Two Hearts Rescue: Park City Firefighter Romance

by Daniel Banner

  Please, Lord, help this helpless soul.

  The Lord helps those who help themselves, or so said her mother.

  The best way to find yourself is in the service of others, or so said the Bible. Or was it Gandhi?

  Whoever said it, she belonged back at the shelter and within a minute, she was in the parking lot.

  Keep it together. Doing great so far.

  That lasted until she opened the door of the shelter and the acrid, comfortable smell of animals hit her. In this place she was never not smart enough, or thin enough, or anything enough.

  The faucet on her eyes opened suddenly and everything got blurry.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Daria, coming around the reception desk and reaching out for a hug.

  She let herself sob and talked right through it. “I thought everything was going amazing. I never gelled like that with a guy.”

  “Who are you talking about? What happened?”

  Poppy sucked in a deep, blubbery breath. “Oh, that fireman came to the gym and we went on a hike, and without even knowing … it’s not worth talking about. Sorry. I’m good now.” She pulled away from Daria and walked into the bathroom, where she pulled some scrubs on over her running shorts. “What did I miss?”

  Daria gave her a searching look and answered when Poppy didn’t break down again. “We got another first today. That’s fifteen since we opened. Wanna take a guess?”

  “Duck?”

  “Nope.”

  “Goose?”

  “It’s not avian.”

  “Is it smaller than a breadbox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mammal?”

  “Yes.”

  Poppy ran through a list in her mind of mammals they had never sheltered. It couldn’t be a dog or cat. They’d also had rabbits, guinea pigs, and an alpaca. It couldn’t be a llama, those were too big.

  “Give me one more clue,” said Poppy.

  “Musky.”

  “Is it a ferret!” Poppy had always wanted one of those growing up, but pets were a major no-no in the Mercier house.

  “Yep.”

  “Squee! What brought him in here?”

  “Musky.”

  “Oh, poor buddy. I’ll take a look at him.”

  She pulled her lab coat off of the hook and went into the reptile room, which also served as the guinea pig room, bird room, and anything else that lived in an aquarium room. They separated the species with curtains to reduce the visual threat of predators and prey. Unfortunately without more space—more funding—they couldn’t do anything about noises and odors. Since she had opened the doors of Two Hearts Rescue almost two months previously, there hadn’t been any accidents. Their no-kill stats were still perfect, safe from humans and safe from other animals. Eventually an animal would arrive with cancer or some other incurable malady, and would have to be euthanized. But she would celebrate the shelter’s perfect record as long as possible.

  Every week the number of animals in the shelter went up. With only two full-time employees and a few teenaged volunteers, they could only accept a certain number of animals. So far, as she had expected when she opened a no-kill shelter, the number of admissions had steadily outpaced the number of adoptions. With the arrival of the ferret, they were up to a total of 28, mostly dogs and cats. Poppy didn’t know the max occupancy number yet, but they were getting close. Fundraising was already a major part of her workday, but it went up a couple of spots on her mental list. When she finally made it back to her physical list, she would adjust accordingly.

  She didn’t have time for treadmills. They were supposed to make her healthy, not lead to ruin.

  In the reptile room, the ferret case was blocked off on three sides with a folding screen. It was about five feet tall, a couple inches shy of Poppy’s height, with four layers in a split-level pattern. The cage could double as a habitat for rats, squirrels, martens, and any like-sized, lively animal.

  As soon as Poppy walked in, the ferret stopped dragging its hind end on the floor of the cage, scampered up to the closest point in his case, and stuck his nose out. He had a tiny, mischievous mask and common ferret markings of black and gray down his body.

  “Are you friendly, buddy?”

  “Probably the friendliest non-canine we’ve had,” said Daria, who had followed her into the room.

  “You’re not gonna bite me?” Poppy undid the hasp that held the door shut. The cute little critter was down the ferret stairs and into her hands in under a second. “Oh, you’re a lover.”

  He nuzzled her sleeve, then her belly when she brought him closer. “So I guess this means you won’t love up on me, show me your beautiful eyes, make me fall in love with you and then laugh in my face as you rip my heart out?”

  In answer, he raced up her sleeve onto her shoulder and kissed her ear. The inside of her ear.

  “You’re fearless. I think I’ll call you Amygdala.”

  “Fear center in the brain,” said Daria. “Not bad. Maybe a little girly.”

  “I doubt he’ll mind.” When Amygdala turned to scamper down her arm, she caught a musky whiff. “Will you hold him for a sec?”

  Daria gladly accepted the playful boy while Poppy slid some gloves on.

  “Let’s see what’s causing your effluvium.” She lifted up his tail and began palpating. “Yep, you’ve got impacted glands, Amygdala.”

  Why was it always the anus? Many more animals with posterior problems and they’d have to change the name from Two Hearts to something more appropriate. Stinker’s Animal Rescue?

  “Poppy?” Daria was holding Amygdala and making the serious face again. “Tell me what happened.” In the two months working together getting the shelter up and running, they had become pretty close, having to rely on each other.

  “You just want to hear about the hot fireman.”

  “Well, yeah. How’s he going to set me up with one of his hot friends if you don’t hit it off?”

  “Save yourself the drama.” Poppy got ready to squeeze. “Hold him tight. He probably won’t like this.”

  “Go figure,” said Daria. “I got him.”

  As Poppy began to squeeze the nodules under Amygdala’s tail, she said, “It’s a fitting topic, since half an hour ago I felt like this goo that comes out of an impacted anal gland.” As she said it, an indescribably rank black gunk oozed out.

  As they worked, Poppy filled her in on the events of the day. She already knew about the treadmill incident and the encounter at Pineapple’s—which had only partially been a setup, since Daria really did dig the food there—so Poppy picked up when Slade the Greek statue had walked into the gym. Having the distraction of treating an animal while they chatted helped her keep it together as the tale progressed to Funny Slade, peaked at Slade Charming, then crashed at Traitorous Backstabbing Slade. Daria and Amygdala were perfect listeners.

  When Poppy finished talking, she was also done with the unpleasant procedure. “Come here, buddy.” The ferret nuzzled Poppy anywhere she would let him, and she found herself grinning. “Oh, I’m so thankful for you, Amygdala.”

  “What a colossal bonehead,” said Daria, speaking for the first time. “Was that it? Did he backtrack or what?”

  “He tried explaining himself and gave me the whole ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ excuse.”

  “Wait,” said Daria. Her blonde eyebrows pinched together. “He has great hair, a great body, good hygiene, lives alone, works with a bunch of dudes, is reluctant to have a relationship with the cutest girl in Utah, but wants to be her BFF … and he writes poetry? Poppy.”

  The pieces all came together. “Omigosh, Daria. How did I not see that?”

  “Sorry, sis. He’s gay as a French horn.”

  The whole morning ran through Poppy’s mind. Maybe it really wasn’t about her. But how did that explain the eye dance thing at the gym the first time they saw each other? Maybe it had all been in her head. After hearing Daria’s evidence, it had to be.

  “Sorry about ruining yo
ur chances with all the rest of those hotties,” said Poppy, “but it’s over with me and Slade. What am I saying? It never even started apparently. But whatever he did want before, he doesn’t anymore. I basically told him all firefighters are pompous, malicious donkeys.”

  Daria smiled consolingly and reached out to scritch Amygdala’s head. “At least you still have us.”

  It was meant as a joke, but Poppy had no idea what she would do without her animals and Two Hearts Rescue. Once again her eyes glassed over with moisture. The Lord moved in mysterious ways, even if He had to use the scent glands of cute little critters.

  Yep, God was a better doctor that Poppy would ever be. Why He would condescend to help someone like Poppy was completely beyond her, but she had escaped the closest downward-spiral call she’d had in years, and she had no one to thank but Him.

  8

  Slade pushed himself back from the computer and rubbed his eyes. For an hour he’d been searching every combination of Poppy and veterinarian and Utah. He’d even searched for vet techs, lab aides, kennel attendants, veterinary assistants, laboratory animal caretakers, and dog walkers.

  Nothing. Apparently Poppy the Vet didn’t exist. He wished that were true. The last thing Slade needed in his life was another woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. Not that he thought of Jenny all the time, or even very often, but every so often she would surface like a submarine and destroy him.

  Before leaving the gym on shift two days ago, he had asked Alta very nicely with only a hint of a bribe, to give him Poppy’s address or full name, but she wouldn’t budge. He went by the gym a dozen times since the hike, but hadn’t seen her truck. Too bad he’d been too distracted to get her license plate. He might have been able to pull a favor from the cops. He would be reluctant to even ask, but he had to get another chance to explain himself. The thought of never seeing her smile again was terrifying.

  Ebay didn’t have any yearbooks from Rowland Hall, and despite his tale about Phil Featherstone or whatever name he’d made up, he didn’t have any friends to hit up for info about her. Firemen and Rowland Hall grads didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Even Classmates.com didn’t lead him anywhere without a last name.

  How hard could it? There couldn’t be that many Poppys in Park City, Utah.

  “What is Poppy short for?” he wondered out loud.

  Google gave him a decent list and he spent another half hour trying all of the veterinary medical professions with Penelope, Persephone, Poppaea, and Pomeline.

  Nothing.

  Searches for Daria yielded the same frustration.

  Slade should be studying up for his end of probation testing coming up next shift. There were still dozens of topics he meant to review that he hadn’t gotten around to yet. But Haz-Mat arrival reports, fire hose capacities, and the knots used for hoisting tools would have to suffer. It was late and he was discouraged from his fruitless search.

  Stretching his tired back, Slade walked into the dayroom. Three of the guys were sitting in recliners watching a late night talk show. A fire flickered in the fireplace, one of two fireplaces in their luxurious new station. It was only a couple of years old and had been built to reflect the posh community they served. Slade wasn’t complaining.

  By the light of the fire and TV, Slade rinsed the dishes that had been left in the sink, loaded them into the dishwasher, and started it. He emptied the coffee pot and old grounds, and set up the machine for the morning so he could just flip a switch when he woke up.

  “See you guys in the morning,” said Slade as he headed into the hallway toward the dorm rooms.

  Two of the guys mumbled something in response.

  In his friendly tone, Cap said, “And not before then. Let’s sleep all night, huh?”

  “I love that idea, sir,” said Slade. He liked to stay busy on calls during the day, but nobody complained about a night with no runs.

  Slade took a quick shower and collapsed into bed. It had been a long day; every day was long for the new guy, who was expected to stay busy cleaning, or studying, or working out, or making coffee, or cooking or helping the cook, putting up the flag, taking it down, running for the phone, making more coffee, washing the rigs, or any number of a hundred different things he’d done that day. Not to mention the dumpster fire, the downed power line, femur fracture, and a couple other medical calls he’d already forgotten.

  Some guys stripped down to sleep, but Slade had to be the first one on the truck if a call came in so he had gotten in the habit of putting on a clean uniform and sleeping in it, pants and all. In no time, he felt himself dozing off.

  Slade knew it was a dream. Jenny was there, and she was single, just like him. That other guy didn’t even exist. How Slade even knew there was that other guy, he couldn’t say. Slade and Jenny weren’t an item, but they had been, just like in real life. In the way of dreams, Slade couldn’t even say what he and Jenny were doing, but they were at some sort of … train station maybe? Their song was playing over the loud speaker, but Slade couldn’t name it.

  They kept walking past each other and every time they passed he felt the electricity between them, even though they never touched. Jenny could leave any time she wanted to, but he knew that she stayed there because she wanted to be close to him. Again and again and again over hours and hours they crossed paths—in narrow hallways and wide open chambers and once in a ticket booth. And still Jenny didn’t leave. Slade felt like he was standing on stable ground, a foundation he could count on. He could remember feelings of abandonment from other aspects of his life, but Jenny was here; she wasn’t going anywhere. It was like that game they used to play on the phone to not be the first to hang up after a conversation that had already lasted hours. They might even get back together. He wanted the feeling to never end.

  And he was awake. In a dark room. He carefully put out his left hand and felt a wall, then let it process. Fire station. There were no walls next to the bed in his apartment. Those dreams always disoriented him, not just physically, but emotionally. Jenny was completely gone from his life, she had been for more than six years. But every once in a while, the memory of her came back to haunt him.

  It didn’t seem fair. She’d turned her back and forgotten about him long ago, so why was it him that still suffered from nights like this? Since she was the one who bailed, shouldn’t she be the one to pay for it? Yep, life was not fair.

  Three-thirty a.m. There went the rest of this day; he’d be jacked up and have a hard time concentrating.

  … your memory is a toxic cloud …

  … why the one who leaves loses least …

  He reached for the light on his nightstand. Maybe if he jotted some ideas down he’d be able to get back to sleep. That was the point of poetry for him, anyway, to get feelings out of his head and heart.

  In the four days since he’d alienated Poppy, she had dominated his thoughts and distracted him repeatedly until he wrote down some of the feelings. It still wasn’t fair to use the pain he’d caused her for his writing, but if he didn’t get it out, it would pick at him until he had a raw sore on his psyche.

  Slade swung his legs off the bed and stretched. Having his own dorm room was especially convenient at times like this when sleep was impossible.

  Most guys on the job just took all the crap they experienced and shoved it down as deep as possible to suppress it. Talking about feelings was practically non-existent. Sure they had access to therapists, and the Critical Incident Stress Debriefing team, but who wanted the stigma of being that guy. As the new guy, Slade especially felt like he couldn’t be the one to try dealing with mental trauma in healthy ways. So he wrote.

  A couple of weeks ago they’d gone on a concrete truck versus a minivan. Two kids, both unconscious, and a pregnant mom. When Ladder 1 had arrived on scene, the mom was able to talk, so worried about her little ones. She kept saying that over and over, “My little ones. My little ones. My little ones.”

  The kids survived. The mom and unborn ba
by didn’t. They didn’t even make it into the hospital alive. It was the first time Slade had ever seen someone die.

  As infuriating and inexplicable as it had been, the tragedy actually strengthened his faith in God. Not necessarily in good ways, but it gave him someone to be angry at. Just like when he’d gotten the Dear John letter during Officer Candidate School. There was only one explanation for that tragedy: an almighty God had let it happen. Therefore, God existed. When he tried to explain the logic to anyone, they never got it, but it worked for Slade. And having faith in God was better than not having faith, right?

  Slade had written about that call, in vague term, more feelings really. And he’d felt better. A few of the words came back to him:

  … bearer of the pain of strangers …

  … fickle fingers of fate …

  It turned out that the fickle fingers one had been said a thousand times, but it didn’t matter to Slade. It did the trick.

  Stop thinking and jot.

  He reached for the pen and pad sitting next to the lamp.

  Someone started yelling and swearing out in the day room. Was it a call? Had he slept through a call? Please, no! Not so close to the end of his probation.

  Slade grabbed his shoes and tore out of his room. JFK was in the dayroom staring at the recliners. In each of the six chairs sat a pig. Slade wondered if he was dreaming again. But that draining hole in his chest reminded him that he’d already woken up with baggage.

  Those really were pigs though, sitting in the recliners, staring back at JFK.

  The rest of the crew arrived seconds later, wearing sweat pants or shorts with their t-shirts. Only Cap had shoes on.

  “Little late for you to have friends over,” Emily said to JFK.

  “They’re pigs!” replied JFK. “How did pigs get in here? Sonofa—”

  “Language,” said Emily in her warning voice. “They’re pot-bellied pigs. I think they’re cute.”

  A black and white spotted pig jumped awkwardly down from the recliner and started walking toward the kitchen. A large ‘M’ was painted on its side. The others were marked as well: JFK, CCC, O.G., Link, and 30 Yr. The entire C platoon crew. The last one, 30 Yr, was Slade. It was a nickname they were kicking around after he showed up at Pineapple’s and acted too cool to hang with the guys like he was a 30-year fire veteran who could do whatever he wanted.