I managed to find Mr. Baker and Cole standing by their cars some distance away from the fire, but still within view. It occurred to me I should’ve brought them coffee, too, but then I noticed cups in their hands.
“Hey, sorry it took me so long,” I apologized to Mr. Baker.
“You made it here in good time, I think. And you came out at this hour. No apology necessary,” he assured me; a weak smile on his face.
“Could’ve worn a better shirt, though,” Cole teased.
“What’s wrong with this shirt?”
“Marvel? Really?”
“Marvel rocks. I can’t help it that you’re a DC weirdo.”
“What are you two talking about?” Mr. Baker asked, completely clueless about our bantering.
“Comics,” replied Cole. “Specifically, comic book characters. You know, superheroes.”
“Really?” Mr. Baker seemed astounded.
“Sorry, boss. Joking around is how we deal,” Cole confessed. He was right.
The three of us stood there in silence for a moment, just watching the organized chaos of getting a fire under control. All of a sudden, Mr. Baker began humming and then broke out into song.
“Here I come to save the day,” he sang softly.
Cole and I stared at him, faces blank.
“Mighty Mouse,” Mr. Baker informed us with a somewhat forced smile. “I always loved Mighty Mouse. He’s a super hero. Is he Marvel or PC?”
Cole guffawed, doubled over in laughter. Mr. Baker’s face reddened with embarrassment.
“No, he’s not Marvel,” I replied, a bit annoyed at both Cole’s reaction and the assumption that a kiddy cartoon character would be part of the Marvel universe.
“Did I say something wrong?” Mr. Baker asked.
“Don’t worry, boss,” Cole told him amidst catching his breath from laughing so hard. “She’ll get over it. Besides, I think Mighty Mouse would make a great Marvel—“
“Shut up, Cole,” I interrupted, and punched his arm.
“Well you have to admit; he is better than Howard the Duck.”
He had me there. Dang it.
The assistant fire chief was on scene, and motioned for us to meet him at his bright red SUV parked on the safe side of the larger fire trucks. He had a few questions for Mr. Baker about the building and where our fireproof safe was located. I was called upon to answer that one. Standing there listening to the chief explain the next steps, I spotted some of the firemen putting away gear. Some good-looking firemen, actually.
“Right, Charlotte? Charlotte?” Mr. Baker said trying to get my attention.
I was caught mid-stare. “Oh, I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”
Cole snickered. “Eyes over here, Charlie.”
I blushed and wished I had punched his arm a little harder. The chief finished giving us instructions, and returned to his crews.
“I guess we’ll have to all work from home,” Mr. Baker stated with a heavy sigh. “We can use Dropbox for sharing files and other paperwork, right?”
“Yes, Sir. Cole, Ginny and myself use it a lot. Shouldn’t have any problems.”
“Right. Then, let’s plan to meet at my house tomorrow night. I guess it would actually be tonight. Anyway, we’ll have dinner and then we can plan and organize for the weeks ahead.”
“Sounds good, boss,” Cole said as he gave Mr. Baker a consoling pat on the shoulder.
There was nothing more any of us could do so Mr. Baker and Cole both left after walking me to my car. As I opened the door to get in, I noticed one of the firemen walking by one of the smaller units that had arrived towards the end. He looked familiar. I kept staring, watching him talk with a paramedic and a police officer. He turned his head towards me and the street light overhead illuminated his face. I remembered who he was! Austin Dugray had hired us to represent him in a custody case. He was always so polite and punctual; qualities admired by yours truly. I remembered him because when I worked on his case, we would find ourselves discussing our nerdy fandoms like superheroes and sci-fi movies. But, then I had to take time off to deal with Tommy who had been suspended due to a meltdown that turned physical. Ugh. Those were some rough times.
I took a few steps forward and waved at Mr. Dugray.
“Mr. Dugray! Hello!”
He quickly turned and walked away, completely ignoring me. The other men noticed my waving and yelling, and I suddenly felt very awkward.
“Good time to go home,” I whispered to myself, and got in my car.
Getting out of bed Tuesday morning was ridiculously difficult. I had gotten three hours of light sleep thanks to the office catching fire and my midnight coffee-drinking. Joseph moved at a snail’s pace. Carrie was ready on time, but annoyed by everyone and everything. Tommy burst into the kitchen proclaiming, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“Oh, no. His holiday obsession is really getting out of hand,” Carrie whined.
“But, it’s almost Valentine’s Day!” Tommy squealed.
“Whoa, buddy, it’s not even February yet. You’ve gotta wait on the Valentine stuff.” I tried to explain.
There was not enough coffee in the world for this.
“But, but…I need a holiday!”
“Martin Luther King, Jr Day is the next holiday,” Joseph informed us, matter-of-factly.
“Did Martin Luther King celebrate Valentine’s Day?” Tommy asked.
“No. Well, I mean, yes…I guess. But Martin Luther King Day is its own holiday.”
“Is there a Martin Luther King song?” asked Tommy.
His holiday obsession wasn’t simply about decorations and treats. No, he designated songs for each holiday. Sometimes they were perfectly appropriate. Other times, like for Valentine’s Day, it was something he randomly chose. The Veggie Tales Vikings song was his choice for declaring love on February fourteenth. I had to think fast.
“Yes, there is a song for Martin Luther King,” I said. Joseph and Carrie looked at me as though I had three heads.
“What is it?” Tommy asked excitedly.
“It’s called Free at Last. Let me find it.” I grabbed the iPad and searched YouTube for a gospel choir version. Tommy loved a good gospel choir.
“Here you go. Here’s your next holiday song. Now, can we all get our acts together and get out the door in the next fifteen minutes?”
Joseph and Carrie moaned and went back to their rooms to finish getting ready. Tommy grabbed his headphones and boogied around the living room ‘til it was time to leave.
I spent most of Tuesday texting, emailing and accessing files on the cloud in an attempt to accomplish a normal work day. But, it was not a normal work day. Ginny had agreed to call clients, thankfully. I was emailing all our clients that didn’t have open cases. On top of that, we had adoption cases to complete, and a looming custody battle requiring a lot of research to substantiate our client’s claims against his ex; as well as to diffuse her claims against him.
When I arrived at the Baker home that evening, Cole was waiting for me in their driveway.
“What, no date?”
“To a business meeting? And since when do I date?” I asked, incredulously.
“Well, the way you were looking at those firemen last night, I figured you’d have snagged one…and you’d want to show him off.”
“You’re insane. You have literally lost your ever-lovin’ mind. I wasn’t staring at anyone.”
“Yes, you were.”
“No. Well, maybe…a little. Only because I recognized one of the guys. He’s an old client.”
“Right. That’s why your mouth hung open and drool ran down your chin—“
“Stop it!” I turned and headed for the Bakers’ door, leaving Cole two steps behind.
Mr. Baker welcomed us inside, and showed us to the dining room. His wife, Janet, had set a casual yet beautiful table. Red carnations nestled in three mason jars down the center of the table with those really nice paper napkins, red of course, at each place setting.
“I just pulled these out of the oven; so be careful,” Janet announced, displaying pans of homemade enchiladas.
“Mexican food; my favorite!” Cole exclaimed, grinning and licking his lips.
“Mine, too. Looks delicious,” I added.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard Ginny’s annoying voice; nor had I seen her vehicle parked out front.
“Where is she?” I asked Cole.
“Who, Ginny?”
“No, the Queen of England,” I quipped.
“I don’t know. I thought she was running late or something,” he said with a shrug.
“Is Ginny on her way?” I asked, speaking to no one in particular.
“She’ll be coming later,” replied Janet. “She called earlier; going on and on about how her duties to her family including feeding them a home-cooked meal. She even informed me that her husband had offered to hire a cook, but she refused out of her sense of duty.”
“Sounds like Ginny alright,” Cole said as he dipped a tortilla chip in homemade guacamole.
“Well, her husband makes good money so they could easily afford a cook, you know,” I said, giggling; imitating Ginny’s voice.
“Now, now. Enough of that,” Mr. Baker reprimanded. “You all are worse than a group of schoolkids.”
We dug into the enchiladas, Spanish rice, chips and salsa and guacamole as if none of us had eaten in months. I only paused from eating once; long enough to call and check on the kids. They were fine. The pizza I had ordered them was gone, and they were happily watching an old episode of Thomas the Tank Engine with a fire engine that comes to the rescue, per Tommy’s request. He held a small, plastic fireman in his hand, and moved the figure around in front of his face as he watched.
Mr. Baker had us gather in the living room just as Ginny arrived. The problem with eating before working is that we were so stuffed we could barely move. That post-meal sleepiness had set in, too.
“Are we here to work or not? I need to hurry here so I can get home to read books to the boys before they go to bed. They just love our story time together.” Ginny snapped.
I looked at Cole and rolled my eyes, making him chuckle. Then I began to giggle. Mr. Baker was right. We really were worse than a group of schoolkids. Ginny, having sat in the chair next to mine, reached for her purse by our feet and somehow noticed the holster on my hip.
“Is that a gun?” she practically yelled; causing everyone to startle and look my way.
I sighed. “Yes, it is. I have my permit; no big deal.”
“It’s a big deal to me! I hate those things. Why are you carrying a gun here? At a work meeting?”
“I got it recently, and I’m carrying it around as much as I can so that I can get used to it. It was recommended by my class instructor so that I can become comfortable with carrying a weapon.”
“No one should be comfortable carrying a weapon! Take it off, and put it in your van!”
“No!”
“Ginny,” Mr. Baker interrupted, “you cannot demand she remove her gun. I knew she was carrying, and I carry, too. In fact, I’ve carried every day that you’ve worked for me. We have guns to protect ourselves, and we will protect you, too. There’s no need to worry.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to remain cool and use your weapon wisely, Mr. Baker, but Charlotte? She’s liable to shoot anyone!”
I came dangerously close to making a sarcastic comment about wanting to shoot Ginny, but luckily, God put His hand over my mouth and stopped me.
“If it’s any consolation, my gun isn’t even loaded…yet. I’m still getting used to carrying it around,” I admitted.
“Well, that does put me a little at ease,” Ginny relented.
“Good. Now, can we get back to business? I’d hate for your boys to miss out on story-time.”
There was that mouth again.
Ginny huffed and crossed her arms.
Yep…so worth it.
Less than two hours later with the meeting complete, the workload delegated, and Ginny out the door in time for book-reading; I left the Bakers’ and headed home. Fifteen minutes later, I walked in the door to find all three kids sprawled across the sofa asleep in a twister-like pretzel. I debated leaving them there, but decided they looked too uncomfortable.
Slowly, quietly I disturbed them one at a time to send them to their own bed. The whole thing happened more smoothly than I had imagined it would. I was grateful. As I slipped off my shoes, stashing them under my bed, my phone buzzed with a text from Cole.
Saw this at the store on my way home and thought of you…
Included was a picture of a calendar…of hunky firemen.
CHAPTER THREE
THE arrival of Wednesday night Bible study at church was a welcomed relief. The commotion of being displaced from my office and having two evenings taken away from family and home time had left me exhausted. Not just exhausted; depleted. Worship and the Word were my way to restoration.
It took exactly three steps inside the church lobby for me to get surrounded by the Gaggle of Grannies. The Gaggle, as I affectionately referred to them, was a group of women that had known me since forever and had adopted me as their own. Granny was the baker of cookies and puller of teeth (only Granny can pull loose baby teeth—it’s a rule). Momma Pat was the hugger and a mean shot at the firing range; earning the nickname “Granny Oakley.” Mammaw Sellers was the quietest of the bunch…until she started praying. Little Momma was the spunkiest with her fancy church clothes and big, matching hats with sequins or feathers or bows, or all three! They were an amusing bunch to say the least. And as of late, they had gotten it into their heads that they should fix me up with this new single man that started attending our church.
“Honey, he’s a fine fellow. He’s become an usher, and he even joined the choir,” Granny informed me.
“An usher and a tenor? What a catch,” I quipped.
“Seriously, Charlotte, he’s very involved in the church and the community. He’s supposed to be at the singles get together Saturday afternoon. You ought to go,” suggested Mammaw Sellers.
“There’ll be lots of competition for his attention. You know that Lynnette gal will be all over him like white on rice,” added Little Momma. That comment solicited giggles from the whole group.
“Now, we shouldn’t be gossiping. It’s true, though. She’ll be after him,” Granny admitted.
“Ya’ll know how I hate those singles meetings,” I reminded them. “There’s almost never anyone there my age or who has kids. And some of their ice-breaking activities are just ridiculous. Like the last time I went, they had us split into groups based on what brand toothpaste we use. I don’t even know what brand toothpaste I use! It’s whatever is cheapest! Ninety-three cents? That’s the one for me! I don’t know its name!” I took a quick breath after that long rant. “Nope; can’t do another one of those singles gatherings. It’s not my thing. Sorry.”
“What about meeting him for coffee, then? I could introduce you two after church,” Momma Pat nudged me.
“Maybe. I hear music. Church is starting. Catch ya’ll later.”
They each gave me a squeeze before going into the sanctuary. I left the lobby with a tin of Altoids, a travel pack of tissues, and cherry chap stick lip prints on my left cheek.
Bible study was good; I mean, if you happen to like it when the pastor teaches on a subject that steps on your toes. That whole “love your enemies” thing; does it really mean you should be nice to people who get on your nerves? What if they seriously drive you up the wall? I felt conviction over my attitude towards Ginny. So, my natural response was to offer up excuses. God is never convinced no matter how hard I try. Sigh. I scribbled a note to be nicer to Ginny and stuck it on the front of my planner to remind me.
The next day, I spent six hours in front of my computer screen working on adoption cases; all while wearing my comfy sweats and flamingo slippers. Working from home was going to spoil me. I kept the Keurig running all day
, and by the time the kids got home from school, I was practically jittery.
Carrie had a school orchestra performance that afternoon; so we loaded up the van with her and her cello, Tommy and his iPad with headphones, two of Carrie’s friends and their violins, and a bouquet of carnations for Ms. Kanocz, their orchestra teacher. The girls were quite the nerdy trio. Carrie, Kaitlyn and Katie loved Star Wars, Harry Potter and music. Not just any music, though. No modern hip-hop for these gals. You could find them listening to Billy Joel, Frank Sinatra, YoYo Ma, or the Monkees at any given time. Probably the strangest group of thirteen-year-old girls on the planet…and I loved them!
Joseph called as we arrived at the school auditorium to say he and his friends were still working on their steampunk film. It was a short film to be used in their portfolios as each of them aspired to attend film school. I allowed him to stay later than we originally planned, but only if he agreed to let me host a movie premiere party once it was completed.
The concert started, and the orchestra of eighth graders began playing. This was the advanced group, and the music was beautiful. I glanced over at Tommy who was sitting remarkably still, and noticed tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Hey, buddy,” I whispered. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“It’s just so pretty,” he replied. Then, he stuck his headphones on his head, and hit play on a YouTube video of Rugrats.
The concert was phenomenal. The audience gave them a standing ovation, and we gave Ms. Kanocz her flowers. Carrie’s friends met their parents backstage; leaving me with two fewer people and two fewer instruments to transport home. Somehow, I reasoned, this meant we had room to pick up a rather large order of Chinese food to take home for a late supper.
Once home, I noticed a text from Cole asking me to give him a call.
“Hey. What’s up?”
Frappes, Flamingos, and a Fireman (A Charlotte Ritter Mystery Book 2) Page 2
