The Wrong Man for Her Nick Logan slammed on the brakes of his little red Mitsubishi Eclipse, but the front end rammed into the back bumper of a van ahead of him despite his forty mile per hour speed. Damn it! Though he’d only glanced away from the snarl of traffic to check the clock, it was enough time for the stockpile of vehicles snaking down route 390 to come to an abrupt halt. “Great,” he said unbuckling the seat belt. “Just great.” He vaulted out of the car and hurried to the driver’s side of the other vehicle. Behind the wheel, a man in a business suit had a cell phone to his ear. The guy said something into the mouthpiece, stuffed the thing into his pocket and exited his van. “What the hell did you do?” Nick refrained from reminding him that cell phone usage was illegal in moving cars in New York State. “You stopped fast. I hit you. Are you all right?” “No, I’m not all right.” The man’s face flushed. “I have an important meeting in thirty minutes, and I can’t afford this.” He gestured to his car. “Or this.” He nodded to the traffic around them. “Me, either.” The last thing Nick needed was to be late to his first day on the job. Well, his first day back on the job. He shot a glance to where their bumpers were kissing. “I think I took the brunt of it.” The man strode to the end the van and whistled. “That’s what you get for going foreign. And a buying a sports car.” “Whatever." Nick hated lectures. “How do you want to handle this?” “You’ll pay, of course.” “I mean, do you want to call the police or take care of this privately?” “Can you afford the cash outlay?” the driver asked, his brows raised. “The cost of yours is going to be steep, even if it’s just to repair a crumpled bumper.” “Probably not.” Nick wasn’t thinking clearly. He’d been up pacing the floor of his condo’s bedroom most of the night, worrying about his return to his old place of employment after a three year absence. He whipped out his cell. “I’ll call.” The man surveyed the traffic. “They won’t be able to get through.” “The cops’ll find us.” They always did. Nick knew that from personal experience. “I…” The wind picked up around them and a fine March drizzle accompanied it. Oh, man, this just kept getting worse. As he punched in 9-1-1, Nick hoped like hell his lousy morning didn’t foreshadow the rest of the day. At least he’d given himself an hour and a half’s leeway before he met with John Kramer, who was his boss and good friend, and then a staff meeting to follow. It took close to sixty minutes for the police to arrive, deal with the reports and for Nick to exchange information with the driver of the van. Another twenty was spent following the still-long line of cars, which had worsened because of the accident. He pulled into the Rockford Crime Victims Center parking lot at nine. His need for haste kept Nick from succumbing to the associations that swamped him as he took in the old, brick building on Plymouth Avenue. He shoved aside the nostalgia of being back at the center; he’d spent several years of his life here, doing a job that helped other people and made Nick feel like he was a worthwhile human being. It was also the place where he’d fallen in love. Though at the time, he wouldn’t admit the feeling to himself. Or to Maddie. At least she wasn't working here anymore, and he didn’t know her current place of employment, or even if she was still in Rockford. He'd made sure, when he saw John over the last three years, or exchanged emails with Bethany, the center’s part time minister, that they didn't keep him up to speed on Maddie. All he’d learned was that she’d left the RCVC shortly after he did and gone to graduate school. Today, there would only be painful reminders of her within those walls. The entrance door was unlocked, and the reception area off to the side was empty. Nick knew Fran O’Shea was still on board as John's secretary, so perhaps the staff meeting had started. He headed to John's office on the first floor to check out where he was supposed to be. The door was ajar. Nick stopped short before the opening when heard a voice which had haunted his midnights say, “It’s past nine. Do you think he's coming?” Maddie. His Maddie? What the hell? "He'll be here." John sounded weary. "Today's his first day as the teen counselor. I'm surprised he's even late." Nick stepped into the entrance. “I’m here.” When Maddie faced him, his pulse sped up at his first sight of her since that cold November night two years, eight months and three weeks ago when he broke off their relationship. She’d changed. Her dark blond hair was shorter now, falling over her light brown eyes in cute bangs. Her mouth was devoid of the smile that used to spread there whenever she first saw him. He tried to calm his arrhythmic heart. “Hi, Maddie. John. Sorry I’m late.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Car accident.” “Hey, buddy.” Rising from a chair, the founder of the RCVC circled around the desk. Without hesitation, he gave Nick a bear hug. When he drew back, he held Nick by the arms. John’s hair was grayer than the last time Nick had seen him, and his eyes were fatigued. “You okay? Anybody hurt?” “Only the front of my car. At least it was drivable.” He glanced at Maddie and dropped down into a chair when she did the same and John went back to his desk. "What's going on?" Nick asked. "Why are you here, Maddie? I was under the impression that you’d left the center." John sat forward. "Nick, some things have happened you need to know about. Things that have brought Maddie back to the RCVC." "What?" "Lucy had a heart attack six weeks ago." Shocked, Nick leaned over the desk. The last time he'd talked to John was in February. "I…I'm so sorry. How is she?" "Recovered, miraculously. I took the month off to be with her." Ah, that was it. "I see. So Maddie filled in for you?" "In a sense." He cleared his throat. "My wife's illness shocked me into admitting some things. I've devoted my whole life to this place since Zoe died and neglected other aspects of my life. It's time to focus on them now." Twenty years ago, John Kramer had started this center when his daughter Zoe had been brutally beaten, raped and killed on Easter morning. At the time, help for him, his wife and two sons wasn’t readily available, and he vowed to do something in Zoe’s memory for other stricken members of crime victims' families, as well as the victims themselves. Two decades later, the Kramer Group which eventually became the Rockford Crime Victims Center, was one of the most renowned victims assistance organizations in the state. Part of its uniqueness was due to its in-house staff, rather than referring clients elsewhere. Also, over the years, John had worked miracles with creative financing. In addition to grants to pay counselor’s salaries, he’d gotten the bar association, the police and fire departments, and a local ministerium to pay part time workers from those areas. "Well, that's good. I told you before you needed to slow down." Nick frowned. They'd kept in touch since he left the center, and it was unusual for them to go six weeks without talking. But for the last few months, Nick had been busy with ending his job and moving from Orchard Place. Still, it didn’t make sense, given how close he was to the Kramers, that they hadn’t called him when something this serious had happened. "Why didn't you call me to tell me about Lucy? I could have come up early to help at the center. Or come to support you two, at least." John glanced at Maddie. "I was afraid if you knew my circumstances you wouldn't accept the job." John had hired him back right before the New Year after he found out Nick was planning to return to Rockford when his brother moved up here. "Why? Because you won't be running the place?" "Yes, though I'll be here part time. And will still do your evaluations. But I'm no longer in charge." "I don't understand. Won't the new administrator…" His words trailed off as awareness dawned. His gaze snapped to Maddie, whose stricken face confirmed his suspicions. "You're the new administrator of the center." "Yes, I am. I took over for John a month ago, and I'm staying on to run it." "Permanently?" "Yes." A quick spurt of anger at being duped shot through Nick, but he reigned in his temper. John didn't need a tirade now. What to do? He faced his friend and mentor. "I'd like to speak to Maddie alone, if you don't mind." "This isn't her fault, Nick. I made the decision to keep you in the dark." "It's all right, John." Maddie's voice was calm. Of course, she'd had time to adjust to this very bad idea. "I'd like to talk to Nick, too. Alone." Sighing, John stood. “If you insist. But if there's any blame to be had, it's on me. I'll go down to the staff meeting and tell everybody you'll be along shortly." When John circled around the desk, Nick stood and grasped his arm. "Don’t worry about this, John. Just take care of Lucy." His friend gave him a sad smile and left. Nick faced Maddie. "Surely you know this can never work." Temper fired those amber eyes of hers, making them look like hot brandy. "No, I don't know that. I wouldn't have taken the job if I didn't think we could do this." "Why did you take it?" "For the same reason you assured John everything would work out. He's lost too much in his life and now he has a personal crisis. We have to help out." "Maddie, you can't want to work with me." “Of course I don't. We might as well get everything out in the open. I never would have hired you back if Lucy's illness had happened sooner and I was in charge then. But that would have been a real loss to the center, since you work magic with kids. It’s a blessing in disguise that you’re here, and we’ll have to make the best of the fact that we have an unpleasant past together.” He was surprised by her compliment. "I don't know what to say." She sighed. He could see the strain around her mouth and in the tenseness of her jaw. "Say you'll stay. For the center's sake and John's." "What about us?" "There’s no us any longer. Right now, we have to think about the victims we can help and the best thing for the Kramers. They were like parents to both of us. We owe it to them." He agreed with that. But man, he hadn't signed on for this. Wasn't sure he could do it. Yet did he really have a choice? "I guess I can give it a shot." "Fine." She glanced at her watch. "The staff is probably finished with donuts and coffee. We should get down there." She started to stand. "Wait a second, Maddie." She straightened her shoulders. "Please, don’t call me that.” “What?” “Maddie.” “Excuse me?” She raised a brow and he remembered that only he, Beth and John ever used the nickname. For some reason, her admonition ticked him off. “Would you prefer Dr. Walsh?” When they’d begun dating, she’d been well on her way to earning her doctoral degree. But in bed one night she’d laughingly told Nick that she was having too much fun with him, and had put her dissertation on hold. Did that mean she hadn't been having fun with any other guy? “Madelyn is fine." Without saying more, she gave him her back and headed out the door. He followed, rattled by the events of the morning. First the car accident. Then discovering Lucy, who had indeed been like mother to him, was gravely ill. And finally, the woman he’d had to struggle every single day not to think about was his new boss. Holy hell, could things get any worse? # Under the conference room table, Madelyn gripped the pen she held and tried to take surreptitious, deep breaths. Her voice was even when she said, “Hi, everyone. Sorry we're late." She nodded to Nick, who'd casually dropped down into an unoccupied seat at the other end of table, as if he was merely some new employee. Her still-pounding heart told her differently. It didn't help that he looked better than ever in his navy sports coat, silk T-shirt, khaki pants; his dark hair fell boyishly over his navy blue eyes. But she'd be damned if she showed any personal reaction to him. “Some of you, of course, know Nick Logan. Those of you who are new, this is Nick. He’s a trained psychotherapist, with an undergrad degree in social work and a Masters in psychology, specializing in teenagers. He worked at the RCVC for six years then left for a while. He’s back now and is heading up our new teen division. It was John’s last formal act as director to hire him.” As she’d said earlier, she certainly wouldn't have recruited him back. She'd loved him like crazy and he'd shrugged her off like an old coat when things got serious. Working with him would be awkward at best, even three years later. “We’ll start today by introducing ourselves. If you already know Nick, give him a friendly wave. The rest of you can fill him in on what you do at the center.” At her left, John waved. “Hey, there. Glad you're back, Nick. It means a lot to me.” "It's good to be here." Nobody would know from his tone of voice, but a little muscle leaped in his jaw telling Madelyn he was anything but happy. "I'm in and out, periodically, and still writing the grants,” John continued. “I guess I couldn’t quit altogether.” “You have a lot invested.” Madelyn gave John an affectionate smile. “I'm thankful you're here in some capacity.” She nodded to the next person around the table. Fran greeted Nick and welcomed him back, as did Abe Carpenter and Deanna Gomez, the counselors for adults. Madelyn knew Abe liked and respected Nick, and Deanna’s admired his intellect and insight into teens. A newcomer followed them. “Hi, Nick. I’m Reid Taylor. I came a few months after you left. I’m social worker, and man the new hotline, and head the education division. I’m sure we’ll be working together on school programs.” On Reid’s left, Connor Worthington absently straightened his tie. Classically handsome with dark blond hair and somewhat cold gray eyes, he introduced himself as the lawyer on board. Nick’s brows raised. “We have full time legal help now?” As usual, Connor said no more, just stared ahead, so Madelyn explained the situation. “Connor works four days a week. The New York State Bar Association voted to give specially selected organizations like ours a grant for legal aid. Connor’s been with us for six months. We also have a pro bono lawyer who helps us out, but she’s a volunteer and doesn't make many staff meetings.” Madelyn nodded to Emma Jones to continue the introductions. “Hello, Nick. I don’t know if you remember me. I started volunteering a few weeks before you left, and am still coordinating all the center’s volunteers. Welcome back.” She gave him a brief rundown on the people at the RCVC who donated their time to do everything from office work, to court accompaniment, to child care when victims went to a myriad of appointments. “Our police rep isn’t able to be here today,” Madelyn finished up with "and neither is Bethany Hunter. Her son is ill. You remember her, of course.” Their part time minister who oversaw all faith based initiatives was also Madelyn's best friend, even though Beth had maintained contact with Nick after he left town. The fact that she wouldn't be around today had worried Madelyn till dawn, when she’d finally given up on sleep, dressed in a plain navy skirt and a light cotton blue sweater and gotten here before seven. Madelyn gestured to Joe, a paramedic on loan from the fire department who worked at the center two days a week and served as their medical representative. He helped the staff interpret medical jargon, diagnoses and medications, decipher insurance forms, and deal with any health care needs of the clients. He also taught one of the courses in self-defense the center offered. “Logan,” Joe said, his manner a bit on edge. “Never expected to see you come back here.” There was a brief, uncomfortable moment of silence. Joe’s tone of voice could not be misinterpreted. Only Madelyn, John and Nick knew why. Nick’s gaze zeroed in on Joe, and a bit of the old street kid Nick used to be peeked out from the sophisticated exterior. “John made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” The chance to head a newly funded teen division. The RCVC was lucky to get the grant to be able to form a whole section for kids instead of incorporating them with adult groups and counselors, as they had in the past. Madelyn jumped in quickly. “I guess that’s it for introductions. Nick, you can meet the people who aren’t here and catch up on what they do at a later date. You and I will have more time to talk after the meeting.” She glanced at her agenda, though she knew it by heart. “I’ve tried to keep this short.” She held up a blue paper. “Schedules are due today by three. Leave them with Fran. If you have any questions, see me. I'll be in my office until 5:45, except for a meeting with the mayor at eleven.” Nick frowned down at the paper, then up at her. “What schedules?” “Since our hours vary according to need, counseling sessions, court visits, etc., on Monday I get a schedule of what everyone will be doing that week.” He waited a beat. “I won’t be able to fill this out.” “Why?” “I don’t meet with the kids until Wednesday. I won’t know their needs until then, which will determine what I do. And I’ll be off site a lot when I go to their schools.” “You’ll have to run all that by me." “Why?” “Because it’s protocol since I took over.” She winced at the edge in her voice. Irritation flared in his face. “I see. Anything else new?” A few snickers. “What?” Fran shook her head. “The reactions are in reference to the luncheon support group we have every Friday.” “For the clients?” “No, for the staff.” “You’re kidding, right?” “No,” John said. “She isn’t. It’s something I wholly endorse. The National Crime Prevention Bureau recommends personal reflection/support groups for all employees who work at centers like this.” Nick ran a hand though his dark hair, disheveling it. “Is participation optional?” “No.” “Any other policies I should know about?” Maddie raised her chin. “Some. But we don’t need to review them as a group, since you’re the only newbie. As I said, I’ll fill you in at the end of the meeting. Today’s agenda includes updates on the grant for a part time counselor for the teen support group, some new reporting forms from the state, and the week long training at New York State Victims Academy in Buffalo this summer. We also need to talk about the plans for National Crime Victims Rights Week coming up in April.” During which John would be honored in Washington, DC with the Award for Professional Innovation in Victim Services. “Want to start with that, Fran, since this year’s so special for us?” Nick held up his hand. "Wait a second. A part time counselor for my group?" "Yes. We don't run any groups of six or over with one counselor anymore." "I work alone." "Not in that. Of course you'll meet individually with each kid by yourself, but policy dictates you'll have someone else in the group with you." Madelyn could tell he wasn't happy, so she tried to be professional. "Nick, this wasn’t a unilateral decision. The whole staff agreed on it if we could afford the money." His jaw clenched, and when he didn't say more, she told Fran to begin. As the secretary handed out a sheet on the National Crime Victims Rights Week, Madelyn glanced at the clock. She kept these meetings to an hour, if possible. Only forty-five minutes to go, then she’d have to deal with Nick’s objections to her policies, her style of management. To her. So be it. She’d done worse. Like climbing out of the morass of poverty all by herself. Like recovering from her own victimization. Like getting over Nick Logan when he dumped her three years ago. She’d handle his return to the center with equal efficiency and success. Even if it killed her. © 2007 Kathryn Shay
Be My Babies Standing outside the Sentinel, Lily Wakefield slid the crumpled yellowed article from her purse and held it up in front of the old brick edifice. The newspaper office looked more or less the same as it had when her mother, Cameron, clipped the picture just before she left Fairview, New York, carrying a suitcase containing practical clothes, serviceable shoes and one hundred dollars. Now, Lily stood before the building in her Prada sandals, DKNY slacks and tailored jacket, with about the same amount of cash in her wallet. The Louis Vuitton bag at her side held a few more outfits, but only as many as she could carry. Someone bumped into her, said, "Excuse me," and kept going. Lily nodded and stayed where she was. About five feet away, the man turned back. "Are you all right?" "What? Oh, yes." Glancing up at the sky, he frowned. "Looks like we're in for one of those April showers." His comment was underscored by a draft of wind that lifted and swirled her dark chin-length hair around her face. He pointed to the office. "There's a pot of coffee in there and some homemade cookies that Mrs. Billings made. Want to come in?" "Um, yes, I guess I do. Thanks." Bending down, he picked up her suitcase before she could take hold of it and walked alongside her toward the front doors. It's a beautiful place. It used to be an old home, and then it was converted into the newspaper offices. In the front reception and waiting area, there's a fireplace, a comfortable couch and chairs, and a worn desk like the kind you'd see in reruns of the old TV show, Superman. I used to love to go there after school and wait for Daddy to be done with work. What Lily's mother hadn't told her, and what she only figured out years later, was that Cameron would have done anything to delay going home to her own mother. Once they were inside, the man motioned to the couch. "Please, sit down." When she'd seated herself, he added, "I'm Simon McCarthy." "Lily Wakefield." "Nice to meet you." Again, he smiled. His hazel eyes did, too. "Would you like some coffee?" "I—I can't have that." "Oh." When Lily said no more, he asked, "How about tea?" "Decaffeinated would be okay. Lovely, really, but don't fuss." "No problem." He went into the back room, and while he was gone Lily studied her surroundings. The windows let in the afternoon breeze, along with the chirping of the birds in the leafy maple trees outside. Engraved plaques hung on the wall before her, citing the Sentinel and its editor for various good works. Pictures were interspersed with the awards describing the accomplishments of the paper and its reporters. A few minutes later, Simon returned with a steaming mug. Lily took the cup and sniffed. Mmm. Cinnamon. "Thank you so much." It had been a long time since a man had waited on her. When she said nothing more, he sat down on a chair opposite her. "Is there a reason you were out there just staring at the building?" He nodded to the suitcase. "With that?" Her stomach churned. She prayed she wouldn't get sick all over this total stranger. "Yes." She glanced up at one of the pictures she'd noticed earlier. Its headline read, Gardner Garners The Gold—Best Of Small-town Newspapers. From other photos she'd seen, she recognized the man. "I'm looking for him, Gil Gardner." Simon tracked her gaze. "I'm not quite sure where he is today." "Is he out on a story?" "No, he doesn't cover the news anymore." Sandy eyebrows were raised. They matched his short, dark blond hair, which had a bit of curl. "He's at the office sometimes, but he doesn't do much reporting." "Doesn't he own the paper?" "Yeah, he's still the owner. But I run the place. I'm editor in chief." He chuckled self-effacingly. "And a lot of other things. Our staff is small and the tasks are many." Because she still wasn't ready to explain herself to him, she dodged his question about why she was here and said only, "I'm sure newspaper work is taxing." His gaze narrowed on her. "Do you know Gil?" "I've never met him, no." Her hands began to tremble. Steaming tea sloshed over onto her fingers. "Here." He handed her a handkerchief pulled from his pocket. "Thanks." "Why are you shaking?" "I'm fine. Listen, could you call my…call Gil? I need to see him." "I guess I could." She noticed he had Gil's number on speed dial. Who would be in Lily's top five these days? A paltry few. But it was her own fault for letting her life unfold as it had. And now when she needed help, she was going to have to turn to strangers. The thought scared her to death. Simon was frowning as he spoke into the phone. "Yeah, Gil, it's me, Simon. I need you to come to the office as soon as you get this message. I'll explain why then." He clicked off. "Thank you, Mr. McCarthy." "A lot of cloak-and-dagger," he said easily. "I suppose. But I have my reasons." "What are they?" "I'd rather not say." Lily was a private person by nature, and she was particularly embarrassed by her present circumstances. And though he seemed nice enough, who knew what this man's relationship was with Gil? The bell over the door sounded and Simon and Lily looked toward it. A teenager stepped inside. "Dad?" Even if the girl hadn't uttered the word, Lily would have known immediately that she was Simon's daughter. Same tawny hair, although hers hung almost to her waist. Same hazel eyes. Nose, a feminine version of his. She had an aura about her, too, making Lily want to sketch her. "Hi, honey." He introduced her to Lily. "Grandpa Gil's coming in behind me. Katie and I were walking home and he picked us up. It's starting to drizzle." The cup jerked and tea sloshed again. "Grandpa?" Lily asked. Jenna smiled. "Not my real grandpa, but he's like one." Lily got the drift. In other words, Gil had found a replacement. Well, why not? So had Derek. Again, the door opened, and in walked a tall, lanky man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes just like Lily's mother's. And her own. Lily felt her heart thump in her chest at finally seeing Gil in person. "Hi, everyone." He focused on Lily. "Who's our gu—" Before he could finish his statement, Gil's complexion paled and he grabbed on to the high table just inside the door. Jumping up from his chair, Simon rushed over to him. "Gil, is it your heart again?" "Grandpa?" Jenna sounded afraid, too. Gil's mouth was slack-jawed as he stared at Lily. Finally, he said, "Not like you mean." "What, Gil?" "It's my heart, but not like you mean." Letting go of Simon, he crossed the room. "Who are you? You look just like my daughter, Cameron." "I know I do. I'm her daughter, Lily." Simon watched in awe—and with a little bit of horror— as tears filled Gil's eyes. In the almost thirty years he'd known the man, he'd never once seen him cry. "Gil, are you all right?" "Grandpa?" Jenna's tone was even more worried. "You're Cami's girl?" Lily stood. She couldn't tear her gaze from him, either. "Yes, I am. I'm sorry to spring myself on you unannounced." His face was still ashen. "I know… I know Cami died. We found out through a lawyer. But…she had a daughter? The only thing she ever wrote to us was that she hadn't gone through with her pregnancy." Now, Lily Wakefield's face paled and she reseated herself. "That's new information to me." She bit her lip. "I realize this is a shock, Mr. Gardner." After a moment, Gil, also, took a chair. Simon followed suit, while Jenna sat on the opposite end of the couch from Lily. "I—I didn't know," Gil repeated. Lily glanced nervously at Simon. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk privately?" "What? Oh, no need for that. Simon and Jenna are like family. I want them to hear what you have to say." Frown lines around the woman's mouth told Simon that she wasn't pleased by Gil's answer. Who cared? No way was he leaving Gil alone with this stranger who claimed to be his granddaughter. She could be anybody. Sighing, she drew a sheaf of papers from her purse. "I have documentation to verify who I am." When Gil didn't take what she offered, but just stared at her, Simon snatched the papers from her hand. Birth certificate for Liliana Clarkson. Mother, Cameron Gardner Clarkson. Father unknown. There were also pictures. Photocopied drivers'licenses, social security cards for Lily and her mother, a passport. And a picture of a young girl with Gil in his youth. "They seem in order." Simon would have his sister, Sara, a lawyer in town, check them out, though. Documents could be forged and stories made up. He'd arrange a background check on this woman, at least. "Do you have any idea what a gift you've brought me?" Gil finally asked her. "Have I?" Lily's gaze hardened almost imperceptively. "You didn't stay in touch with your own daughter." Jenna gasped, and Gil's face reddened. "It sounds horrible. It is horrible." Simon sat forward. "Gil, you know what happened with Cameron wasn't all your fault." "It was all my fault. No one will ever convince me otherwise." Simon was not only wary now, but anger bubbled inside him. If what this woman said was true, she'd surely resent what had happened to her mother, and rightfully so. But given that, her motive for coming to Fairview couldn't be good. Who could possibly forgive that kind of abandonment? "Is this why you came here—to make accusations at Gil? To hurt him with them?" Lily focused on her grandfather. "I don't want to hurt you. That's not why I'm here." "Why, then?" Simon knew his tone was too harsh, but he worried about Gil—especially after his heart attack a few years ago. He'd protect Gil from Lily Wakefield, even if Gil wouldn't protect himself. "Dad?" "Simon…" Gil admonished. But Lily held up her hand. "I'll answer his question." She looked around. "But privately. I don't feel comfortable baring my soul in front of strangers." Gil stood. "Then come with me. My house isn't far." To Simon he said, "I'll call you later." Simon watched them go out the door. He had a feeling this wasn't going to be good, and he hated it when he couldn't keep the people he loved safe. © 2008 Kathryn Shay ||TOP||
Taking the Heat Chapter 1 Patrick smiled. He was the oldest brother and manager of the business. “Yeah. Word of mouth, I guess. Can’t believe our luck.” “Too bad about Sweeney’s, though.” Dylan, the second oldest, looked up from washing glasses at a nearby sink. “Their loss is our gain.” Pat shrugged. “At least old Sweeney’s retiring, not goin’ out of business.” Liam yawned. “You look whipped.” Pat cocked his head at him. “This too much for you? All of them coming in here since Sweeney’s closed?” “Nah. I handled this many at the diner and got up even earlier.” Liam had had part time job in SoHo which he was able to quit when their other brother left the pub to pursue a career in photography. “I’m glad to be here full time. I miss Aidan, though.” “Not me.” Paddy’s voice was gruff as he stared down at the list he was making. “His shit-eatin’ grin since him and C.J. hooked up drives me nuts.” Liam knew the origin of that comment. He’d talked to Pat’s wife Brie last night. She and Paddy had another row. “Pat, I-“ “Hey, Paddy?” This from a burly firefighter across the room. His voice was gravelly, probably from inhaling smoke. “Where’s the chow?” “Where’s the fire?” Pat shouted back. They all laughed, punchy from the night shift. Mikey, Liam’s son, had a thing for firefighters, and from time to time, the two of them stopped by the firehouse down the street. Liam had also researched the profession on the Internet. He didn’t know how they lived with such a whacky schedule, let alone the risky job they performed. And then, of course, 9/11 happened, changing all of them. The door opened and the sounds of a busy MacDougal Street filtered in. Cabs hustled people to work and pedestrians were already flocking to their employment. Another firefighter walked into the pub. Wearing jeans and an FDNY sweatshirt, she filled hers out better than the others. Dylan murmured, “Ah, there she is.” “Who’s she?” Liam asked. “I’ve never seen her before.” “Sophie Tyler. She works at Company 14.” Pat was admiring the view, too. “Dylan thinks she’s hot. I like her. She’s real friendly.” From across the room, Sophie smiled at them. “Hey, Pat. Dylan.” Then she nodded to Liam. “Hi.” “Come over here, darlin’,” Dylan called out, “and meet another O’Neil brother.” Her smile broadened as she walked toward them. “How many of you are there?” “Four. This one’s Liam, the middle child.” Her gray eyes wide and warm, she held out her hand. “Hi, Liam. I’m Sophie.” Liam stood. Her grip was firm when they shook, and her palm callused. He noticed her other hand was bandaged. “Nice to meet you.” “Hey, Sophie baby, get your ass over here.” She rolled her eyes. “They get worse, the more tired they are. We caught two fires last night.” “Time for bed, I’d say.” Dylan’s tone was flirty. Liam envied Dylan’s easy charm. It had never mattered to him before his wife Kitty died three years ago, but lately Liam wished he’d inherited some. Laughing off Dylan’s innuendo, Sophie said to Liam, “Nice to meet you,” and headed over to the tables where her friends had gathered. All three men watched her walk away. Dylan shook his head. “Man, I’ll bet she’s a fiery one.” Pat grunted. “Her hair’s not red enough for you, boy.” “Strawberry blond,” Liam murmured. From the corner of his eye, he saw his two older brothers exchange looks. “See something you like, bro?” Dylan asked. In the O’Neil family, you had to give as good as you got or you were dead meat. Dropping back down on the stool, Liam picked up his mug. “What and risk life and limb? Seems to me you’ve already staked your claim.” Dylan’s brows raised. “You can have her if you want her.” “That’s nice of you.” Liam’s tone was wry. “But I’d guess she’d have something to say about that.” Bracing his arms on the bar, Paddy leaned toward him. “You said you were gonna start datin’ again.” “I have.” He sipped his coffee, stalling for time. “I went out twice in two weeks. The women were nice, but they didn’t do anything for me.” Dylan crossed his arms over his chest. “Because they were Kitty clones. You need diversity.” “I so do not want to have this conversation.” He pushed away from the bar, stood and headed to the kitchen. “I gotta get their food.” “Coward,” Dylan called out. “Back off,” he heard Pat say. “He needs a push.” “Not a kick in the pants.” “Says who…” Their voices cut off as the kitchen door closed behind Liam. He took comfort in the familiar banter between his brothers and the smell of food he’d put in the oven an hour earlier. Checking the egg strata, he saw it was done, pulled out the pans and set them on the butcher block. As the food cooled a bit, he began to slice the homemade bread his Ma had made before she and Pa left to visit her relatives in upstate New York. When the firefighters in the surrounding houses were looking for a place to have breakfast after Sweeny’s closed, they’d told Pat they enjoyed a variety of foods. That’s how Liam’s List had begun. Every day he’d fix them a different meal from a list he’d posted. They checked it when they were in and made suggestions from the menu. Though different groups from different houses came in all week, the method was working. It was fun, and he felt a part of things. Fun was something missing from his life since Kitty died and his son Mikey went into an emotional tailspin. Don’t think about that now, he told himself. He’d worry about the kid 24/7 if he let his mind go there. The therapist he’d been seeing told him that was self-destructive. Instead, he thought about the firefighters. The girl one was pretty in a tough sort of way. Focusing on them, he managed to block Mikey from his mind. # “What’s the hold up? I’m starved.” John Cooper was glowering at the kitchen door. Big and brawny, with a shaved head, he scared probies with that expression alone. “Gourmet breakfasts take a while.” Company 14’s captain, Jim Mackenzie, checked his pager then sipped his coffee. His red hair, moustache and friendly blue eyes belied a good officer who could kick ass and still maintain camaraderie. “We could just have bacon and eggs,” Cooper grumbled, wrapping his beefy hand around a mug of coffee. “Where’s the fun in that?” Hannah Harper was Sophie’s ex-roommate as of last month when she married another smoke eater from Company 6 where they both worked. “The variety of food’s great.” Her dark eyes danced. “And the scenery around here isn’t bad.” “You checking those Irish dudes out again, Harper?” Bagatelle, one of her crew, asked. “Wait till Dominic finds out.” “Dominic knows I’m crazy about him.” Hannah’s expression was suggestive. “I take care of him just fine.” Bagatelle snorted. “You’re just jealous ‘cuz no broad will even look at you, Bags.” “As if! The ladies flock to me, sweetheart.” Enjoying the back-and-forth, Sophie glanced over at the O’Neils. “Man, they are real eye candy.” “You get a glimpse of the other one yet? Aidan?” Hannah asked. “No.” She’d heard about him, though, because of the gentle notoriety of this place. The O’Neil sister, whom the pub took its name from, was the now the wife of Vice President Clay Wainwright. Their story had been in the news three or four years back. “One’s cuter than the next,” Hannah added. Sophie thought about the brother she just met. “Liam seems nice. But sad.” And she liked his looks. Deep blue eyes, like the rest of them, and dark hair. But his was cut shorter with a bit of curl. “He’s stopped by our firehouse a couple of times with his kid,” Sean Murray put in. The rig’s driver, he was a wiry little guy, with a wry sense of humor. His demeanor was more mellow than most, unless you messed with him. “You musta missed him, Soph. The Cap calls him The Quiet Man.” At Torres’ questioning expression, Bilotti, the other officer on their group, snorted. “Don’t you know nothin’ about old movies, probie?” “John Wayne, 1956.” This from Mackenzie. “The story was better.” Their captain was a reader not a TV freak and it wasn’t uncommon to see him around the firehouse with a book. “Story?” the probie asked. “The Quiet Man from the Saturday Evening Post. They made the film from it.” “Ah, finally,” Cooper groused. Since he’d quit smoking six months ago, and quit drinking even before that, Cooper ate a ton and had gained some weight. Sophie glanced up to see Liam coming out of the kitchen carrying a huge tray. As he got closer, the smell of freshly baked bread and eggs and cheese filled the air. Her stomach growled. “Oh, my God.” Hannah’s stomach rumbled too. “I think I’m going to have an orgasm.” “Shh,” Sophie told her friend who seemed never able to censor herself. “You’ll embarrass him.” Muscles bulging with the weight, Liam set down the tray, removed the two rectangular pans and put them at either ends of the table. When he set toast down near Sophie, his aftershave filled her head. “There you go. Hope you like it.” Her coworkers dug in. “Looks great…” “Umm…” “Gimme some…” Liam smiled. It was a nice smile. Genuine, like he took pleasure in small things. “Need anything else? More coffee?” “We can get it.” She nodded to an urn across the way that the O’Neils had set up for them, free of charge. “Let me. After what you all did on 9/11, we can’t do enough for you.” When Liam went to fill a pitcher, there was a strained silence at the table. The anniversary of the Twin Towers bombing had just passed, and they were still feeling the effects. Their house had lost five guys-the captain’s best buddy included; Cooper’s cousin had died which had sent him on a drinking binge which lasted three years. And Bilotti himself had been trapped in a stairwell but was dragged to safety by another smoke eater. All of them, including Sophie who’d been out of the country at the time of the attacks, had worked for months at the Pile. Looking for bodies was the most gut-wrenching experience she’d ever had. Liam returned and began to fill mugs. When he picked up Sophie’s, he nodded to her hand. “What happened?” “A few embers got inside my gloves.” “Hurts like hell,” Bilotti said around a mouthful, “but she’s had worse.” His tone was affectionate, though gruff. Liam grimaced and finished pouring them coffee. “If you need anything else, let me know.” The guys were appreciative. “Thanks, buddy…” “Nice of you, man.” “My kid’s school is coming for a field trip at Company 14 next week.” Mackenzie nodded. “The school’s getting out group. We’ll look out for him.” “Thanks.” After Liam left, and they’d satisfied some of their hunger, Hannah leaned back and patted her belly. “I’m stuffed. That guy can cook.” The razzing began… “Yeah, unlike you, Harper.” “Poor Dom.” “Dominic is satisfied all the time, guys, now that we’ve living together.” The captain tilted his chin at Sophie. “Speaking of which, any luck finding a new roommate, Soph?” “No. I wish I didn’t have to.” On her third helping of the cheesy strata, she spoke between bites. “I been thinking about getting a part time job.” “Why don’t you work here?” Hannah suggested. “Here?” “Yeah.” She pointed to the window. A double sided sign read Waitress/bartender wanted. Flexible hours. “You got any kitchen experience?” Murray winked at the Cap. “I mean besides what women are born with.” All the guys at the table laughed. Cooper frowned at Torres. “Who said you could laugh, probie?” Julian rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. He’d only been with them a few months and was still in the initiation stage. Yesterday, the guys had rigged a bucket full of water and flour to fall on him when he went outside for a smoke. Sophie drew their attention from the kid. “Up yours, Murray. I cook for you morons when it’s my turn and clean up after. That’s plenty of experience.” She stared at the sign. “Besides, I tended some bar when I got out of high school.” “No shit?” Hannah sighed. “I’d work here just to be around them.” “Maybe. If I could earn $250 a week, I could swing the apartment alone.” She glanced across the room and saw Liam taken a seat at the bar again. His back was broad in the green pub T-shirt he wore, but his shoulders slumped a bit. She studied him and his brothers, watched them joke around, and suddenly missed her own brother Nate a lot; he was career soldier in Iraq. She was going to email him tonight. “Soph? Something wrong?” the Cap asked. “Nah, just that seeing the O’Neils make me think about Nate. I miss him.” Talk of family began. Then, as always, they got to the runs they’d had last night and the two different companies exchanged war stories. Sophie was glad to get the focus off her. She glanced at the sign again. She’d never had to take a part time job like a lot of firefighters. She’d been one for twelve years, made enough money, and lived frugally. But maybe she’d pick one up now. It might be fun working here. Hannah was right. The scenery was great. # Dropping to her knees, Sophie crawled down the hallway behind Bilotti at a snail’s pace. Pitch black smoke blinded her and her crew, and her heart began to pound. Though she wore the regulation face mask, her throat felt gritty. On their way over to Vestry Street, they’d gotten the information on this call: seventh floor apartment, four rooms, bedrooms in back. Occupants: mother, two kids. Her crew’s job was to get the family out; Engine 33, the pumper in their house, was slapping water on the fire and her truck, Ladder 44, was conducting search and rescue. From the radio on her shoulder Sophie heard the captain’s voice. “Bilotti and Tyler, first bedroom. Cooper and Murray second. Probie stays with me.” Finally reaching the bed, she bounced it with her hands. Heavy. Occupied. “Got somebody.” No response. “Bilotti?” Nothing. Suddenly the smoke cleared. And Sophie was on the bed, dressed in a thin white nightgown. Nate was screaming from across the room. Help us, she wanted to yell, but no words came out. A silhouette appeared before her looking like Darth Vader and she cowered back against the wall. There were flames behind the thing. On either side of her now. Licking her bare toes. “No….” “Soph, wake up.” “No, no, no.” “Sophie baby, wake up.” Her eyes snapped open. A man sat on her bed and she whimpered. “It’s me, Mackenzie. You’re in the firehouse. You’re not little anymore. You’re not trapped.” She could feel the sweat covering her body. Smell the faint odor of the spaghetti sauce she’d made for dinner. “Yeah, yeah.” She swallowed hard. Reaching over, Mackenzie picked up something from the table and handed it to her. Bottled water. She drained it. Her eyes adjusted and in the light from a street lamp outside, she could make out the lumps of her group sleeping in the bunkroom and the cap on the side of the bed. “She okay?” Bilotti mumbled from the next cot. “Soph?” This from Cooper. “Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry, guys.” She took in deep breaths. Shook her head and rolled her shoulders to loosen them. Mackenzie stood. “Go back to sleep.” “What time is it?” “I’ll just get up.” “Too early.” “I’m okay.” “I know. Thanks.” She didn’t want his sympathy. Or his pity. When he shuffled back to his bed, she slid out of hers, donned her sweat suit over the shorts and t-shirt she slept in, and headed out of the second floor bunk room. The soft sound of snoring followed her downstairs. In the big kitchen, she crossed to the coffee maker, flipped the switch and went to the window to watch lower Manhattan wake up. Damn it, why had she had the dream tonight? It always made her feel weak, something a female in the FDNY couldn’t afford and all of them went to lengths to avoid. And why was the dream so real? She was ten again, on that bed, suffocating from smoke, while her brother screamed for help. If she concentrated hard, she could still hear Tom Carusotti say, “What’s your name, honey?” Somehow she got it out. “Okay, Sophie baby, we’re blowin’ this pop stand. Just hold on tight to me.” The coffee stopped dripping and she Sophie poured herself some. On edge, she leaned against the counter, sipping. She should do something. Maybe fix the guys breakfast. Better not, they’d revolt if they were deprived of their new favorite cook’s morning meal. She thought of the sadness on Liam O’Neil’s face and wondered what monkey was on his back. Everyone had one, it seemed, and she didn’t feel sorry for herself for hers. Except when it deprived her of sleep like now. She hoped the cook slept better than she did tonight. # “You didn’t sleep last night?” Liam shifted uncomfortably in the stuffed chair. God, he hated coming here. “I fell asleep but woke up at four. I forget, is that anxiety or depression?” His therapist, Jay Yost, smiled. “The theory is anxiety keeps you from falling asleep, and depression wakes you up prematurely.” “Based on that, I shouldn’t be getting any rest.” Waiting a beat, Jay finally asked, “How’s Mike?” “As is his father.” “Hell no. Don’t assume responsibility for that too.” Blowing out an exasperated breath, Liam clenched and unclenched his fist. “I’m trying to be objective. But watching your child slip deeper into himself is hard.” They discussed Mikey for ten minutes, then Jay glanced at the clock. “Time’s up for the kid discussion. Tell me about you. What’s happening?” He told Jay about the breakfasts with America’s Bravest that had gone on for two weeks now. Several different companies were coming in-the same guys weren’t there everyday, of course-- giving the pub a steady stream every morning. “Pat’s in seventh heaven and I feel like I’m earning my full time salary.” “You’re part owner of the place, Liam.” “I know. Still, I wanna carry my own weight.” “Any women in the picture?” “Not since the excruciating date with Eve Larkin.” He scowled. “What?” “Dylan says I’m dating Kitty clones.” Jay chuckled. “You guys don’t pull any punches with each other, do you?” “Nah, never have. Down deep, I’m glad.” “Is what he said true?” “Maybe. I only meet women through events with the boys. Eve’s the mother of one of the kids in my Cub Scout Troop.” “Should you start doing some things outside of that box?” “Like what?” “I don’t know. A hobby. Join a gym.” He glanced at his biceps. “I wouldn’t mind joining a gym. I hate the idea of picking up women, though.” “You work in a bar. Any regulars you could get to know?” “I guess I could look around. Truth is I want to. I’m…lonely.” “For female companionship.” He laughed. “That too.” They’d talked about sex in the few times Liam had seen Jay. He felt comfortable enough with the guy to share the fact that celibacy really sucked. “That’s two ideas today-a gym and scoping out the pub.” Restless, Liam ran a hand through his hair. “I hate this.” “I know you do.” “I never thought I’d be here, at nearly forty-two, looking to date. I thought I’d grow old with Kitty.” “The fact that you met her in junior high and never dated anyone else also complicates things.” “I know.” He thumped a fisted hand on the arm of his chair. “Shit.” “That’s good.” “What is?” “Anger. You don’t show much of it.” “It builds up inside sometimes until I feel like I’m gonna bust open.” “Then let it out. Your brothers would probably go a few rounds with you.” Liam laughed. That, of course, was true. He was feeling better when he left the session. Outside, across from Jay’s office, Washington Square Park was busy with late lunchers, nannies with strollers and the ubiquitous tourists. On a whim, and because it was a beautiful September day with the sun shining, he took the subway to 13th Street and arrived at Mikey’s school as they were letting out. From near a tree, he watched his somber-faced son walk out of St. Mary’s Elementary. A little redheaded girl caught up to him. She said something, but Mike only shook his head and averted his gaze. She shrugged and walked away. He got to the curb before he saw Liam. “Dad?” His eyes widened. “Did something happen?” “Nothing bad. I had some time so I thought I’d pick you up and we’d go get ice cream.” “’kay.” Smiling, Liam nodded in the direction of the little girl, who was watching them. “Want to bring your friend? We could call her mother.” Mikey shook his head vehemently. “All right, just you and me.” His son closed the distance between them and took his hand. Liam’s throat got tight as he watched the other kids, whose lives hadn’t been torn apart by tragedy and loss, playfully wait for rides or the bus, toss a ball to each other, hang out in groups. Again, anger welled inside him. For his kid. And for himself. For Christ sakes, all he wanted was a normal life. Was that too much to ask?
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