Rescue and Redemption: Park City Firefighter Romance

by Daniel Banner

  With about two hours until the guests arrived, things were on schedule, but only because he’d been going at it since five a.m. Boston had agreed to come in and relieve him on the truck a couple hours early so JFK could repair the insipid menu and meet up first thing in the morning with the Summit Centre kitchen coordinator. The Homecooked Holiday group had an ongoing relationship with the Centre to use the kitchen without the cost of the normal staff. Only because of JFK’s Certified Master Chef status were they able to proceed under the previous arrangement.

  The hams went into the ovens and JFK set a timer to add the rest of the glaze. For another hour he supervised the potatoes au gratin and veggie prep. When those went in, they started working on the brownies, and he tested the ice cream cartons to make sure they were soft enough to serve. The rolls went into warmers as JFK turned up his nose. They had been purchased in bulk and there was nothing JFK could do about them. Sure there were lower quality rolls out there, but these still weren’t as good as homemade.

  So much for Homemade Holidays. He considered not even serving the rolls, but that wouldn’t go over with the big wigs.

  With fifteen minutes left until go-time, some of his workers and volunteers were plating the food while others were placing the plates into warmers. Quad C was up to his elbows in dish soap, and had been for about an hour now. Oh, it gave JFK so much pleasure to see his captain sudsing away like a peasant. His hands would still be pruney when they got back to work four days from now.

  “Sage, I’m leaving you in charge. I’ll be back in 30 seconds.” Even this gaggle of novices wouldn’t be able to ruin much in the time it took for him to peek into the dining room. He’d resisted going out to steal glimpses of Mercy this long, but now that guests would be arriving, he had a good excuse to look. In the hallway he came face to face with her, and saw her leading a dozen people toward the kitchen.

  Mercy’s black hair was shaved on one side of her head, long and straight strokable everywhere else. Could her eyes possibly be that blue or was she wearing colored contacts? The coat she’d come in was gone, and she now wore a very classy black leather dress down to her knees, with a thin, cream-colored half-sleeve shirt under it. Bright tattoos decorated her left forearm all the way to her hand, as well as the left side of her neck. A tiny silver stud was visible in the right side of her nose, but only in the right lighting.

  Earlier, when she had complimented his hat, JFK had looked her up and down trying to find something to compliment her back on. But he had loved everything he’d seen, and rather than letting his tongue loll out all the way to the ground, he’d made a joke.

  “How’s the food coming along?” she asked.

  “Not bad,” he replied. “We’ll have the first plates ready in about 90 minutes.”

  Mercy’s eyes went wide and the rest of her facial features froze.

  From behind Mercy, someone said, “Don’t believe a word he says.” Emily came to stand next to her.

  “I had her going,” said JFK with a smile. That had been absolutely perfect.

  Mercy was considering him as if ready to pull a knife on him or just laugh it off. Apparently she decided on the latter. “We already have a room full of guests. You know how to drive a girl to drink.”

  “A drink? Pineapple’s? After all this is over.” Yeah, there were a dozen people watching the exchange, but he’d gone forward anyway. He never asked hot girls out unless he was sure of a rejection, and this hottie should have no problem shooting him down.

  “Uh, no.”

  And there is was. At least they had that out of the way. Now he could move on to making a fool of himself by repeatedly pressuring her to go out with him even though they both knew it wouldn’t happen.

  She was holding up the pendant hanging around her neck for him to see. It was a coin with a ‘2’ in the center and JFK didn’t need to read, To thine own self be true to recognize what it was.

  Well that was a new low for even him—asking a recovering alcoholic out for a drink. He’d seen dozens of those coins growing up. Usually one month coins, or the basic ‘keep coming back’ chip given out on someone’s first AA visit. People achieving an actual year of sobriety was a thing of fairy tales for him. While most parents went to PTA meetings or soccer games, JFK’s mom and sundry boyfriends shopped AA meetings for another sucker to bilk out of whatever they could. Sobriety for them not only never lasted, it never began.

  What could he say? He wasn’t going to apologize for asking a beautiful woman out, especially since he wasn’t sorry about asking her, just sorry about mentioning drinks. But how was he supposed to know?

  The food. That was a safe topic. “We have fifty plates in the warmers and the rest will be ready by one o’clock. The brownies are coming out of the ovens in five minutes and will be ready to serve warm. I suppose these lost-looking individuals are the servers.”

  Mercy let out a relieved sigh. “Okay, so the food is ready. Yeah. Uncle Dom has trained them all on proper serving etiquette.”

  “Emily’s pretty-boy boyfriend knows all the manners. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Ahem,” said Emily clearly. “Aren’t there more pressing manners than my boyfriend’s manliness?”

  “What manliness?” asked JFK, leading the group to the kitchen. “These warmers are portable. When I get the high sign, we’ll wheel these out to that little staging area at the end of the hallway. Take trays from the bottom and work your way up. When you return them, same way, start on the bottom and work your way up.”

  He paused to see if everyone was following. Some people nodded, but no one spoke, so JFK said, “Say, ‘Yes, Chef,’ if you’re with me.”

  “Yes, Chef,” repeated everyone except Emily.

  JFK went on. “If anyone asks for extras of something, or makes special requests, tell them this isn’t Ruth’s Chris Steak House.”

  “Yes, Chef,” called out a teenage server while the rest looked at each other confused.

  “No,” said JFK. Some people were as dense as kindergartners when it came to getting a joke. “If someone wants more potatoes, or asks for mustard for their ham, or wants extra ice cream and no brownie, just walk in here and ask me.”

  “Yes, Chef,” said the group.

  At risk of sounding cheesy, JFK said, “We’ve busted our a—aaanchovies to put together a heck of a meal for what’s left of the Greatest Generation. Do us proud.”

  “Yes, Chef!” Even Emily added her voice to that one. Mercy winked at him, then escorted them out of the kitchen.

  Oh, Mercy, thought JFK. It’s a good thing she was out there and not back here distracting him.

  He didn’t have a lot of respect for his mom’s generation—Generation X or whatever you wanted to call them—but anyone born before or during World War II deserved to be rewarded for their service to the world and for being nothing like Millennials, and JFK included himself in that latter group.

  Ten minutes later, Poppy made a momentary appearance. “They’re telling me they’re ready for food.”

  “Action, people!” called JFK, now that almost all of their work was done. JFK wheeled out the last warmer himself. There was nothing in the kitchen his minions could screw up now.

  Mercy was there at the end of the hallway, silently supervising her own minions. Once enough of them cleared out of the way, JFK stepped to where he could see into the dining area. The rows of red table cloths were now interspersed with rows of gray heads. Hundreds of seniors had come to socialize and celebrate. JFK knew it wasn’t about the food, but that didn’t make him regret putting out the best possible.

  The faces out there weren’t just happy, they were content and touched in a way that JFK thought he’d never been. It wasn’t in his nature, but he had to admit he felt something while watching the lonely oldsters in their Sunday best being served a Sunday-best meal. He felt a bit like the Grinch, as if his shriveled heart was trying to grow inside his chest. Quick!—he had to say something borderline offensive.


  “Lonely oldsters.”

  Mercy was the only one close enough to hear and she looked over with one eyebrow raised.

  “That’s what I’m going to name my next band.”

  “Your next band?” she asked. “Are you in a band now?”

  “No, but it never hurts to have a name just in case. I thought about Wrinkly Geezers, but I feel like Lonely Oldsters has a better ring.”

  Now he could breathe easy because he’d done it. He had to keep his heart from growing at all costs. This woman obviously loved old people or she wouldn’t waste her holiday feeding them. But at least he’d get some reaction from her, and any reaction was better than no reaction, even if it was anger or disgust.

  Mercy said, “Look at those cute little old men at the second table with au gratin on their chins. I’d go with Cheezy Geezers.”

  JFK barked a laugh, loud enough that one of the cheesy geezers looked their direction.

  “That’s it,” said JFK, “Cheezy Geezer and the Lonely Oldsters. Say that five times fast.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Mercy.

  “Still JFK.”

  “I’m not going to call you that,” she told him, looking up at him with a serious face.

  “Call me Chef,” he said.

  “Have you been working with that food crew a long time? They’re not the most experienced but they seem to respect you.”

  “Yeah, they’re not very smart if they respect me, are they? Actually I just met all of them this morning except for the bodybuilder and his model-looking wife.”

  Mercy was either surprised or impressed. “How’d you get them do the whole, ‘Yes, sir, Chef, sir!’ thing?”

  JFK shrugged. “I told them, ‘You will respond, Yes, Chef,’ just as a joke, but apparently they ate it up, as you saw.”

  That had been a brilliant move even though at the time he’d only done it to have some fun. He hadn’t expected to impress an incredibly hot—

  What was that old woman doing waving her arm in the air?

  “Still, I’m not calling you Chef.”

  JFK tapped one of the servers to go find out if that woman needed someone to chop up her green beans for her, but the woman turned to the side and JFK saw that her face was a the color of a blueberry.

  Mercy was saying, “You’re really not going to tell—”

  JFK pushed past her and sprinted across the area dividing them. Other people at the table were standing and calling for help. The woman had both hands to her throat and was looking like she was going to go Tippecanoe any second.

  “Move it!” yelled JFK, trying to squeeze down an aisle crowded with slow, fragile people. He snow-plowed a couple of them to reach the woman and shoved his arms around her considerable girth. “This is gonna hurt you a lot more than it hurts me,” he said, and pulled his fisted hands sharply toward himself.

  One thrust is all it took. A silver-dollar sized slice of ham shot from the woman’s mouth and bounced off the face of the man across from her. The woman gasped and coughed and leaned forward on the table, knocking her glass of water all over her neighbor’s plate. Her color came back immediately.

  “Do I have to do everything around here?” muttered JFK. Then louder he said, “Someone get her a new glass of water.”

  Out of nowhere a round of cheering and applause rose as JFK walked back toward the kitchen. He passed Mercy, who was watching him with an amused look on her face. He said, “If I’d known there was going to be this much hassle, I would have let her wait for Emily to save the day.”

  In the kitchen, he told the first volunteer he saw, “There’s man about twelve seats up at the middle table who’s going to need a new plate of food.” The rest of his minions stood when they noticed him as the first volunteer bolted from the kitchen. “Are the brownies cut?” he asked the guy who he’d put in charge.

  “Yes, Chef.”

  An even louder applause came from the dining area. Someone else must have choked, but had a real hero like Emily or her International Spy boyfriend there to save them.

  “Get ‘em plated,” said JFK. “We got people ready to choke ‘em down out there.” He chuckled at his own joke, disappointed no one picked up on it.

  Mercy came into the kitchen with a woman wearing a blazer and too much makeup. Man, that cousin of Dom’s was a looker. If she was going to be at these shindigs in the future, JFK would gladly come and squeeze as many geezers as needed it. She pointed him out to the made-up woman.

  “Hi, JFK,” said the woman when she reached him. She looked familiar.

  She held out a hand and it was obvious she wanted something from him. JFK said, “Keep your cooties to yourself. I’m a chef.”

  “Oh, of course. I’m Julie Vargas with Fox 13, here covering the event and I heard you had quite the save out there.”

  Oh great. The news. They’d put his ugly face on TV and he’d owe the guys at the station ice cream. Uh-uh. Wasn’t going to happen.

  Julie Vargas with Fox 13 went on. “Can I get a quick interview? We can go out there, or I can bring the camera back, either way.”

  “Thanks, but no,” said JFK.

  “It’s a great story,” argued Julie Vargas with Fox 13.

  “I put a Band-Aid on Jeff’s finger earlier, am I going to get a medal for that too? That’s what’s wrong with the world today. Everyone wants a trophy for just being a decent person.”

  Julie Vargas with Fox 13 was undeterred. “There were hundreds of decent people out there and not one of them acted. She could have died in a room full of decent people if you hadn’t acted.”

  JFK was so sick of this conversation. “Any of us is a hair’s breadth away from dying a hundred times a day. A two-second lapse in driving and you cross the double yellow line. BAM! Take too long crossing a crosswalk. BAM! Slip while cutting a bagel and nick an artery. BAM! You want to talk to a hero, find one in the room out there. We only got a quarter million World War II vets left. Don’t waste time with someone who just gave an old lady a hug.”

  The brownie brigade didn’t need supervision but JFK went and gave it to them anyway, purposefully ignoring Julie Vargas from Fox 13 and her ridiculous fake eyebrows.

  “That’s some great plating,” said JFK.

  “Thank you, Chef,” said the four platers in unison.

  “Yep,” said JFK, “maybe the best brownie plating I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you, Chef.”

  Mercy came to stand next to him.

  He said to her, “Have you ever seen such amazing brownie-plating?”

  “Uh, no. Not by a long shot.”

  “Is she gone?” he asked.

  “Yeah. She wants to know your name.”

  “Well now I’m definitely not telling you.”

  Mercy shook her head. “It’s not my fault when she refers to you as ‘unidentified firefighter.’”

  “As long as she keeps my face out of it, that’s fine. Wait, how’d you know I was a firefighter?” It had to be Emily and Dom.

  “The emcee out there announced it after you made your little Superman appearance.”

  JFK nodded. That explained the roaring applause. He was still watching the minions carefully place brownies on the center of each plate in order to avoid staring at Mercy and drooling all over her. “I can’t get over this brownie-plating.” Hopefully he was making the platers as nervous as he felt with Mercy so close to him.

  “I wouldn’t really know,” said Mercy. “I’m not a certified chef or anything.”

  “Can I ask you a serious question?” asked JFK, daring to take his eyes off of the brownie team and looking down at Mercy’s upper chest. With all the focus he could muster, he kept his eyes from dipping any lower.

  “I doubt you’re capable of that,” said Mercy.

  Nice. They barely knew each other, but she obviously knew him pretty well. “Is that coin for real?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You really sober for more than two years?”

  �
��Two years exactly,” said Mercy, pinching the coin. “I just got this today.”

  JFK rubbed his chin. “AA?”

  “Yeah, I run a group in a counseling office group therapy room on Saturday mornings.”

  “How long did you use?”

  “A year in high school casually. Another year in high school hard, then two more years of college morning, noon, and night. That’s why it took me five and a half years to get a degree a lot of people do in three and a half.”

  “And you really don’t use at all anymore?” JFK couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

  “Haven’t tasted the stuff for two years. Are you the AA police or something?”

  JFK looked back at the brownie slingers. “I just …” he shrugged. What did it matter if he said something wrong or offensive or stupid? It wasn’t like he had a chance at anything serious with a girl like her. “I always thought people never changed.” That wasn’t accurate. His mind hadn’t changed. He shouldn’t be speaking in the past tense. “People don’t change. They don’t.”

  “You believe that?” asked Mercy.

  “I do,” said JFK. “You don’t?”

  “If I did, this would be a lie.” She turned her coin around and showed him the Serenity Prayer. “Courage to change the things I can.”

  “Yeah, but does that mean you’ve actually changed? You’re literally a different person?”

  Mercy turned fully toward him. “You realize how stupid your theory is?”

  “No. Obviously I don’t.”

  “Ask my parents if alcohol changed me. Ask my brother Justice if I was a different person as a college sophomore than as a high school sophomore.”

  “That’s different,” said JFK.

  “So people can change for the worse, but not for the better?” asked Mercy.

  Put that way, JFK realized that was exactly how he felt. “Truth,” he said.

  “Lies,” countered Mercy. “Lies, lies, and filthy lies. Spend some time with me and I’ll prove it.”