Chapter 9 Ellis
CHAPTER NINE
ELLIS
I woke up with a hollow, post-adrenaline tired that occupied my joints. My phone was already blinking at me like it had news.
Beau’s group thread lit up.
Beau: Good morning to everyone who did NOT set Riverfield on flambé. I need a tidy five at 10:15: what caught, who cleared out. Keep it church quiet and lawyer-safe.
Directly under it, Beck’s morning line made the rounds.
Beck: Lantern Room reopens tonight; give credit to the Fire Marshal; zero injuries.
I lay there a beat, listening to the room, and the clip found me anyway: my own face in someone’s story, counting heads. My voice was steady. Comments flipped between #TeamBrew and #TeamSignal, but the word that showed up most was calm.
The attention online might’ve been flattering if my mind weren’t stuck on the one moment nobody caught on camera—his palm flat to my chest, that quiet “Eyes up, out we go,” and a ceiling tile slamming into the space where my body had just been.
Cade Briggs had moved me like it was muscle memory. Not dramatic, not hesitant. Just… sure.
And my body had added that to the short list of things it wanted more of.
I showered, dressed, and took the stairs two at a time to Main Street. Peachtree Commons had fully reset—hoses coiled, and a bronze peach polished and innocent.
My phone buzzed. The group thread pinged again.
Beau: If you can make it boring enough for legal and pretty enough for the thumbnail, you win.
I rolled my eyes, grinning.
Respectable sparkle, my specialty.
Cast Iron had a line, as usual.
“Crew order for Signal House,” I told the counter, and Miss Pearl slid the usual sack of biscuits toward me with a coffee carrier perched on top.
She tucked a tiny kit that she’d obviously made herself onto the receipt clip.
A lozenge, a single use burn gel, and a Post-it that read breathe in her neat handwriting.
She gave me a once-over that felt like an inspection.
“For the voice that did the counting,” she said softly. “Fire trucks get the applause, sugar. But that calm voice on the speakers? That’s what keeps people from climbing over each other.”
“My voice just…” I said, and immediately heard myself trying to dodge a compliment, “followed the numbers.”
“Mmm.” She didn’t let me dodge it. “Tell them the boring parts worked, Ellis. Doors opened and people listened. That’s the story that lets folks sleep at night.”
Behind her, a bell chimed, and a teen ordered three biscuits. Miss Pearl slid his tray down without looking then returned her eyes to me.
“My first week on midnight dispatch, I learned something,” she added, eyes back on me. “People don’t need drama, they need directions.”
“I can give directions,” I said.
I want directions, too, my chest said.
Unhelpful.
She tipped her chin toward my buzzing phone. “Then give them. Thirty seconds, three facts. And no adjectives! Save your adjectives for lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She’d practically already written the segment for me.
She slid the carrier closer to me and, instead of walking off like she usually did, rested her palm on the counter as if she’d decided I needed one more thing that wasn’t on her menu.
“My Curtis hated adjectives,” she said. “Café man by day, husband by night. Grease under his nails and a crossword puzzle in his pocket. When the AC died at the church potluck and everybody started carrying on about ‘sweltering misery’ and ‘melting into the linoleum,’ my Curtis said, ‘Two steps—open the windows and pass the sweet tea.’ Nobody fainted, the food stayed edible, and the drama went out the door.”
“I like him already,” I said.
“You would’ve.” Her voice thinned with a smile. “He had this way in crowds. His hand at the small of my back. Not steering, just reminding me where we were. Never once told me to calm down. He was the calm. You’d be amazed what a present hand will solve.”
The heat under my ribs flickered and my body replayed last night’s steady palm against my chest and labeled it: things I cannot discuss.
Miss Pearl clocked the flicker even though I tried to hide it.
She never missed a thing.
“Directions,” she repeated, graciously vague. “The first week I worked nights, people called with every flavor of panic. Curtis would listen on speaker and whisper, ‘Give them verbs, Pearl. Adjectives make people argue; verbs make them move.’ So, that’s my free wisdom.”
I laughed. “Stealing that.”
“Cite your source,” she said and tapped the coffee carrier once. Then, softer, she added, “You know, he’s been gone ten years, but I still set two cups in the morning. It’s strange. The body remembers being handled well.”
My throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, her voice low. “He did exactly what decent men do—fixed things and told the truth. Not to mention that he always kept snacks in the glove box. Then he went and left me this café to civilize—name on the door, regulars at the counter, grease trap, and all. Your Aunt Tansy still owns the building; I just rent the walls. I’ve been a tenant of your aunt’s for decades. ”
We all knew that Tansy and Harlan owned most of downtown Riverfield.
She tipped her chin at my buzzing phone. “Now Ellis, go educate the internet. Thirty seconds, three facts, and remember: no adjectives. Save your poetry for when you’ve had a biscuit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She slid the sack toward me and then added with a glint that belonged on stage, “And tell that firefighter of yours—”
“He’s not—” I tripped over the denial like it was a cord.
“—to keep those shoulders where Riverfield can appreciate them.”
She’d shown mercy, disguised as mischief.
“Capability photographs well,” she added with a wink.
“It does,” I said.
“Drink water,” she added, already turning away to straighten a napkin holder.
Some towns run on gas; Riverfield runs on Miss Pearl Adjustments.
I stepped into the brightness with biscuits and caffeine and let her rules settle me. Walking across the Commons, I thumbed open Voice Memos.
“Update for Town Talk,” I said. “Suppression engaged quickly. Exit lanes cleared. Eighty-four accounted. Zero injuries—credit to Riverfield Fire, the Marshal’s office, and hotel staff. Lantern Room and Portico will have standard checks.”
I listened once. No lace, just thread. I sent it to Beau and couldn’t stop myself from copying Miss Pearl as well.
A story pinged—a shaky video of the chaos with my own face blurred in the soft haze. Lips moving, counting, right at the moment my chest remembered the exact weight of a firefighter’s palm. I saved the clip like a producer and tried not to admit I’d done it like a person.
Directions, not drama, I told myself.
My nerves, ever unhelpful, added a footnote: And don’t forget the hand.
I opened a new message to Cade.
You okay?
Delete. Too intimate.
Then, Thank you for last night.
Delete. Way too intimate.
I tried again: If you need a clean recap for press, I’ve got it typed up.
My thumb hovered over send long enough for the screen to go dark and throw my face back at me. I copied the text into Notes instead, locked the phone, and told myself that, for now, the only things I was allowed to send were numbers and schedules.
The rest—the weight of his palm, that one clean step backward—could stay where my body had already filed it: unsent, unforgettable.