Her Perfect Proposal

by Lynne Marshall

  Gunnar parked his unit that Wednesday midmorning and headed inside to the police department from the back parking lot. The close-to-retirement officer working the front desk waved him over.

  “Got a message for you,” Ed said, offering a sealed envelope to Gunnar.

  “Thanks.” Gunnar took it and noticed the feminine handwriting then smiled. Yeah, so he’d been right, sooner or later she’d come around.

  He took the envelope back to his desk, sat and fished out his letter opener then tore that sucker open. He was a bit disappointed to see typing inside, instead of the handwritten “call me” note with a phone number and a real lipstick kiss he’d imagined.

  He read on.

  Hi Gunnar—I wanted to get your approval to use your heartwarming story about that stray cat you once gave shelter in a little piece I’m doing on our local pet control. It will run on Thursday. If you’re okay with it, please let me know at…

  She left her work phone number. That was a start. But she’d only signed off with her name. Not look forward to hearing from you, or let’s get together soon, or any number of catchy coy phrases that would have made it easy for him to suggest they have dinner together that weekend. Nope, she’d gone the just-Lilly route. Very professional.

  He dialed the number she’d given and it went straight to messages. Bummer. Not even gonna get to talk to her in person. After the beep, he used his charming voice and gave her permission to share his story and any other noble thing she’d like to share about him, but stopped short of asking her out. He’d decided to do that face-to-face the next time he saw her.

  The mysterious outsider with the wide-spaced and beautifully shaped eyes, that when you looked closer were maybe a little sad from growing up with overbearing parents, wasn’t making his job easy. Now he smiled full-out because, truthfully, he was looking forward to the challenge of getting Lilly Matsuda to go out with him.

  *

  Thursday morning Gunnar let his cat, Wolverine, out for his morning explorations then walked down the driveway to pick up the paper. Pulling it out of the thin plastic cover he headed back inside. Once he’d gotten his coffee together and a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich on toast, he settled at the kitchen counter to read the news. Back on page five was an article written by Lilly featuring, of all people, Kirby Nylund, the curmudgeon himself, half smiling, half scowling for the camera.

  Gunnar was impressed with Lilly’s style of journalism. It included a little bit of folksy banter with Kirby, a bit of a history lesson on Heartlandia’s approach to animal control, the current state of stray pets in Clayton County, and informative tips on where and when to have pets spayed and neutered at a reasonable cost. Then she did something that hit home with Gunnar, she threw the question out to the local readers: “Tell us about your personal pet-rescue story for a chance to see yours in print.” After that she started things off with Gunnar’s story about Smelly.

  When he finished reading the article he had a big grin on his face. Yes, that’s what the Heartlandia Herald had been missing, that personal touch, with the invitation to the locals to participate in the newspaper. If his hunch was right, there would be an avalanche of responses to her invitation.

  Lilly might put up a tough facade, but beneath that stylish, modern-woman exterior she had a big heart. He’d experienced it firsthand the night she’d kissed him stupid in front of the hotel. Why she’d gone into hiding, he didn’t understand.

  *

  Gunnar finished following up on the complaint about a disturbance in the city college parking lot later that night. Several such calls had come in almost simultaneously across town. Because he was closest to the college, he rolled on that one, leaving the other units to investigate the different areas.

  Everything checked out fine at the college, no sign of disturbance at all, other than night students heading to their cars after class. He decided to take one more trip around the parking lot to make sure he hadn’t missed anything when a call about a fire came through the radio just after 9:00 p.m. Old warehouse. 300 block of First Street. The railroad tracks.

  Hell, it was Olaf’s place.

  He hit his emergency lights, sped off and, when he’d gotten onto the main road, seeing huge black clouds of smoke off in the distance, turned on the siren and raced toward the scene down by the river.

  As a police officer his job at a fire was crowd-and-traffic control of the area, the biggest hazard being looky-loos swarming the scene and getting in the way. Within five minutes he arrived behind another police cruiser and jumped out.

  Tactical planning was the sergeant’s job, and he took it seriously.

  “How many on the way?” he called to Eric, the other police officer. Heat from the huge explosive flames at the brewery warmed his face even from this distance. Three fire trucks and dozens of men flocked to the blaze hitting the pavement at full speed toward the old warehouse.

  “Six other units that I know of are on the way,” Eric said.

  Soon, several other blaring sirens made known their arrival and Gunnar had half a dozen units spaced evenly and parked in a line at the outskirts of the parking lot. Fortunately, the river acted as a natural boundary on the back side and was one less thing to worry about.

  The police officers worked as a team, some marking boundaries with flares and bright orange cones and others taking to the streets directing and detouring what little traffic was out this time of night.

  Like moths to light, employees from nearby businesses and residents from local neighborhoods poured outside to have their own up-close-and-personal view of the fire.

  The crowd grew as the fire put on a diabolical performance in the night sky, and Gunnar concentrated on his immediate surroundings, the citizens, and fellow police officers, leaving the firefighting to the well-trained pros. There were more sirens, more police units to strategically place and also an ambulance, which he assisted through the crowd and police line.

  Things could get out of control fast if they didn’t demarcate the perimeter. “Get the traffic control unit out here and tell them to bring the sawhorse barricades,” he said.

  “Roger, Sarge.” Eric headed for his unit to put in the request.

  Gunnar got on his radio for the latest updates, wondering if his best friend, Kent, who ran the local Urgent Care, had been notified. Another ambulance arrived, and he hoped beyond hope that the injuries would be kept to a minimum, especially since the nearest hospital was the next town over thirty miles away, and there was only so much Kent and his staff could handle at his UC. As it was Kent would be inundated with smoke inhalation patients from the gathering crowd.

  With his mind flitting to a hundred different thoughts, Gunnar saw a petite silhouette break from the main group of bystanders and head his way.

  “Gunnar!”

  It didn’t take more than a second to recognize the lovely Lilly, and since it was the first face-to-face he’d had with her since that night at the market, a mixture of bad—Olaf’s, the place they’d first gotten to know each other, had been decimated by the fire—and good—it was great to see her again—feelings took him by surprise. A single word popped in his head: Chitcha. On reflex he smiled.

  She returned the smile, then flashed her reporter’s ID. “Hi! This is horrible. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Gunnar gave her the general rundown of time and events while he took in her jeans, boots and half-off-the-shoulder purple sweater. “No word yet on how it started.” But something had been niggling at the back of his brain ever since he’d received the call. Thinking back to the college parking lot disturbance that had been a false alarm, and which he’d rolled on, he remembered hearing several other calls, all with the same complaint, right at the exact time around 8:30 p.m. He wondered if all of those had been false alarms, too, like a widespread decoy. Putting that together with the recent onslaught of trash-can fires around the docks and train tracks the past few weeks, he also puzzled over whether there might be a connection.

>   “Has the fire captain issued a statement yet?” Lilly asked. “Anything I can use?”

  “Not yet.” Looking at Lilly, remembering how great she’d felt Friday night in front of her hotel, wishing they’d had more time together since then, some protective instinct clicked on in his gut. “You shouldn’t get so close. Who knows what toxic fumes might be spilling into the air.”

  “Like twenty feet will make a difference?” She had a point. “I’m here for the Herald, can you give me any information?”

  “Nothing official. But all the alcohol in the bar and brewery is probably what made the huge blast about an hour ago. Did you hear it?”

  She nodded. “I thought someone had dropped a bomb.”

  Gunnar glanced over his shoulder at the raging orange-and-red flames. Smoke plumes rose into the night sky like an ancient genie finally released from his bottle. “Kind of looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  He used his hand on her shoulder to direct her farther back and to the side of his car, thinking they may be able to hear each other better over there.

  One of the rookie cops burst onto the scene, a cardboard multiple-cup holder in his hands. “The coffee shop insisted I bring some coffee. You want one?”

  Gunnar looked at Lilly. “Coffee?” She nodded her thanks so he grabbed two. “Thanks, Darren.”

  Off the new officer went, spreading his good-coffee cheer to the other policemen working nearby. Something crackled over his radio in the car. “Excuse me,” he said, handing Lilly his paper cup and hopping inside to listen. Lilly followed close behind.

  “A fireman’s been injured. Make space for medevac emergency landing. ETA ten minutes.” Gunnar saw an upsurge in activity around one of the ambulances. His stomach cramped at the possibility of anyone getting killed tonight, and his hunch about the source of this fire plumed in his thoughts.

  Getting right back on task, he gave an apologetic look to Lilly. “I’ve got to take care of this.”

  “Any word on who the fireman is?”

  “Not at this time, I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

  “Thanks. Hey, I was interviewing some firemen this week about the trash-can fires going on around town. Of course they said they were all intentionally set. Do you think there is any connection?”

  He remembered from earlier reports how well planned all the trash-can fires that didn’t pan out were. Someone had made sure to distract the police officers with bogus calls. “Don’t know for sure.” He looked around the scene again. “Though I’ve got to say—” he looked at Lilly, thinking of her as a friend “—my hunch is this fire and those trash cans might be related and this could be arson, too.”

  Her eyes went big enough for him to see the fire reflected inside the irises. She stepped back and he cut in front of her, heading back to the parking lot. “Cobawa. It’s Ben Cobawa.” The fireman’s name crackled over the radio. “Looks like second-degree burns on his face and neck, which means smoke inhalation, too. Better hope that unit gets here quick.”

  Damn. “Ben’s been injured,” he said so Lilly could hear.

  “Who’s Ben?”

  “One of our best firemen.”

  “I realize that, but what’s he to you? You seem really upset.”

  He’d known Ben all his life. The gentle Native American was also on the pirate project at city hall. And sometimes, he could swear there was something going on between Elke and Ben, but he’d never had proof.

  “A friend of my sister’s.” Gunnar sped up, leaving Lilly standing taking pictures of the fire as he threw out directions to his men left and right. He had a hell of a lot to accomplish in a short time, and from the looks of the angry fire across the way, things were going to get worse before they got better. And it would be another long, long night ahead.

  He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Lilly’s tiny frame in the shadows diligently scribbling notes and snapping pictures, and wished this latest meeting with her had been under completely different circumstances.

  *

  Gunnar rolled out of bed early Friday afternoon. He’d been up all night with the fire that had finally been put out around four. He’d stuck around doing his part to make the situation navigable until the morning shift, and more importantly until his lieutenant insisted he go home and take the day off.

  His eyes still burned from the smoke, and even though he’d showered when he’d gotten home, the smell remained fresh in his nostrils. Wolverine snubbed him as if he were nothing more than a pile of ashes, until he got out the bag of kitty kibble. Then the cat acted as if Gunnar was the lion king himself and rolled belly-upward, allowing Gunnar to pet the softest fur. Gee, such an honor.

  After he’d made his coffee and had thrown on his guy-type Japanese spa robe—otherwise he was naked—he tied the sash and went outside to get the newspaper to keep him company while he ate some cereal.

  Around the fifth crunchy bite, he opened the paper and got hit with a headline that nearly had him spewing his honey and oats across the kitchen.

  Arson Thought to Be at the Center of Brewery Fire. He hadn’t given her the okay to print that!

  He read on about how the fire captain had confirmed his hunch about arson, and lectured himself about jumping to conclusions regarding Lilly, then calmed down. She brought up the cluster of calls coming in as decoys just before the fire got set. That someone set Olaf’s bar and brewery on fire on purpose, and wanted to make sure everyone was scattered around town when it happened. Then she’d covered the diligent firemen putting out the flames and the dramatic medevac of Ben Cobawa. Excellent reporting, in his opinion. Next she focused on the police force keeping order and protecting the local citizens who’d lined up for a firsthand view of the dangerous fire. His name popped up after that.

  Concerned and giving orders, Sergeant Gunnar Norling put all of his efforts into manning the front line of this fire with his fellow officers. Norling, a ten-year veteran on the police force takes his job to protect and serve seriously. Giving orders and drinking donated coffee, he doesn’t miss a detail. Perhaps he is driven by his own father’s mistakes, occasionally overcompensating for being the son of an ex-con with his stiff, by-the-book attitude.

  He blinked at the flaming wall of anger encircling him. He hadn’t even known Lilly for a week and she’d already crossed into the forbidden territory of his past. In public! For the whole town to read and remember how his father was a common criminal, who’d done time…

  Leaving his cereal bowl on the counter, he stomped to his bedroom, threw on some clothes and headed for the door.

  He’d slipped up, made the mistake of thinking Lilly was a friend and talking honestly with her, sharing part of his painful past, and now he’d paid the price.

  Well, lesson learned.

  As he put on his helmet and hopped onto his motorcycle, he planned to chew Lilly out when he cornered her.

  *

  Lilly glanced up from the computer screen Friday afternoon and saw a human hurricane blowing her way. Gunnar.

  She jumped up and steadied herself, meeting his glower by lifting her chin. “What’s up?” she asked, bracing herself for who knew what, but from the looks of him, something unpleasant was about to go down.

  He tossed the front page on her desk. “I’ll tell you what’s up, this is what’s up.” His usual affable masculine voice was tempered by a slow, hot simmer. He pointed to the headline. “I made the mistake of confiding in you about my father, and now you’ve pasted it all over the front page for the whole town to read.”

  His penetrating green-eyed stare could be unsettling for the average person, but she’d had to face the steely glares of her mother and father her entire life. Gunnar was no contest. “I added it to give a human interest side—hey, we can be better than our parents, look at Gunnar Norling.”

  “You had no business bringing that up without my permission.” His voice was quiet, yet the words slashed at her confidence.

  Out of habit, she donned her good-soldie
r attitude and stood straighter. “Do you remember the message you left me the other day?” She waited for him to remember, but he showed no sign of it. It was her turn to go on offense, and she played it to the hilt. He wasn’t the only person around here who knew how to lean into an argument. “Then let me refresh your memory.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “‘Sure—’” she tried to sound like Gunnar when he played it charming “‘—you can use that information…and any other noble thing you’d like to share about me…’” She emphasized the last part.

  He stopped briefly to digest what she’d told him. “I may have said that, but come on, you should have known better.” Quiet yet cutting to the quick.

  “Are you calling me dense?” Her voice rose and she failed at hiding her frustration.

  “The last thing I’d call you is dense. How about insensitive.” He failed at hiding his ire, too, but his tone was more of a molar-grinding growl.

  She couldn’t retort because it was true. She should have known his father was off-limits, and yet she’d let that part slip her mind when writing the article because it was good press—the son atoning for the father’s sins. She’d been all fired up about the front-page story, and had given it her all, ignoring a couple of really important points. Never leave your source hung out to dry. Not if you hope to use them for future articles. Journalism 101.

  Damn.

  She blinked and took a quick breath, preparing to do something she was really lousy at. “I’m sorry.” She said it quietly, biting back an ugly old feeling she used to get whenever her father called her on the carpet—shame. She cast Gunnar a contrite glance. Was she bound to spend her adult life trying to please the entire male population thanks to her father?

  Gunnar went still, as if in the eye of the storm, taking time to pick up the newspaper and read the rest of the article. His jaw should have been making popping noises from all the gritting of teeth. He took in a long breath, glanced at her with less glaring eyes, then slowly let out the air. “I’ve got to be able to trust that when I talk to you, you won’t go blabbing everything on the front page.”