by Anne Calhoun
Perfect. They were on the same page.
“Somebody cut these stitches out of my forehead,” he said to the ready room in general.
Captain Jones got scissors. Tim slumped into a chair and looked up. Jones eyed the healing cut as he gloved up, then worked the sharp tip of the scissors into the first stitch and snipped. Tim felt the stitch tug loose, then Jones dropped it on the table.
“I’m going to get lunch,” Casey said, hovering as usual. “Want to come with me?”
No, because he wanted to go see Sarah. If the captain would hurry the fuck up, he could just make it by the time the truck closed up to drive back to Brooklyn. He didn’t know how he felt about the desire to see her, or worse, the desire under that one to keep her his little secret.
“Fine,” he said, then winced as one of the stitches stuck. “But I pick the place.”
“Sure, LT,” Casey said.
“I missed lunch,” Jones said. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere special,” Tim said.
“Yeah? I like nowhere special. They’ve got great food, and you can’t beat the atmosphere.”
“You should come, Captain,” Casey said.
“Thanks, Casey. I will,” Jones said, so cheerfully Tim could have throttled them both. For no good reason at all. “Anyone else up for lunch?”
Suddenly they were all going for lunch, the whole shift coming off duty, one big pack of EMTs and paramedics trooping out of the station and along Canal Street. Pedestrians steered clear of a team in the middle of regaling Casey with what happened when someone died and wasn’t found for several days, the expansion of stomach gases, the smell. Tim gently scratched either side of the cut on his forehead and wondered what the hell had happened to his life.
He led them into the park and caught sight of Sarah, sitting on her heels, her skirt tucked under her rear as she erased options from the menu board.
“Where are we going, LT?”
Tim pointed at the truck.
“Symbowl,” Casey pronounced. “Is it good?”
“I like it,” Tim said.
Sarah stood up, then turned and saw Tim. She smiled, big and bright and unmistakable, then waved.
He waved back. Someone behind him, probably Gutierrez, whistled. “I bet you like it.”
“Shut up,” Tim said. “The food’s good.”
Beside him, Jones grinned. “Uh-huh.”
“It smells great,” Casey said.
“Hi,” Tim said to Sarah. “You’re still serving?”
“Sure,” she said, eyes dancing with delight. “You brought friends.”
Tim handled introductions. In the truck Trish leaned on her elbows and grinned, then explained the menu, the sauces, the process. Everyone ordered something different, asked for sauces on the side; Sarah made change and poured individual sauces while Trish answered questions and scooped out the bowls. At the very end, Sarah handed Tim a bowl doused with an unfamiliar sauce.
“What’s that?” Casey asked, comparing his bowl with Tim’s
“That’s our new Infinite Heat Sauce, made with infinity chiles. We’re testing it with certain customers, because it’s extremely spicy.”
“It’s not bad,” Tim said after his first bite. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but overall, it wasn’t going to give him heartburn, much less kill him.
“I’ll try that, too,” Casey said.
“Have you had it before?” Sarah asked.
“No, but it’ll be fine.”
“Try just a bit on what’s on your fork,” Sarah said, scooping a tiny portion into a plastic cup.
Casey dipped his fork in the sauce and shoved it in his mouth. Within seconds he was gasping and spitting. Jonesy caught his bowl on its way to the ground, no mean feat given that he was holding his own bowl and bent over laughing. Casey tried to cough, swallow, and drink something to soothe his inflamed tongue, and managed only to spew rice and beans out his nose.
Sarah cracked the seal on a second bottle of Coke and held it out the window. “It’s pretty spicy,” she said, but her words were nearly drowned out by the laughter. Half the shift had their camera phones out and aimed at Casey.
“Yes, ma’am,” Casey agreed, his face the color of a fire engine. Sweat trickled down his temples. “Maybe I’ll try the Equanimity.”
“Good option,” Sarah said, and dropped a dollop of the yogurt-based sauce on his bowl. “Excessive spicing kills your taste buds.”
The show over, everyone settled onto the benches arcing away from the entrance to the park. Sarah wandered over to stand by Tim. “You got the stitches taken out,” she said.
“Captain did it just before we walked over,” he said. “It itches a little. We were late. I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”
“We hung around,” she said. “I thought you might come by. I didn’t think you’d bring a whole pack of guys with you.”
“It’s good food,” he said. “I want other people to know about it.”
“We both appreciate it,” she said quietly.
“Ma’am?” Captain Jones said.
“It’s Sarah,” she said with a smile, and moved closer to him. Tim watched them out of the corner of his eye. Jonesy asked her a question, gesturing in a circle over the bowl with his spork. Sarah tucked her skirt under her bottom and crouched down to point in the bowl, answering his questions with a smile, saying something that made Jonesy nod in agreement, then give a sharp laugh Sarah joined. Jonesy nodded and said thanks, then Sarah strolled back toward the truck. “We’re here every weekday, and we’re trying new sauces next week,” she said as she walked. “Follow or like us for the schedule, then come back and let us know what you think.”
Nods of agreement, because mouths were full of brown rice and red beans and avocado and chicken and beef. It was better than a calzone dripping grease down your wrist as you ate and drove at the same time. The energy level settled a little. One by one guys finished, tossed the bowls in the trash cans, then sat back on the benches, looking around the park, tension easing from shoulders and necks. Casey ate between rounds of blowing his nose. Tim watched Sarah close down the truck, sneaking peeks at him as she did. His phone buzzed.
I bet Casey shows up on AnonEMT in less than an hour.
He smiled, a slow, private grin. No bet.
You were going to show me something I’ve never seen before . . .
Meet me at Fourteenth and Eighth Ave tomorrow at five.
I’ll prepare to be astonished.
***
On the way back to the station, Jonesy fell in step beside Tim. “How’s Casey doing?”
“His driving is improving,” Tim said. Jonesy snorted. “He’s doing fine.”
“He worships the ground you walk on,” Jonesy said. “No way would I eat Infinite Heat Sauce to impress you.”
Tim shifted his shoulders. “He’s not trying to impress me.”
“You’re right. He’s trying to be you.”
“No, he isn’t,” Tim said automatically.
Jonesy’s look was one-third his friend who went through training with him and two-thirds Captain Jones. “You’re not just training him to do the job. You’re training him to handle the job, the way it transitions from a job to a career. You’re training him to handle twenty-plus years of this.”
“So he’s my gosling? Imprinting on me?”
“Just keep it in mind. He’s young. Remember when we were that young?”
Tim thought about that as he crossed the street. He did remember his probie year with the EMS department, but all he’d wanted was to get better, faster, stronger, smarter about the job. Learning to handle it hadn’t crossed his mind. You did the job, you put it in a box, and you went on to the next call.
Jonesy sighed. “Do you have anything going with Sarah?”
His heart thumped hard against his sternum, but Tim forced himself to keep looking straight ahead. “We’ve spent some time together.”
“How much time?”
&nb
sp; Tim shrugged.
Jonesy stopped, forcing Tim to stop. “I’m asking if you’re serious about her.”
Tim shrugged again, but this time it felt like his shoulders were grinding in their sockets. “She’s new to the city. I’ve been showing her around. That’s all.”
The captain set off again. “So you’re not going to get your nose out of joint if I ask her out.”
One stride caught him up with Jonesy. “You going to ask her out?”
“I might,” Jonesy said, considering. “She’s pretty, and she looks like she’d be fun. They’re in the park a couple of days a week, right? I’ll swing by another time, see what’s what.”
The time to say something was now. For a moment the words trembled in his throat. Yes, I’m going out with her. Don’t talk to her, don’t look at her, don’t think about her. But saying something like that meant staking a claim in the future. They’d agreed to . . . well, they’d agreed to nothing. One afternoon delight turned into a few more, but that didn’t mean anything other than spring chemistry.
He followed Jonesy into the station, the words he wasn’t saying burning worse than any chili sauce ever would.
***
“I told you your friend was connected,” Trish crowed. She held out her phone. Sarah scrolled through a tweet stream containing a picture of a stuffed bear getting shoved in a locker.
“They’re still teasing Tim with the stuffed bear?”
“Not that,” Trish said impatiently, and scrolled up. “That!”
It was a picture of the EMS personnel from Tim’s station sprawled on the park benches, eating Symbowl. The truck was in the background, and the tweet attached to the picture read Good sauces + good food = happy paramedics.
“Nineteen thousand followers,” Trish said with a fist pump. “Nineteen thousand! Yes!”
Sarah just laughed.
***
Sarah spent her Saturday doing her second-favorite thing: wandering, getting to know New York on foot, putting recipes on the back burner and letting her subconscious work away at them. Her grasp of the city was improving, because she only had to check her laminated map twice to get from Brooklyn to Grand Central. She strolled through the main space, peering at the constellations on the ceiling, then made her way under a cloudy sky to the famous lions guarding the library on Fifth Avenue and a quick peek at the Rose Reading Room.
She got lunch at one of the vendors in Bryant Park, then began walking through the Midtown streets. They were an interesting combination of fashion notions, shops dedicated exclusively to buttons or ribbon or fabric, restaurants on the edge of the theater district, and apartments. Over an hour disappeared in a discussion about the history of buttons, and another in ribbons. She sketched out a couple of designs for boxes to hold her version of the Brooklyn Blackout, then set off again.
Down a side street, in an unremarkable building flanked by equally unremarkable buildings, she stopped in front of a window that was truly astonishing. Under the word IRRESISTIBLE in gray script, the mannequin in the window wore what her mother would call a peignoir set suited to spring: green and flowing, sheer fabric trimmed with wide silk over a paler green satin corset and panties. It was absolutely gorgeous, the kind of thing she never wore. She was a cotton hipster panties and supportive bra kind of girl, reflecting both her personality and the realities of her figure. She was curvy, not thin, in love with food, at the upper end of a healthy weight for her height; the challenge of losing weight to meet an arbitrary ideal body image was one she steadfastly refused to take.
She tried the door, found it locked, and pressed the buzzer beside the shop’s name.
“Welcome,” a voice said, then the door release buzzer went off. Sarah climbed the stairs to the second floor and opened a door into another world. Hardwood floors stretched through the main room into what was probably the next building. An enormous four-poster bed with elaborate scrollwork on the posts and headboard served as a display space for beautiful silk and lace creations draped on the quilted satin duvet. Three completely enclosed dressing rooms stood at the back of the space, the doors solid, oval wooden signs hanging from brushed nickel hooks indicating PRIVACY PLEASE or AVAILABLE.
A woman sat on a high bar stool behind the counter. She had long red hair curled in loose waves, blue eyes, and pale skin dotted with freckles. “How can I help you?” she asked, her English lightly accented with a French lilt.
“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted. She looked around, taking in shelves of panties and bras, mannequins dressed in outfits as stunning as the one in the window, a selection of pillows and throws. The fabrics were all natural and exquisite, silks and cashmeres, cotton so delicate she could see through it, embroidery in the colors of the rainbow. “The window display was so gorgeous, I had to come inside.”
The woman smiled. “Thank you.”
Needles, thread, and a pair of silver scissors sat on the counter next to the sleek gray computer. Midnight-blue satin lay in a rumpled pile on the desk. “Did you make the set on display in the window?”
“I did,” she said. She flipped the satin over the edge of the counter, transforming it into a bodice made of midnight-blue satin and embroidered with silver threads. The pattern wasn’t yet clear, but the stitches were tiny, tight, and precise.
“You can touch it,” she said, her smile widening. Sarah finally placed the slight accent: French. “It’s not for a client. It’s for me.”
Sarah traced the embroidery. “What will it be?”
“A representation of geese flying. I think. I can’t say until I’m finished.”
The odd phrasing struck Sarah. She looked up, but the woman just smiled at her, and something in that smile triggered something in Sarah. “I’m going to look around,” she said, “but I’ll be honest, I probably can’t afford anything in here.”
“You’re most welcome to look. Let me know if you’d like help.”
Sarah wandered between the racks and changed her mind almost immediately. Aunt Joan wanted her to live again, and she wanted something from this shop, something beautiful and out of the ordinary, something that just might surprise Tim. “On second thought, I would like some help; I don’t normally wear things like this. I want something different, but not outrageous.”
The owner slipped off the bar stool and gave Sarah a more encompassing once-over. “Hmmm. A silk basque with matching stockings is out of the question.”
“Yes,” Sarah said, relieved by the savvy assessment.
“You, but a bit more saucy.”
“Exactly,” she said, and filed the line away to use in Symbowl’s marketing materials. “I’m a chef, so I’m hot most of the day. I’ve tried fancy sets before, but they just feel uncomfortable. To be totally honest, I’ve always thought it was a little artificial.”
The shop’s owner didn’t seem to take offense at this observation. “But today is special?”
Sarah thought about it. What was today for her? Today she was a competitor in her running challenges with Tim. Today she was a tourist. Today she was in the flow of life, enjoying a changeable spring day in Manhattan, anticipating a surprise, hoping not to be disappointed. Not caring if she won or lost, falling for the game. “Normally, I’m this,” she said, and gestured to her simple cotton skirt, clogs, and T-shirt. “Today I want to surprise him.”
The woman smiled. “I can work with that. I’m Simone.”
“I’m Sarah,” she said, and held out her hand.
“When was the last time you had a bra fitting?”
“When my mom took me shopping in high school. I just try them on until I find the one that fits.”
Simone muttered something under her breath that was too fast for Sarah’s high school French, then pulled a tape measure from a drawer behind the counter. After taking her measurements, Simone went without hesitation to the shelves holding lace and silk in a seemingly infinite range of colors and designs, where she chose several simple bra and panty sets, all of the highest quality sil
k and lace. “Levers lace,” she said, then held out another set. “Chantilly lace. Either is so finely made, it won’t itch against your skin.”
In the dressing room Sarah stripped to her functional cotton panties, then tried on the bras. The gray push-up bra accentuated her rounded shoulders, not the curves she wanted to show off. The T-shirt bra in a deep garnet was made of cotton and highlighted with fine lace, so points for comfort, but it gapped oddly at her underarms. She hooked the demi bra with black lace cups and a nude satin band and straightened.
“Oh,” she said.
The fit was perfect, the square neckline far more sultry than she would have expected. Her nipples were dusky shadows behind the black lace, not obvious, just tantalizingly hinted at. She found the matching bikini briefs, the narrow inset of nude satin drawing attention to her mound while the black lace stretching over her hips revealed the lower curves of her bottom.
Feeling only slightly ridiculous, she tugged her hair free from the loose French braid and fluffed it with her fingers. The curls corkscrewed even more wildly in the humidity, but somehow she didn’t look like a woman who’d just survived months in the jungle. She looked like herself and yet rather sexy.
Sold.
She used the scissors on the small Swiss Army knife on her key chain to snip off the tags, then tugged on her T-shirt, skirt, and fitted denim jacket. Now she felt like a stealth operator, a Mata Hari dressed for casual sightseeing but underneath dressed for seduction. She quickly rebraided her hair, then scuffed into her clogs, gathered the rejected sets, and left the dressing room.
“Ah,” Simone said with satisfaction.
“You can tell?”
“Yes,” she said. “I can tell, and not just because you’re carrying your old underwear.”
Sarah caught sight of herself in a full-length mirror and did a quick check to make sure no lines were visible. Tim wouldn’t expect this at all. The thought of him discovering her little secret, finding another reason to slow down and savor the moment, made her smile.
