Chapter 2
EJ
The key to a woman's heart is
an unexpected gift at an unexpected time.
~ Sean Connery, Finding Forrester
The asphalt of the parking lot behind our historic brick fire station is dotted with puddles from last night’s rain. I park my truck next to Champ’s car and walk in the back door.
Since Bordeaux is a smaller town, we don’t work a normal firefighter rotation.
I’m here eight to five on weekdays and off most weekends unless I’m called in to back up during an emergency.
Even though we don’t usually sleep here, the second floor has bunks and a workout room—all the usual setup of a fire station that housed firefighters over the past century. We even have a pole.
As a kid, when I told my parents I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up, I think the idea of spinning down a pole and hopping into a loud truck with sirens and lights blaring was one of the strongest appeals.
I walk upstairs. Mack, the guy we affectionately call Truck, is sitting at the table in our lounge. He’s holding a muffin and his mouth is full.
“Champ’s wife baked,” he says around a bite.
“She’s a keeper,” Champ says, then he grins at the thought of her.
“I figure any man who marries his high school sweetheart and still sings her praises eighteen years later is one of the luckiest men on earth,” Truck says.
“Nineteen,” Champ says, “And you’re not wrong. Ginger definitely is my better half.”
“No argument there,” I say, grabbing a muffin.
“Hey,” Champ says, laughing. “Don’t agree with me so quickly.”
“When’s the last time you baked for me?” I ask.
“Hmph.” Champ nods. “Guess you’ve got a point.”
“How’s Angie after the fire scare?” Truck asks me, polishing off his last bite and dusting the crumbs from his hands.
“How would I know?” My voice sounds defensive, even to my own ears.
Truck just chuckles. “Ask her out already.”
“Like I haven’t?” I remind him.
“Squeaky wheel gets the grease,” he says.
“Or gets replaced by a wheel that doesn’t squeak,” I retort. “I’m in this for the long game. She’s a single mom. I don’t want to run her off with my pestering.”
“There’s an art to pursuing a woman,” Champ says.
“How would you know?” Truck says with a laugh. “You asked Ginger to prom and that was all she wrote.”
“You think my wife would be baking us muffins if I didn’t know a thing or two about making her happy?”
“Maybe she just likes baking,” Truck says. “But you’re probably right.” Truck picks up another muffin. “So tell us, O Wise One. What’s the secret to romancing a woman?”
Champ purses his lips and fakes stroking his beard as if it’s a foot long. Then his face goes serious again. “Pursuing a woman is a fine balance between chasing and stepping back. Kind of like a dance.”
Truck laughs. “No offense, Champ. Just, have you seen our boy EJ dance?”
Champ laughs too. “I’ve seen it.”
“I can dance,” I say, but they just keep laughing.
“Anyway,” Champ says. “You can’t pressure her, but you have to be persistent enough that she doesn’t think you forgot about her. Take your cues from her. Move in, then back away. And never underestimate the power of being able to make a woman laugh.”
“That’s not half-bad advice,” Truck says, grabbing another muffin.
“It’s not even quarter bad,” Champ says.
Weber’s voice carries up from downstairs. “Morning!”
It’s his day off, but we need to meet about Bordeaux Days.
“Muffins?” he asks, eyeing the plate on the middle of the table.
“Ginger baked them,” Truck says.
“We need wives,” Weber practically whines.
“Why do we need wives when we have Ginger?” Truck asks, his voice one hundred percent sincere.
Champ gives Truck the stink eye. “You don’t have Ginger.”
Weber chuckles. “No one’s after your wife, Champ. We just want her baked goods.”
Champ nods.
Truck sticks his hand out toward Champ. “I’m just messin’ with you, Champ.” They shake.
When Truck winces, I chuckle. Serves him right.
“So, let’s get this meeting underway,” Weber says. “Jed White’s got a fresh pick of corn at the stand and I don’t want to be left with those straggler cobs after Memaw and Esther and all the early birds get their pick.”
“Priorities,” Truck says.
“Darn straight,” Weber says.
He pulls one of the chairs out and flips it backward, then drops down so he’s straddling the seat.
“So, basically, we’re doing the corn roast and cob-drop from the ladder truck?” Weber asks.
“Basically,” Champ says.
“Who’s running the buttered cob slide?” Truck asks.
“They need to rename that,” I say.
“Why? That’s been the name since I was a kid,” Champ says.
“That’s one more reason,” I say.
“I think Aiden, Duke and Rob volunteered to man it this year.”
“So, we’ll need to ride around to the local farmers and pick up the cobs they set aside for us,” Champ says, getting us back on track.
Truck looks at me. “We’ll use EJ’s truck.”
“That’s the volunteer spirit,” Weber says with a chuckle.
“I’m going with him. Shotgun,” Truck says.
I just shrug. “Fine with me.”
We go over everything that’s needed for one of our town’s biggest annual celebrations. Then Weber heads down the stairs, talking about how he’s going to roast Jed White’s corn next to some steak for dinner.
After lunch we get a call from dispatch.
“Hey, boys! Mabel here.”
“What’s up, Mabel?” Champ says into his handheld.
“Well, I tell ya. It’s never a dull moment,” Mabel says.
“Mind sharing what the call is?” Champ asks.
“Oh. Yes, yes. Seems Decker was tryin’ on the Corny costume and the zipper broke. The costume won’t come off. It’s hot as blazes in the barn, and dark, so he stepped outside. Now he’s being chased around the field by a herd of goats.”
Champ chuckles. “We’ll swing by.”
“Don’t break that zipper, Champ,” Mabel says. “And don’t hurt the costume. We need it in one piece for the parade.”
“What on earth was he trying it on for?” Truck mumbles to himself.
Champ answers Mabel, “We’ll be careful.”
“Okay, ten-four that.” She ends the call.
The three of us head out to help Decker out of the corn suit commonly known as “Corny,” our Bordeaux Days mascot costume.
When we arrive, a giant six-foot tall, cartoon-looking cob of corn is running zigzag through the field while goats hop, butt and leap, kicking their legs out sideways all around him.
One goat seems intent on nibbling at the edges of the costume.
Decker’s yelling, “Help me! Help me! Somebody, help!” from inside the costume.
“We’re here,” Champ shouts over to Decker.
Decker weaves and turns toward Champ’s voice. “I can’t see a thing in here. The fabric fell in front of my eyes. And my hands are stuck!”
“Stand still,” I shout to Decker.
Decker stops in his tracks.
A brown-and-white goat eyes me, and then it turns, lowers his eyes and backs up a few steps.
Truck shouts “Watch out!” right as the goat rears back and runs, butting Decker square in the backside.
Decker goes flying forward, and then he falls like a tree after the final chop.
Truck hops the fence, steps in front of the herd, claps his hands, and shouts, “Git goats! Git.”
Every goat stops—even the goat that just butted Decker.
Truck smiles broadly. “Gentlemen, that’s how it’s …”
He doesn’t even finish his sentence when the goats all charge at him.
Truck turns, jogging away from the goats and shouting back to us, “They did not git.”
I bend over laughing. “No. They sure did not.”
One little goat starts leaping like he’s doing a victory dance, sprinting from spot to spot, ricocheting off fencing and random stumps or anything he can find.
He’s kicking his feet up to the side with every leap and his eyes are fixed on Decker, or at least they seem to be. It’s hard to tell with goat eyes.
I jog over to Decker. “Let’s get you out of this field.”
I shout to Truck. “Keep the goats distracted!”
“Gotcha!” Truck shouts back.
He stops running and starts flinging handfuls of dried grass like confetti, shouting, “Come on, goats! Lunch is on me!”
I grab Decker, putting my hands on his shoulders and righting him like a plank. Then I lead him toward the fence and he hop-walks alongside me. Champ and I open the gate and direct Decker out.
“Where’s the arm holes on this costume?” Champ asks.
“Corn doesn’t have arms,” Decker says, as if that explains everything.
“Yeah. Just ears,” Champ says.
Decker chuckles from inside the yellow suit.
After about ten minutes of careful maneuvering, we manage to get the zipper down without damaging the costume.
Decker emerges, shucking the corn cob suit and shaking his arms out. “No way I’m being Corny this year. Noooo way. That costume tried to hold me hostage.” He rubs his rear and turns to look over the fence at the goats.
Truck is running back and forth shooing at the goats, saying, “Git! Git! Git!” while goats do anything but.
Decker holds the suit up and away from him, carrying it back to the barn.
Champ yells for Truck. “Quit playing around and let’s get back to the station.”
Truck runs toward the fence, goats skittering behind him. “Who’s playing?”
He hops the fence, and turns to actually stick his tongue out at the herd as soon as he’s safely out of reach. “Not today, little monsters.”
One larger goat bleats at him.
The rest of the day is goat-free and corn suit-free. I leave the station at five, driving my usual route home, down State Street.
The lights are still on at the Dippity Do.
Possibly against my better judgment, I pull into one of the diagonal spaces in front of the shop.
I sit in my truck, staring out the windshield into the salon, Champ’s words running through my mind on repeat.
The bell over the shop door tinkles when I walk in.
Laura turns, sees me, and then she glances at the large clock on the wall over the reception desk.
“Do you have an appointment, EJ?”
“No. Not today.”
Angie glances at me and then back at her customer, Hazel.
“I … uh …” My mind stutters. Why did I come in here? “I just thought I’d stop in and check to make sure everything’s okay after the dryer incident.”