She gathered up an armful of her clothes and ran it back to the car, dumping it all into the back seat. They’d have to be washed later, but no time to worry about that now. She raced back to the grass, her sodden shoes squishing with each step. They’d been evicted! Damn him! She picked through the mess on the ground, searching. Most of it was ruined. The television, certainly. The toaster. The box of now broken dishes. She picked up the book she’d been reading to relax and decompress before bedtime, then let it drop from her fingers. It, too, was soaked clean through.
She kicked at a mound of fabric, Brandon’s favored brand of boxer briefs and athletic socks. Laundry done! A bitter laugh escaped her lips before she remembered the one thing she absolutely needed to find. Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned down to dig frantically through piles and boxes. She owned nothing of value in the first place. Even if she did—and even if it weren’t totally waterlogged by now—there wasn’t enough room in her compact car to fit everything.
But the quilt. She needed to find the quilt she was making as a thirtieth wedding anniversary gift for her parents. She was so close to having it ready, and the anniversary party was in two weeks. Only a third remained to be quilted, then the binding sewn on and it was done. Not that Becca was planning to go to the party. She couldn’t afford to take the time off, but she could spring for shipping it.
She wasn’t finding it here in the mess on the lawn, though. She ran into the building and took the stairs two at a time, not caring about the noise she was making. It didn’t really matter now if other residents complained to the building manager.
Damn it all. The locks on the apartment had already been changed. She leaned her forehead against the cold steel door. She’d never be able to get another quilt done before the party. It took her eighty to a hundred hours to complete one. She slumped down onto the floor and buried her face in her palms. When had this happened? They must have been waiting around the corner for her to leave for work that morning.
She sat in the hallway, listening to the rain pound the sides of the building and considered her options. No job. No apartment. No boyfriend. No reason to stay in Ohio. She pushed herself up from the floor. It was just after two in the afternoon. If she hit the road now, she could be home in St. Caroline before midnight.
Jack Wolfe had no sooner accepted the mug of coffee from his father’s hands when the fire station erupted into choreographed chaos all around him. Suddenly everyone was dashing about, grabbing gear, getting into their trucks.
“Gotta’ go, Jackie. We’ll see you at home later, okay?” His father clapped a broad hand on Jack’s shoulder, then followed his crew.
Jack watched longingly as the trucks pulled out of the bays and disappeared into the muggy night. Just like that, he was alone. Fireflies glittered in the dark outside the station. The ticking of the ancient clock on the station wall was loud in his ears.
The bay doors to the station began to lower automatically and he stood to leave. No point sitting in an empty firehouse, even though he had spent plenty of hours by himself in this very room, reading and doing homework. The station was like a second home to him. The Wolfe family—the Wolves, as they were called around St. Caroline—were firefighters across generations. His father had risen through the ranks to become the chief. His two older brothers were captains. His uncle Jack—twin to Jack’s mother—had died in the line of duty before Jack was born.
At Jack’s birth, his mother had put her foot down. Her youngest was not going into the family business. Little Jackie was the one who would leave town, go to college and become a doctor or lawyer or schoolteacher. Spend his life in a nice, safe job instead of rushing headlong into burning buildings and causing his mother years of worry. Finding out that Jack had dropped out of Berkeley Law, gotten a job as a security guard, and was a volunteer firefighter in California would kill her.
And she was dying already.
He went outside, got in his car and began to drive. He’d heard the address of the call when it came in from the county central dispatch. It was Michelle Trevor’s quilt shop, closed at this hour obviously—just before eleven—so no one would be there. But his mother was a long-time customer of Quilt Therapy, so he drove out to see what was what.
He parked his car in the small shopping center parking lot across the street and jogged over to Michelle Trevor’s shop. In the dark, it was hard to pick out his dad and brothers among the identically-suited figures aiming water at the small cottage that had housed the quilt shop for years. The structure would probably make it, but everything inside was going to be ruined. He noticed a car sitting in the small parking area off to the side of the house. It was a white four-door compact, nothing out of the ordinary. Not brand new, but not ancient either.
“Whose car is that?” he shouted into the din of the truck engines and noise of high-powered streams of water hitting the roof.
A figure turned. “What?” It was his oldest brother, Oliver. “What are you doing here?”
Jack cocked his head toward the small white car. “Whose car is that?”
Oliver looked at it like he was seeing it for the first time. “I dunno.”
Alarm bells went off in Jack’s head. “Did you check to see if anyone’s inside?”
“Shop’s closed.”
“Owners have been known to come back after hours.”
“Michelle and her daughters are in Chicago for some big trade show. They won’t be back until later in the week.”
“So you haven’t cleared the building?”
“There’s no one in there.” Oliver turned back to the fire.
Jack began running toward the back door. His hand was turning the knob—strangely unlocked for a shop that was closed for the week—when a big hand clapped him on the shoulder and yanked back hard.
“What the hell are you doing?” It was Matt, his other older brother.
“There’s a car parked over there and no one seems to know who it belongs to. Hasn’t anyone checked for someone inside?”
Matt frowned. “Who’d be inside? The whole Trevor family’s out of town.”
“Hell if I know! But there’s a car there!” Jack was right in Matt’s face now.
“Fine. I’ll go in,” Matt said.
“I’ll go with you.” The pull of the fire was too much for Jack. He wanted to be working this call, too.
“You sure as hell will not. If dad doesn’t kill me, mom will.” He shot a fierce glare at his younger brother. “You will wait out here.”
Jack took a deep breath. Mattie was right. He was a Wolfe, but not a member of the St. Caroline fire department. He didn’t belong here. He watched as his brother grabbed another firefighter and headed into the building. Two in, two out. Jack strode over to the car and cautiously touched the door handle. It was warm. If the fire got worse, it would be too hot to touch. He tried the handle, but the car was locked. No moving it now. He peered into the back seat, and recognition hit him like a backdraft.
There was a brown sock monkey hanging from the driver’s side seat, its short arms clinging to the metal prong of the headrest. A memory he hadn’t given a minute’s attention to in years flared in his brain.
This was Rebekah Trevor’s car.
He spun around at the sound of yelling behind him. Matt and the other firefighter were out of the building—and between them stumbled a woman, coughing and choking.
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About the Author
Julia Gabriel writes contemporary romance that is smart, sexy, and emotionally-intense (grab the tissues). She lives in New England where she is a full-time mom to a teenager, as well as a sometime writing professor and obsessive quilter (is there any other kind?). If all goes well, she’ll be a Parisienne in her next life. Her books have been selected as “Top Picks” by RT Book Reviews, and critics at RT Book Reviews, Kirkus, and others have called her work “nuanced,” “heart-wrenching and emotional,” “we
ll-crafted contemporary romance,” and “deeply moving storytelling.”
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She loves to hear from readers (and always writes back) by email at [email protected] and on Facebook. Obsess over quilts with her on Instagram. Ogle French men and pastries with her on Pinterest.
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Also by Julia Gabriel
St. Caroline Series
Summer Again
Hearts on Fire
Two of Hearts
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Phlox Beauty Series
Next to You
Back to Us
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Drawing Lessons
Chiaroscuro
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Writing as Marie Martine
Muse
Courtesan
Summer Again Page 19
