate enough to stop, drop, and roll around in the sand himself. He’d done his best to teach the children the basics of fire prevention, but without a flashy Dalmatian driving the points home, they’d appeared bored out of their minds.
Sam couldn’t really blame them. The entire afternoon had been a disaster from start to finish.
As chagrined as he was by Cinder’s behavior, Sam wasn’t angry at his Dalmatian. His heart still melted every time he looked at her sweet, spotted face, because at the end of the day, Cinder wasn’t just his partner. She was his best friend in the world. Before he’d moved to Turtle Beach, he’d often thought she might be his only friend.
Sam swung by the dog beach on the way back to the firehouse to let Cinder romp and play in the waves. She bit at the whitecaps and chased the back and forth motion of the tide, just a dog enjoying a day at the beach. An ache settled behind Sam’s sternum.
This is probably how Violet feels every day of her life with Sprinkles.
He’d deserved what had happened at the surf camp demo. He’d been cocky, arrogant, and judgmental where Violet and her dog were concerned. She’d probably already heard all about his Dalmatian mortification—this was Turtle Beach, after all. And Sam knew without a doubt that she’d have something to say about it.
He shook his head and gazed out over the ocean’s shimmering blue depths. Oh, how the tables had turned.
***
Once the police department had gotten wind of the TBFD’s nightly sessions at the batting cages, they’d scheduled evening practices of their own. Every night around seven o’clock, while Violet was baking in the March family beach house’s vast kitchen, she saw her father and brothers descending the wooden stairs of the deck in their practice regalia. The men in her life were eating, breathing, and sleeping softball. It was worse this year than ever before.
Josh and Joe seemed to have taken her at her word after their discussion in front of the firehouse, though. She’d been spared any further interrogation about whatever was happening between her and Sam, thank goodness. Although she wasn’t sure why she was so relieved to be out of their crosshairs. She had nothing to hide. She and Sam were simply friends. Or enemies, maybe?
Frenemies. That’s what they were—frenemies who’d accidentally kissed…once.
Which was, of course, one time too many.
Violet was tired of thinking about the kiss, tired of reliving it over and over again in her imagination, tired of secretly wishing it might happen again. And despite all her bravado in front of Josh and Joe, something they’d said was eating at her.
Dad knows about your wager with Sam. He thinks your little bet is the reason why the Hoses were so fired up last Saturday.
Great. So now both of the police department’s recent losses were her fault?
“The town has gone full-on crazy this summer, hasn’t it, Sprinkles?” Violet pulled a tray of vanilla cupcakes from the oven to cool and removed her oven mitts.
The Dalmatian tiptoed politely to Violet’s side at the sound of her name, nose quivering in the direction of the warm vanilla cakes.
Violet bent to hug the dog around her neck. “What are we going to do about it, hmm?”
Sprinkles gave Violet’s cheek a gentle lick. It was a puppy kiss, not a scorching hot fireman kiss, but Violet would take what she could get.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, reaching for her multi-tiered Tupperware cupcake carrier.
She popped open the plastic lid and started stacking frosted vanilla bean cupcakes inside. Violet stood by everything she’d said to her brothers, but she hated the thought of disappointing her father, particularly when she’d had to hear about it from Josh and Joe. But of course her dad would never tell her to her face that he was upset about the wager or that he blamed her for lighting a fire under the opposing team. (Fire in the strictly figurative sense…this time.)
He probably thought she was too emotionally fragile to handle that sort of criticism. Everything between Dad and Violet always had to be rainbows and unicorns—except when he was ordering her not to get involved with a firefighter. He never held back when it came to that.
Rainbows and unicorns may have worked when Violet was a little girl trying to come to terms with the fact that her mother had died bringing her into the world, but she wanted more now. She wanted to really know her dad, and she wanted to know her mother too, beyond secret newspaper clippings or collections of pretty pictures pressed into a book.
“Ready, Sprinkles?”
The Dalmatian’s tail beat a happy rhythm against the smooth wood floor.
Violet clipped her leash onto the cupcake collar. “Let’s go.”
Violet could have taken the Sweetness on Wheels truck down to the softball field, but a cool sea breeze had blown in, stirring the sea grass and shallow tide pools along the crest. It was such a nice night, perfect for a bike ride. So she fastened the cupcake carrier into her bike basket, wound Sprinkles’s leash around her hand a few times and took off toward the boardwalk.
Mercifully, Sprinkles trotted politely alongside the bicycle instead of dragging her through downtown Turtle Beach. Violet’s front wheel didn’t wobble a bit for the entire length of Seashell Drive. Obedience lessons? Ha! She and Sprinkles were perfectly fine. No formal schooling required.
Practice was in full swing when they arrived at the softball field. The players were lined up in groups of three, doing relay toss drills while Violet’s dad sat in the dugout, flipping through his playbook. Violet grabbed the cupcakes and kept a firm grip on Sprinkles’s leash as she walked toward him, just in case the Dalmatian mistook the situation for an elaborate game of catch.
“Vi?” Her dad stood, removed his baseball cap and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. At fifty-five, Ed March was quite handsome, in a quiet, understated sort of way. Violet wished he would get out more and try to find someone special. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Dad.” Like she’d be bringing cupcakes to the softball field in the event of an emergency? “I just thought I’d bring the guys some treats and keep you company during drills.”
“Oh, that’s nice. I’d like that.” He nodded as a smile replaced his concerned expression, then sat back down and patted the empty space beside him on the bench. “Have a seat.”
Sprinkles planted herself
at Dad’s feet while Violet set the cupcakes down, tucked her dress beneath her and got situated on the old, worn bench. It had probably been there since Turtle Beach first became inhabited back in the ’50s.
The Dalmatian poked her nose at Violet’s father, angling for pats. He obliged with a chuckle.
“How’s the team looking tonight?” Violet asked.
Ed March nodded. “Good.”
She crossed her legs, swinging her foot until her ballerina flat dangled from her toe. A nervous habit. “Good enough to beat the Hoses on Saturday?”
Her dad sighed. “We’ll see.”
“Dad, I’m sorry if you’re upset about my bet with Sam Nash. I certainly didn’t think he’d go out and transform the fire department into a semi-professional softball team in the span of a week.” Or ever, frankly. The man was a miracle worker.
“I’m not upset,” her father said, but he couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. Or maybe he was truly invested in the tossing drill. His head moved back and forth, following the movement of the balls, just like Sprinkles’s did.
Violet smiled, despite the tiny ache in her heart. They made an adorable pair. “It’s okay if you are, you know.”
He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his feet at the ankles. Sprinkles lay down and rested her chin on the toe of one of his cleats. “I just don’t like the idea of you having anything to do with Sam, that’s all.”
“Even a casual wager?”
But was it really so casual anymore? The past few times she and Sam had been in a room together, things had felt anything but casual.
“He’s not good for you. Period.” The matter settled, Ed March was quick to change the subject. “I asked Joe to talk to you about something. Did he get around to it?”
Violet’s swinging foot went into overdrive. Her dad had been behind the whole “shower” confrontation? Awk-ward. “He and Josh both did. Honestly, though, it’s not a big deal, and I told them so.”
“But you’re taking care of it, yes?”
Violet nodded. “Definitely.”
As in she wasn’t going to get caught beneath a sprinkler head again with Sam any time soon. She’d given the Charlie’s Angels a good talking to about meddling in her love life—non-existent as it was—and they’d sworn to behave from here on out.
“But you know you don’t need to have Josh and Joe look out for me like that, right? I can handle things on my own.” She swallowed.
Why was it so hard to talk to him like this? At least she was trying, but it still felt like they were tiptoeing around the issue instead of discussing it outright.
“We’re just looking out for you, cupcake.”
“I know you are, and I love you for it. But I’m stronger than the three of you think I am. I promise.” She took a deep breath. “Can I ask you something, Dad?”
“Sure.”
“I ran across something the other day—an old picture from the Turtle Beach Gazette.” Violet hoped he didn’t ask her how she’d found it. She didn’t want to lie to her father, but she also wanted to keep her word to Mavis. “It’s of Mom with Polkadot on Christmas Eve, 1982.”
“That’s nice,” he said, and pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes.
“Polkadot was just a puppy—so sweet, with little jelly bean toes and a chubby little belly. I was wondering if you remembered it? The picture, I mean.” Violet’s throat went thick.
There. She’d asked the question. The ball was in his court now, not to toss a non-softball-related sports metaphor into the mix.
Her dad stood and blew hard into the coaching whistle he always wore on a cord around his neck during practice.
“Tossing drill over. Let’s hit a few balls, men,” he shouted.
His timing was impeccable…and more than a little suspect.
“Dad,” Violet said.
“Sorry, Cupcake. We’ve got a game to win tomorrow. I’ll see you later, back at home.” He stepped over Sprinkles to head for the opening of the dugout.
All right, then. Violet had swung and missed, so to speak.
“Have a good night, Dad.” She stood and gave Sprinkles’s leash a gentle tug. Suddenly, she was in no mood whatsoever for softball.
“Vi?” her dad called as she walked away. “Don’t forget to get that matter you and Joe discussed taken care of. The sooner the better.”
A dash of confusion spiraled through Violet. Had she missed something? This was starting to sound like more than just a warning about keeping her distance from Sam.
“No worries, Dad,” she called over her shoulder and waved.
Violet was tired of being on the receiving end of lectures from the March men, especially when she couldn’t get an answer to a simple question about her mother. Whatever her dad was referring to, she didn’t want to talk about it. So she kept on walking, her sights set someplace else.
Like father, like daughter.
Chapter 15
Sam bowed out of batting practice following his and Cinder’s dismal performance at the surf camp. He just didn’t have it in him—not after all the ribbing he got throughout the course of the afternoon. Word of Cinder’s antics had spread far and wide by the time he’d gotten back to the firehouse.
“I guess we don’t have to worry about freeing Cinder anymore?” Griff had said, tossing half of a turkey hot dog in the Dalmatian’s direction. “Sounds as if she’s gone ahead and cut herself loose.”
“It was an off day,” had been Sam’s curt response.
He didn’t mind being teased. Anyone who’d survived in a career in firefighting as long as he had could definitely take a joke. Within the first responder community, firefighters worldwide had a reputation for being pranksters that rivaled that of their purported skill at rescuing kittens in trees. Back in his old station in Chicago, one of the department’s leather recliners had a broken seat. Anyone who sat down in it would sink straight through the cushion, practically to the floor. A rookie wasn’t considered a true member of the department until he or she had been tricked into sitting in the chair. It cracked Sam up every time—even all those years ago when he’d been the rookie falling through the seat of the recliner.
Of course, it had been a while since Sam had laughed like that at work. The heaviness that had settled deep inside him on the day of the mattress factory fire was still there. He couldn’t seem to shake it. Time heals all wounds, everyone said. And time had certainly taken the edge off his grief, but he still hadn’t been able to find his way back to being the guy who would coax a rookie into being the butt of a joke. The old recliner wasn’t the only thing that was broken.
In truth, though, Sam hadn’t even tried to be that guy again. He didn’t see the point. And now here he was, the new star of Turtle Beach’s hilarious Dalmatian and pony show.
Sam didn’t mind being teased, but jokes about his dog rubbed him the wrong way. He was well aware that this made him the worst sort of hypocrite, given his preoccupation with Turtle Beach’s original Dalmatian. This unflattering realization made him even less inclined to go out and hit balls. Murray and the guys could live without him for one night.
He kicked back in one of the Adirondack-style chairs on the wraparound deck of his beach house and tried his best to embrace what he’d come to the island for in the first place—relaxation. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, the roar of the ocean in his head, the damp sea breeze on his face.
No one had gotten hurt today, only his pride. The safety of the islanders was his first, his only, responsibility. There hadn’t been a single active fire in Turtle Beach since the day he arrived…
Unless Violet setting him aflame counted, which it didn’t.
Except Sam had written her a few citations for the circumstances surrounding that little mishap, so technically it did.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Sam opened
his eyes, grateful for whatever distraction was pulling him away from the memory of the stolen kiss at bingo night. No good could come from reliving that dangerously sublime moment, especially since he and Violet were adversaries. Or, as she’d so eloquently told Griff, arch-enemies, even.
His gratitude took a hit when he realized the chomping sound he’d heard was Cinder gnawing on one of the legs of the chair he was sitting in.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Cinder blinked at him and panted with her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth and one of her ears folded inside-out. She looked ridiculous. And happy. Delighted with herself, actually.
Sam narrowed his gaze at the dog. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Dalmatian?”
A loaded silence stretched between them until Sam’s cell phone buzzed to life, jarring his thoughts away from the impossible.
“Saved by the bell,” he told Cinder as he tapped the accept button on his phone. “Hello?”
“Nash. Finally, you pick up the phone,” Chief Jameson Dodd said from the other end of the line. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“Never, sir,” Sam said, raking a hand through his hair and fixing his gaze on the smooth surface of the bay. His cottage was situated smack in the center of the narrow island, with views spanning from the bay and the boardwalk on one side, all the way to the ocean on the other. “Just busy, that’s all.”
“Not busy fighting fires, I hope.”
No, busy facilitating bingo night, making ludicrous wagers with impossible women, becoming a de facto softball coach, and myriad other things he hadn’t realized he’d signed on for when he’d moved to Turtle Beach.
Like trying not to fall for your nemesis?
“Not at all. Things here are…” Crazy pants. “…slow. Not what I expected, though. It’s just different.”
“You know I wish you well, Nash. The last thing I want to do is try and steal you away if you’re happy there, but when Don Evans put in his notice of retirement, I had to get in touch. The job is everything you said you wanted back when you said you needed to stop going out on active calls.” Chief Dodd chuckled. “Minus building sandcastles and going for long romantic walks on the shore or whatever it is you’re keeping busy with in Turtle Beach.”
