Unlikely Hero

by Marta Perry

  She preceded him up the carpeted steps, running her hand along a railing made smooth by generations of hands. Stacy had fallen into a family.

  The thought startled her. She’d been thinking that Stacy was lucky to have a safe place to stay, but the Flanagan house was more than that.

  The upstairs hall sported faded floral wallpaper and an equally faded carpet. The door with train decals must have belonged to Seth’s little boy. Brendan rapped on a white-paneled door on the right.

  “Stacy? We want to talk, okay?”

  “Come in.” Stacy’s voice sounded as if it were clogged with tears.

  He opened the door on a twin-bedded room, its walls hung with posters a decade out-of-date. Bookcases jammed with books surrounded a window that looked out over the tree-shaded back lawn.

  Stacy was slumped on one of the beds, clutching a pillow. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the sight wrenched Claire’s heart, wiping out whatever she might have been going to say.

  “Hey, Stacy.” She touched the girl’s shoulder lightly. “It’s all right. I’m not mad at you.”

  The girl sniffled, her long hair hanging down to hide her face. “You went to all that trouble for me, and then I blew it.”

  Brendan sat on the other twin bed, its old-fashioned metal springs creaking in protest. “We’ve all blown it a few times. Why should you be any different?”

  “That’s right.” She sank onto the bed next to Stacy. She’d expected sympathy from Brendan, but his easy empathy surprised her a little. “Brendan’s right. We’ve all missed opportunities. There’ll be another one.”

  “You won’t want to help me again.”

  Two weeks ago that would have been true. She’d have given the girl one chance to get her act together, and then she’d have moved on.

  Something had changed. Was she losing her edge?

  “Of course I want to help you.” She put her arm around Stacy’s shoulders. “We’ll find the right job for you, you’ll see. And next time I’ll go along with you to the interview, okay?”

  “You will?” Stacy’s tears spilled over again.

  “Only if you stop crying.” She gave the girl a hug. “You go wash your face for supper. Tomorrow we’ll start looking for another job. Okay?”

  The smile sparkled through Stacy’s tears like a rainbow. “Thanks, Claire. I won’t let you down again. I promise.” She scrambled to her feet, brushing away tears. “I’ll go get ready for supper.” She hurried out of the room.

  Brendan looked at her. “Nice job,” he said softly.

  “You, too.”

  Their knees were almost touching, and the smile he gave her was secret, almost intimate. She was way too aware of his presence in the quiet room. She glanced around, seeking something to break the spell.

  “Looks as if you had pretty eclectic tastes in music.” She nodded toward the rock-group poster that hung next to an ad for a performance of Carmen at the opera house.

  “Aunt Siobhan’s influence battled that of the other kids.” He grinned. “She made sure we were all exposed to the classics, whether we liked it or not.” He moved slightly, and his knee brushed hers. “What about you? Did you take piano lessons, violin—what?”

  “My mother taught me to play the piano. Well, tried to teach me, anyway.” She had a brief image of her small hands next to her mother’s on the piano keys. “But after she died, my father got rid of the piano, so I didn’t keep up with the lessons.”

  “That’s too bad.” His voice had the same warm, empathetic tone he’d used with Stacy. “Maybe he couldn’t handle the reminders of her.”

  “Maybe.” And maybe she’d exposed too much of her personal side to Brendan. She didn’t waste time thinking of the past, let alone talking about it to anyone.

  She stood up, deliberately breaking the link between them. “Your Aunt Siobhan probably has supper ready. We’d better go down.”

  Brendan nodded, getting up, too. “Sure.” He sounded just as cool and agreeable as she might wish.

  But there was a warmth and caring in his eyes that she didn’t want to see there. That she could only hope wasn’t reflected in her own.

  “If we could have a little silence from the living room, we’d probably be done faster,” Siobhan called, in a voice meant to be heard by the men, who’d retreated to the living room after supper, leaving the shower planners seated around the dining room table.

  That was a good idea in theory. Unfortunately, they kept hearing ridiculous suggestions coming from the other room.

  “Ignore them. You know the more attention you pay, the worse they’ll be.”

  Mary Kate, the oldest of the Flanagan clan, had left her children with a sitter since her husband, Kenny, also a firefighter, was on duty, as was Seth. She’d breezed in after supper, red curls flying, not looking old enough to have two children.

  “If you think you can outwit Ryan by ignoring him, you haven’t been around lately. Honestly, sometimes you’d think he was still a kid.” Terry, the sister who was two years older than Ryan, had the same red curls.

  Claire made a valiant effort to keep the siblings straight. Terry was a paramedic with the fire department. As Joe had said, everyone followed the family tradition.

  “Well, I think we’ve finished most of it, anyway,” she said, glancing at the notes Stacy had been taking. “Thanks to all of you.”

  She could only hope there wasn’t an edge to her smile as she looked at the Flanagan women. She appreciated their help—of course she did. It was just hard to keep their enthusiasm from sweeping the wedding shower totally out of her control.

  “Believe me, I’ve attended way too many showers lately,” Terry commented. “It seems like everyone I know is getting married.”

  “Maybe that’s a hint,” Mary Kate said.

  Terry threw a wadded-up napkin at her older sister. “Listen, just because you’re an advertisement for marriage and family, don’t try to push me into it. I’m busy enough with my career.”

  “You can have a job and be married. You just have to make the time to date someone.” Mary Kate’s eyes took on a calculating look. “There’s this friend of Kenny’s cousin we could introduce you to.”

  “Forget it. I’ve met Kenny’s cousin. He couldn’t possibly have a friend I’d like.”

  Siobhan watched the good-natured bantering with a soft smile, clearly enjoying the girl-talk.

  Was this what her life would have been like if her mother had lived? Would she have been planning things with her, sitting at a table exchanging woman-talk and laughing gently? A longing she hadn’t experienced in years swept over her, and to her horror she actually felt tears sting her eyes.

  There was no point in thinking about what might have been.

  Besides, that wasn’t what she wanted any longer. She didn’t yearn for family life, hadn’t since she was a teenager, in any event. All she wanted was professional success. If her connection to the Flanagans threatened that, she’d cut them off without a backward glance.

  “Enough, girls.” Siobhan’s gentle scolding suggested that Mary Kate and Terry were about six or seven. “We’ve gotten through everything on my list, I think. Claire, is there anything we’ve forgotten?”

  “I can’t imagine what,” she said. “This ought to be the best couples shower Suffolk has ever seen. We just have to make sure Nolie and Gabe show up on time.”

  “We’ll put Brendan in charge of that,” Terry said, then jerked when her beeper went off.

  At almost the same moment, Claire heard a beeper from the other room. Brendan’s, she realized, as he beat Terry to the phone.

  The occupants of both rooms seemed to freeze as everyone listened to his end of a monosyllabic conversation. He hung up and then turned to them with an expression Claire hadn’t seen on his face before.

  “Down at those new apartments on Fourteenth Street.” He seemed to be speaking a language everyone understood but her. “Looks like it’s going to be at least three alarms.”

&
nbsp; Terry was already headed for the door, with Ryan on her heels. Brendan, eyes abstracted, followed them.

  He was praying, she realized, and didn’t know how she knew that.

  “Ryan, you’re not on call,” Siobhan said, a faint protest in her voice.

  Ryan glanced at her. “They’ll call everyone for a building like that. I might as well beat them to it.”

  Joe got up, too. “I’ll just drive by and see how the scene looks.” He came to bend over Siobhan and drop a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t worry. You know they won’t let me near the action.”

  She nodded, her mouth tight, and reached up to pat his cheek. “I better not hear about any Flanagans taking foolish chances,” she said.

  They went out, one after the other. No fuss, no hurry, but they were gone in two minutes flat.

  Once the door clicked closed, Mary Kate got up, gathering her notes and her bag. “I’d better get home, Mom. I don’t trust that sitter not to scare the kids by turning the television on to news about the fire.”

  Siobhan gave her a quick hug. “Call me later.”

  In a moment the house that had seemed so full felt empty. Stacy rose, looking as if she didn’t understand, but knew this wasn’t good. “I’ll go put the rest of the dishes away.”

  “You don’t need to,” Siobhan began, but the girl had already disappeared into the kitchen. Siobhan shrugged, looking at Claire. “Poor child. She’s picking up on my tension, I suppose.”

  “It’s natural enough.” Claire sought a neutral tone. “Is it always like that? All of them going?”

  She’d known, intellectually, that they were all involved with the fire department. She just hadn’t thought through what that meant.

  “For something big it is.” Siobhan clasped her hands together on the table. “The good Lord knows I should be used to it after all these years, but I’m not. I’m ashamed to admit I’m almost glad Gabe’s injury took him out of it.”

  “I don’t think you need to be ashamed of that. At least one of them isn’t in danger right now. Although I suppose Brendan, since he’s the chaplain, doesn’t—”

  Siobhan shook her head, stopping that line of thought. “Brendan will be in the thick of it, too. Minister or not, he’s trained and he never can hold back.” She reached out and clasped Claire’s hand. “You must know him well enough by now to know that.”

  She wanted to protest that she barely knew Brendan, but she couldn’t. Siobhan was right—Brendan wouldn’t hold back on what he thought was his duty, just because it was dangerous.

  “No, I guess he’ll rush right in and take responsibility, won’t he?”

  Siobhan nodded, hand still grasping Claire’s. “He’s been that way since he came to live with us. Always carrying a load of responsibility for everyone he meets. I don’t expect he’ll ever change.”

  “Even if it gets him into trouble?” She thought of Harvey Gray.

  “Even then.” Siobhan studied her. “You’re thinking of his set-to with Harvey Gray and those teenagers, aren’t you?”

  She probably shouldn’t discuss it with Siobhan, but somehow she needed to. “He doesn’t seem to realize how dangerous a man like Gray can be. He shouldn’t make an enemy of him.”

  “No, Brendan wouldn’t realize that. He’s an idealist, and he always feels as if he has to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

  Yes. That was exactly what she’d sensed about him.

  “His parents did that to him,” Siobhan added softly, almost as if thinking it to herself. She shook her head. “He shouldn’t be trying to do everything at the church by himself. Nobody can do that. It’s not good for him or for the members.”

  She wasn’t sure what Siobhan meant, but at least she seemed to agree with Claire’s assessment. “Can’t you tell him that? Tell him not to make an enemy of someone like Gray.” Brendan’s parish politics shouldn’t matter to her as much as it did.

  “I’ve tried. I think he’ll have to come to that himself. He’s not one to listen.”

  “Stubborn,” Claire said.

  “Oh, yes. Like all of them.” Siobhan’s smile lingered for a moment, then faded. Her fingers tightened on Claire’s. “Will you pray with me?”

  “I don’t think—” Everything in her cringed away from the suggestion.

  “For their safety. Please.”

  She could hardly refuse, could she? She nodded, bowing her head, hoping fervently that Siobhan didn’t expect her to say anything.

  “They’re out on the line again, Father.” Siobhan’s tone was quiet, almost conversational. “You know what it’s like there. Be with them as they do what must be done. Protect those in danger. Please, bring our loved ones home safely to us.”

  The lump that formed in Claire’s throat wouldn’t have allowed her to say anything if she had wanted to. They’re not my loved ones, she ought to protest, but maybe that wasn’t even true. She knew them. She cared what happened to them.

  They seemed to move through her mind, almost as if she held them up for some sort of blessing. Joe, who was supposed to be confined to a desk job since his heart attack. Seth, the single dad who seemed to be everyone’s best friend. Kenny, Mary Katherine’s husband. Terry, with her lively, determined manner and her skilled hands. Ryan, the charmer with the quick smile. And Brendan.

  What about Brendan? Her mind and heart seemed to be arguing with each other. Her mind said that Brendan didn’t mean anything to her, and that she didn’t believe in prayer even if he did.

  Meanwhile her heart had launched into a silent plea. Keep him safe. She didn’t know who she spoke to. Keep him safe.

  Chapter Seven

  Brendan paused on the brick sidewalk, glancing down the cobblestone street at the stalls set up on either side. After spending the previous evening at a smoky fire, trying to comfort people who’d just seen most of their possessions burned to a crisp, it was good to stand in the clear sunlight and inhale the lush aromas of the farmers’ market.

  There’d been plenty of property lost, but no loss of life, thank God. The situation had been the usual odd mix of heroism and selfishness—he ought to be used to that by now. Some people risked their lives for those in need, while others raged at God for their losses.

  Some threatened to sue anyone and everyone they could think of. He’d seen one man brush off Terry’s offer of care while declaring he’d sue the fire department for not getting his new television out of the burning building.

  Terry had met his eyes and shrugged—hers were red-rimmed from smoke. She knew as well as he did how people could be. Shock could do strange things, of course, but he had a feeling that it was in the crises of life that a person’s soul showed through in the most unguarded way.

  He wandered down the row of stalls, keeping an eye open for any early raspberries. One of his favorite parishioners, Mike Snow, had lost his sight and his mobility, but he still loved to eat, and red raspberries were a particular favorite. He’d love to drop some off at the nursing home and see the expression on Mike’s face when he smelled them.

  Claire had been gone when he got back to the Flanagan house after the fire. That hadn’t been surprising, but the news that Claire had joined his aunt in prayer for their safety was.

  Claire, praying? She’d probably just been polite. He’d like to know for sure, but it was hardly likely she’d tell him, even if he brought it up.

  Fresh asparagus, green and tender, poked from wicker baskets, and strawberries glistened red and shiny. Leaf lettuce and green onions vied for space, and a small crowd had gathered in front of a stand that advertised Eastern Shore melons.

  There’d been a farmers’ market on this block in the oldest part of Suffolk for more than a couple of centuries. Those early residents hadn’t gotten melons from the Maryland shore back in the 1700s.

  He walked through the wide open doors of the hundred-year-old brick building that housed the more permanent stalls, his mind still occupied with Claire. He’d like to claim his interest wa
s purely spiritual, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was interested in more than Claire’s soul, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that fact.

  He rounded a corner in front of the Amish butcher’s counter and stopped. Claire stood a few feet away, juggling a Philly cheesesteak and a soda.

  Well, why not? Fully a quarter of the people who jammed the aisles were probably office workers from nearby buildings, and Gray Enterprises wasn’t more than a block away. He moved next to her.

  “That thing will clog your arteries, you know that, don’t you?”

  Claire turned toward him and blinked. “What are you doing here?”

  “Everyone comes to the farmers’ market.” He rescued the napkin that was slipping between her fingers. “I’m in search of raspberries for one of my parishioners.” He nodded to the sandwich. “You’re taking your health in your hands for lunch, obviously.”

  She looked nettled. “I only indulge in these things once a month or so, not that my health is your concern.”

  “I understand mine was yours last night, from what Aunt Siobhan says.”

  Claire’s full lips tightened, and she made a business of wrapping her sandwich, but she didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. “She asked me to pray with her. I could hardly refuse.”

  “God must have been listening. No one was hurt.”

  “Do you honestly think that’s why?” Her words should have sounded sarcastic, but he caught a serious undertone, as if she really wanted an answer.

  “I wouldn’t be blaming God today if someone had been hurt,” he said carefully. “That’s the risk of living in this world instead of the next. But I do believe prayer is important. So thanks for your prayers, whether you meant them or not.”

  They’d moved so quickly from casual to soul depth. How was it that they’d formed this close a bond in such a short period of time? Especially since they seemed to be disagreeing in most of their conversations.