Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
CATALINA
I’ve never been so proud—or so terrified—in my life. Ambrose’s face fills the late-night news: blackened with smoke, carrying that trucker to safety and many others, too. The town sees a hero. But I see the man who could so easily be taken from me.
As I enter Gran’s house after work, juggling another bouquet to add to the flower-crowded kitchen counter, it feels more like a funeral parlor. A chill crawls up my spine.
What if every bouquet, every promise, is just a rehearsal for grief? What if one day, all I have left of Ambrose are bouquets—memorials instead of promises?
“Mon dieu! The fireman with the bottomless wallet strikes again,” Gran exclaims, shaking her head. “He’s going to singlehandedly keep the town florist in business.”
I try to roll my eyes like it’s no big deal. But the truth sits heavy in my chest. He isn’t just some cowboy bachelor who made me swoon. He’s a man ready to run into danger every single shift, and if I let myself fall too hard, one alarm bell could take him away forever.
I distract myself by shuffling through a stack of newspapers by the flowers. One headline makes my stomach drop:
“Hollywood Hero or Hometown Heartbreaker?”
Right beneath it, I spy a glossy shot of Ambrose, Stetson tipped low against the cameras. The caption references his surprise move to Hollister, the “mystery woman” on his arm, and, of course, a snide comment dredging up his past Hollywood relationship with Sheila.
The article obsesses over who he might be dating. I only care if he comes home after his next call. They worry about scandal. I worry about survival.
I fold the paper sharply and shove it in the recycling bin, as if crumpling the words will erase the fear gnawing inside.
“This counter is a cluttered mess,” I observe bitterly.
“Don’t focus on the mess, Cat. Look at the flowers. How could you possibly doubt his affection?” Gran questions with a sweeping hand gesture.
“It’s not that,” I whisper, breathless. “It’s that I doubt my ability to survive if I let myself go deeper with him, and then something happens to him.”
“Oh, mon couchon,” Gran says, rising unsteadily from her chair and pausing to gain her balance before walking towards me. She wraps me in her arms, and I inhale sharply, fighting tears.
Looking up at me and wiping my moist cheeks, she croons, “Love is more powerful than fear.”
Love. The word hangs between us … ripe with promise, more terrifying than any blaze Ambrose might charge into.
“Grandpa worked a dangerous job, too.”
I nod. He was a roofer.
“And he had a few close calls over the years that sent shivers down my spine.”
“How did you deal with knowing he might never come home?”
“By loving him all the more fiercely when he did return. And he always did, Cat.”
“You make it sound easy …”
“It was anything but. Nonetheless, you must have more faith in that young man. He’s skilled at what he does. He saved many lives last night. And he came out in one piece. Trust him to do it again.”
I nod, biting my bottom lip.
“Oh, I wish Ferdinand could be here to meet your suitor,” Gran says, frowning. “Will it always hurt this much without him?”
I remove my glasses, vision blurred, swiping at my face and resigning myself to a truth I’ve run from until now. “Yes, it will always hurt this much, though time will help us better bear the pain.”
“You know, the Rough & Ready Harvest Festival was the last event we attended together.”
“We don’t have to go to the opening, if you’re not feeling up to it,” I offer. Heck, I’m not certain I am either.
Gran shakes her head, determination etched in her face. “Ferdinand wouldn’t want us to sit home alone.”
The smell of roasted corn, sticky caramel apples, Grandpa’s booming laugh echoing through the pumpkin patch …
the month-long event, Thursdays through Saturdays, each weekend in October, is stitched into the fabric of my childhood.
This year, though, the laughter will feel thinner.
Like the patch is missing one of its roots.
I can’t remember a year I haven’t attended this event with my grandparents, often on multiple weekends. Bobbing for apples, enjoying hayrides, carving pumpkins, participating in the petting zoo, and shopping at the booths bursting with crafts and farm goods.
“We should go, Cat. Even if it’s only for a little bit.”
I hesitate. But then, it hits me. If Gran can rally to the occasion, so can I. “Alright, I’ll jump in the shower, and then we’ll head over. Oh, shoot! What about dinner?”
“We can eat there,” Gran suggests.
Fudge, apple strudel, pumpkin pie, funnel cakes … all sugar and nostalgia.
“Are you sure you can wait that long?”
“I’m fine. Tilly made a big lunch.”
An hour later, Gran and I park in the makeshift lot in front of Sprucewood Farms, delighting in the pumpkin-lined pathway leading to the vendors sprawled on the lawn. I hold her upper arm gently to ensure she doesn’t stumble.
Gran is light enough to blow away in the wind. I begged her to bring her walker. But she refused, horrified by the thought of people seeing her that way.
As we walk down the main line of vendors, off in the distance, I see the scarlet ladder engine and firemen lined up in their uniforms. They man a booth piled with fire management pamphlets and souvenirs that kids can win playing carnival-style games.
But what really catches my attention is the line of women snaking around the booth-filled pasture to get Ambrose’s autograph.
“There’s your gentleman caller,” Gran exclaims. His navy blue uniform fits to a tee, snazzy and disciplined, from its silver buttons to the shiny belt buckle. Talk about a main attraction.
Ambrose patiently speaks to each woman, taking selfies with them and signing TV show memorabilia.
“We should go talk to him,” Gran orders.
“No way. We’ll be stuck in line for an hour,” I mutter, only to catch his gaze as he glances up. It sears into me, his mouth shaping a shy “Hello” as he rakes his fingers through his thick hair.
“Do you see the way he looks at you, Cat? Like you’re the only woman who exists?”
“No, what I see is the way women fawn all over him. It’s ridiculous.” Will he have to deal with this all month? Part of me wants to march over and claim him, remind those women he’s not their fantasy but my reality … if only I had the guts.
Instead, I hang back, invisible. Always invisible. Except to him.
I frown as fans near the front of the line fight for his attention, until he rips his eyes away, returning to signing posters and shirts, and looking miserable.
After the events of yesterday, my concerns about Ambrose’s fame seem tiny, minuscule. Barely worth my attention in the larger grasp of his mortality and highly dangerous line of work.
Ambrose’s gaze finds me again, and a goofy grin captures his kissable lips. My heart melts, and yet I hold back. Still bracing. Still shielding. Still trying to protect the heart that may already be lost.
He motions us over. But the last thing I want is to get caught up in the celebrity hubbub. So, I shake my head, mouthing, “We’ll come back.”
Disappointed, he nods. I have to pull myself together before we talk again. Sort out this tug-of-war going on in my heart. But even before that, I need to find Gran decent food to eat and then a seat where she can hang out with her friends.
“Oh, look, Cat, they have a dance floor,” Gran points out as we head for a line of food vendors. “You and Ambrose should dance later.”
“Ever the matchmaker.” I sigh, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate her suggestion. But dancing with him, melting into his arms, would feel like slipping straight into everything I want … and the inevitability of loss.
Gran taps her chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Barbecue ribs, chili … or maybe I should go straight for a turkey leg. Nothing says romance like watching your date gnaw on a drumstick.”
I snort, nearly choking on air. “Gran!”
Her laughter twinkles, light and mischievous. For a moment, the weight on my chest eases.
“No, I have a better idea. Let’s skip straight to dessert tonight. Ferdinand would approve.”
I chuckle sadly. “Yes, Grandpa would … That narrows our choices down to fudge, ice cream, pies, funnel cakes, cotton candy, caramel apples, popcorn balls—”
“Funnel cakes sound amazing.”
“Agreed.” I lead her toward the line, craning my neck in search of nearby seating. I don’t want her standing too long.
“He’s still watching you,” Gran observes with a wicked grin.
When I turn towards the fire department booth, Ambrose’s intense gaze slams into me, and he winks. It’s a delicious and wholly unprecedented feeling to watch so many gorgeous women vying for that man’s attention, and, as Gran says, he really only sees me. Oh, why does he have to make this so hard?
I smooth my hair primly, pushing my glasses back up my nose, and his eyes darken. He looks ravenous. Shivers of desire tickle up and down my spine, settling at the top of my legs.
“I wish I were a better dancer,” I confess, turning away to look at Gran. “Not that he’s asked me or anything. But if he does …” The corners of my mouth drop.
“You always danced beautifully with Grandpa,” Gran counters.
“Yes, but he was a fantastic lead. He made it easy.”
“That’s what the right man does.”
“You keep saying that,” I scold. “The right man. But the right man doesn’t run into burning buildings every other night. Right doesn’t leave you wondering if today is the day he doesn’t come back—”
Panic hits like a rogue wave.
Gran’s face goes pale, the blush on her cheeks vanishing.
I reach out to grab her arm as she crumples, only getting a hold of her shirt.
My knees nearly buckle as her blouse sleeve slips through my fingers.
Time folds in on itself—the Harvest Festival, Grandpa’s still chest, all of it crashing back in one horrifying instant.