The Firefighter's Thanksgiving Wish Page 15

  “Ages?”

  “Probably older than seven.” He thought of Phoebe MacBride, who could handle herself in the class. “Girls and boys. Everyone should know the basics,” Roman said.

  “Especially with Cal Mopton talking about retiring and closing his repair shop.” Jake reached for the doughnut bag and peered inside. “If he does that, people will have to drive a good half hour for a tune-up or repair.”

  “Right now that’s just talk.” Alethea joined them. “But it couldn’t hurt to know the basics. And I’ll be your first student. You going to teach how to do oil changes? Like on commercial vehicles?”

  “Food trucks and vans, for example?” Roman suggested and earned a grin. “Yeah, sure. I can do that.”

  “Great. I’ll get the flyers made up for after the first of the year,” Alethea said. “Schedule’s going to be super crowded between now and New Year’s.”

  “Yes,” Roman said, thinking of Jake’s upcoming wedding. “I imagine it is.”

  Once the doughnuts and coffee were gone, Roman took his leave and sent himself an email regarding the various classes he’d volunteered to conduct. He’d always enjoyed the community outreach part of the job, but he also knew it looked great on a résumé. Everything he could add to his experience level was just one more boost to his profile, a profile he hoped someone at the federal fire investigative task force would notice once he applied for a new position.

  Something he really needed to do if he was going to keep his momentum going.

  He took his now-familiar route around the edge of town, enjoying the cool air coming in off the ocean on one side, the line of stores and businesses on the other. It was still relatively early, but the diner was packed. Not that he needed breakfast after the tasty offerings from the bakery, but he could do with another cup of coffee. He was about to pull open the door to the diner when his phone rang. “Salazar. Go.”

  “Is that any way to speak to your mother?”

  Roman tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. He knew he was going to pay for having avoided her calls in the last week. “Hey, Mom. How’s the Baltic?”

  “It was freezing. Which is why I’m now home. Something you’d know if you returned my calls or listened to your messages.”

  He had no answer for that. Mainly because she was right.

  “Your aunt Ida was craving my mulled wine, and the idea of spending another Christmas on a boat didn’t hold the appeal it once did, so home we went.”

  The very idea of his mother’s mulled wine brought a smile to his face. It had been years since his mother had made it—the last Christmas his father had been alive. That she was even thinking about putting on a pot meant she’d turned that final corner on her grief. And maybe, just maybe, he had, too. “If you’re calling to find out if I’m coming home for the holidays—”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” she chided him. “You just started this job. That wouldn’t be fair to want you to come home and visit your widowed, lonely mother, whose only son, whose only child, has moved all the way across the country.” She hesitated. “Would it?”

  “No,” he laughed. “It wouldn’t.” While he had no doubt his mother was still missing his father, and him, if there was one thing Esmeralda Salazar was not, it was lonely. “I’ll see what I can do after the first of the year, but it’s a small department. There’s only me and Frankie full-time. If I were to take off, it would mean pulling volunteers away from their families and other jobs, and I don’t think you’d want me to do that.”

  “Of course not. What about this Frankie? Does he have a family?”

  “Frankie’s got a brother in town. And lots of friends.”

  “I’m sure you have lots of friends now, too. You’re so much like your father, Roman. You never met a stranger. Speaking of your father, I’ve been going through the last of his things.”

  Ah. That explained the multiple calls. And the guilt crawling around inside him.

  “I found his humidor. You know that thing he kept moving around the house trying to hide it from me?”

  “I remember.” Roman also remembered it was where his father had hidden most of his mother’s birthday, anniversary and Christmas gifts. Antonio Salazar was well aware of his wife’s aversion to cigars, but he also knew she could suss out a surprise with the bat of an eyelash. The box she detested had made for the perfect hiding place.

  “I want to send it to you. Along with some other things. Do I have your address?”

  “I don’t really have an address yet, Mom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The station house has a nice room, and I really haven’t had time to look for a place yet. I will. Eventually.”

  “Well, where do I send this stuff in the meantime?”

  “I’ll text you an address.”

  “See that you do. I don’t want to lose my momentum cleaning all this stuff out. Before Christmas, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you and I’ll get it to you. ’Bye. Love you.”

  “I love you, too, son. Stay safe.”

  An address. Roman slipped his phone away. Leave it to his mother and her questions to remind him he had, whether he’d intended to or not, become part of this community. House or not, home or not, he detoured from the diner and headed to the hardware store to get himself a PO box.

  * * *

  “WHAT ON EARTH are those?” Frankie, fresh off cleaning out the station house fridge, was finally able to address the growing elephant in the office. Countless file boxes—some covered in dust older than she was—sat stacked against the wall, obscuring the metal file cabinet and covering the chief’s—Roman’s—desk.

  “Archived files.” Roman appeared as if she’d conjured him, arms loaded with even more boxes. He set them down with a thunk, shook his head and ran a hand over his sweaty face. “And who knows what else.”

  Frankie had to look away. Somehow, since their kiss, he’d managed to get even more handsome. Or maybe she was seeing him through different eyes. Dreamy eyes. Frankie caught herself. There she went again!

  “Didn’t realize when I got started there would be this many. Do you know some of these boxes go back to the ’60s? That basement is a gold mine of history.”

  “Ah, the good old days when the station house was estrogen-free and ran on testosterone and adrenaline.” Frankie chewed the inside of her cheek. He’d been increasingly contemplative the last few days, something she was trying not to attribute to their kiss the other night. Roman hadn’t brought up the topic at all, and she certainly wasn’t going to. Still, while she appreciated the silence, she couldn’t quite set aside the feeling he was keeping something from her. Did these files have something to do with his odd behavior? “Why the interest?”

  Roman shrugged. “Thought maybe it was about time we digitized old files. Not everything, but there might be items of interest we should keep at hand.”

  “Well.” Frankie brightened. “Thank goodness we have a probie now to help you with all that. Seems like a perfect task for a Monday morning, right, Jasper?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jasper looked a bit green at the prospect. “Sounds great.”

  Roman laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it painless. Besides, we can make better use of that basement space where these were stashed.”

  Frankie started to respond, but her eyes caught the familiar writing on the side of one of the boxes. Her heart panged.

  “Frankie?”

  “Sorry.” She blinked at Roman’s concerned tone. “That’s my dad’s writing. Do you mind?” She walked toward the desk.

  “Not at all.” He stepped back as she flipped the lid free. “Hey, Monty. What brings you by?”

  Frankie glanced up as her brother stepped next to Jasper. “What office supply store exploded in here?” Monty asked.

  “Just doing a clean out. Look. Dad�
��s old files.” Frankie ran her fingers gently over a box. “He was so organized. You’d think he’d been in the military.”

  “He did wield that label maker of his like a sidearm.” Monty’s smile seemed as sad as Frankie’s felt. After all this time, she still missed their dad so much she ached. She plucked out a file marked “personal.”

  “Oh, wow. Monty, remember this?” She held up a picture from Halloween. “What were we? Five? Six?”

  “What a shock, Frankie’s dressed as a firefighter,” Monty told Roman as he came over and took the folder. “Every year. Same costume, like some weird hazing ritual she’d made up for herself. This was my Darth Vader phase.” His chest puffed out a bit. “I spent weeks getting that box to light up and flicker. Also spent that summer’s lawn-mowing money on that authentic Vader helmet. I bet I still have it somewhere.”

  “That your dad?” Roman asked.

  “Yeah.” Frankie tilted her head. She and Monty had his eyes. The same smiling, kind eyes. Every year they’d take a picture in the same place, in front of the fire station, a tradition she missed to this day. She could remember standing there, in her oversize costume because she’d demanded the real thing, inhaling the scent of late-autumn rain and the mint candies her father kept in his pocket. “He always dressed in his uniform on Halloween. Said he had the best job in the world—no need to pretend he wanted to be something else.” She took the file back, slid it into the box.

  “No, take it.” Roman caught her hand before she could withdraw. “They belong with you.”

  “Dibs!” Monty snatched the Vader photo and clutched it to his chest.

  “I want a copy,” Frankie demanded and offered a quick smile of appreciation at Roman. That he’d gone to this trouble and unearthed a treasure for her kicked away those final fragments of resentment. “Thanks.”

  The speaker blared. Monty jumped, earning a roll of eyes from Frankie. All these years and it scared the stuffing out of him.

  “Seven eighty-nine Flyaway Lane. See Electra Potter on-site.”

  Frankie sighed.

  “I know that code.” Roman snapped his fingers and darted off. He’d written them all down, alphabetized and memorized them. “But you’ve got to be kidding me. The Cocoon Club again?”

  “Clyde and Harold must have finally gotten the Christmas lights out.” Frankie grabbed the SUV keys and her jacket. “I wonder what this year’s argument is about.”

  “Let me go,” Roman told her before she could climb into the car.

  “You sure?” Frankie didn’t look convinced. “Roman, it’s stringing Christmas lights. With old men who bicker more than two-year-olds.”

  “You’ve been telling me I need to get more in touch with the community. Let me go.” He slipped the keys out of her hand. “Besides, maybe I can talk to them about not using the emergency call system to request help. We can figure out an alternative. If they disagree, I’d rather they be ticked off with me than with you.”

  The offer—and reasoning—surprised her. She had to admit, she’d been dreading this annual call, while part of her had been worried it hadn’t occurred yet. Doubt niggled along the edges of agreeing with him. If he could survive Christmas-light day with the Cocoon Club, he could make it through anything. “Okay.” She stepped back and watched as he climbed into the SUV. “Why don’t you take Jasper with you?”

  “Yeah?” Jasper appeared at her side as if by magic.

  “Yeah.” Roman gestured for him to get in. “If we get a real call, I’ll know and meet you there,” he told Frankie as he started the engine.

  “Yes, sir.” Darn it, she thought as she turned back to her brother. She should have told Jasper to take pictures.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “ANY DETAILS YOU want to give me on the Cocoon Club?” Roman estimated the trip to Senior Central, as he’d learned the house was called, would only take a few minutes. “Frankie’s given me the basic background, I think.”

  Jasper shifted back in the passenger seat, shoved his hair out of his eyes. “My mom says they’re worse than a group of aimless teenagers.”

  “How so?”

  “Always getting into trouble. Testing boundaries.”

  “Or maybe they like the attention,” Roman offered. Older folks, even when part of a group, tended to have more issues with loneliness and depression than other demographics. He’d gotten his share of calls, especially in Florida, regarding locks that didn’t work or a cat that got out. Leaky roofs were a big one, too. Now that he thought about it, the calls from the Cocoon Club weren’t that much different. Just better organized. And more entertaining.

  “Attention like before Thanksgiving when they called for a ride home from the grocery store?”

  Roman winced. “You heard about that?”

  Jasper looked at him. “Everyone knows about that. Sir.”

  “What are people saying?”

  “Mostly they just roll their eyes and say it’s typical of them. No one minds, really, about their calls and shenanigans.”

  “Shenanigans?” Roman couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that word used.

  “That’s what my mom calls it. They’re all kinds of comic relief for us. What are they up to now? Who’s moving into the house, that kind of stuff.”

  “Remind me who is who again?” A refresher course was definitely in order.

  “There’s Myra, who used to be a hairdresser and only retired a few years ago when the business closed. Delilah, who worked in advertising. Alice is Abby’s grandmother, and she used to run the Flutterby. Marty and Harold are both vets, but you can always tell who Marty is because he wears something related to the marines.” Jasper counted them off on his fingers. “Clyde was the town pharmacist, Lorna was a sec—sorry, administrative assistant.”

  Roman grinned at the political correctness catch.

  “Eloise worked at the bank before it went under and then Penny. I’m not sure what she used to do. Her sister Polly, who’s only three years younger, lives on her own over near Skipper Park. I overheard Marty telling Harold one time Polly used to be a pinup girl like some lady in the war. Betty Grable?” Jasper frowned. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Then your movie education is sorely lacking,” Roman said, suddenly in the mood for a classics marathon. “That’s nine. Aren’t there ten?”

  “Right. Oscar. Mr. Bedemeyer’s a kick,” Jasper said. “He snuck into the army when he was sixteen so he could fight in WWII. Used his older brother’s ID. He used to come to the school to talk about his experiences and what it was like back then. He’s walking history.”

  “Used to? He doesn’t come in anymore?”

  “I don’t know that he’s been asked lately. The high school got a new history teacher a few years back. Mr. Bedemeyer likely got lost in the changeover. Mostly all the antics they get up to are because they’re trying to keep busy. They do a lot of stuff around town, organizing events and fund-raisers, but not as much as they used to. None of them drive anymore.” Jasper eyed him. “Public safety, according to Luke.”

  “Frankie acted like she was expecting this call. She seems to know how to deal with them.”

  “She doesn’t treat them like they’re old. She grew up here, so she’s known them all her life.”

  “Is that your way of saying I should tread carefully?”

  “I’d never say that, sir.” But Jasper flashed a grin before he looked out his window. “But there were times even Chief Granger said they were the bane of his existence. He was happy to let Frankie handle their calls. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like he was afraid of them or anything. Just...”

  “It was just Frankie is better with them. Don’t worry. I get it.” It had been easy in a big city to keep responses impersonal. Arrive, deal with the situation, move on to the next call. The learning curve here was steep and definitive: you’d hel
p people you would see every day and know what was happening in their lives, whether it was hearing that Oliver Hideman was finally back home with his daughter and grandchildren in time to celebrate the holidays, or making sure Shirley and Amelia had a nice Christmas despite their recent troubles, or running into Delilah and Penny at the grocery store and enduring another photo session. He’d been quick to tell Frankie their calls were about the people, but he hadn’t bothered to take his own words to heart. Until now.

  And now, when he pulled Dwayne to a halt in front of the old Victorian on the corner, a bolt of unexpected fear and concern struck him. He swore, earning an appreciative look from Jasper, and slammed the truck into Park and shoved open the door.

  Fear was something firefighters learned to control, at least when it came to major incidents where the unknown would be their greatest enemy. A multialarm fire, multiple-car accident, wildfires. Once, back in Boston when he’d still been a probie, Roman had found himself in a four-floor inferno. His training officer had been knocked out byfalling debris, his own air unit compromised. The suffocating fear that had locked around his throat had almost choked the life out of him, but he’d conquered it, used it. Learned from it.

  Spotting Harold and Marty sparring on top of the roof unleashed a new, unknown tendril twining through Roman. He sped along the walk.

  Myra, wearing a black suit that with her tangerine hair made her look like a struck match, was already closing in on him.

  “She sent you this time, did she?” The anger in Myra’s voice caught him off guard, but her next words told Roman he wasn’t the target of her rage. “Don’t blame her one bit, not wanting to deal with those two bumbling baboons up there. Six years! Six years they’ve been doing the Christmas lights and do you think one season would come and go without them arguing? Darn fools. Stomping around on the roof and giving me a headache. They woke poor Alice up and she has enough difficulty sleeping as it is!”

  “What’s their point of contention?” Roman cleared his throat and forced the concern down to where he couldn’t reach it. Even from a distance, he could see Harold’s marine insignia–emblazoned T-shirt along with his slightly shaky knees. That steep roof wasn’t safe for any length of time for anyone, certainly not for an aged marine. Not even for Roman.