Chapter Eleven
W as the grilled parmesan on top a mistake? Would the fresh herbs in the mash look fancified?
Friday night arrived at the same unforgiving speed as the last community dinner, and Ricky had to scramble to get his cottage pie cooked and cooled in time. It sure wasn’t the same recipe that his mom used, but then, she hadn’t consulted the internet for inspiration.
He was still trying to untangle his thoughts about his imploding life as he stared at the crispy pie and inhaled that delicious, homey smell.
Silas had refused point-blank to bring the twins downtown into the council office. He would “address the issue” after the community supper. “This place is their sanctuary,” he’d added. “Don’t violate it.”
What was it with these folks?
Ricky fought back a fresh surge of frustration as he stared at his impressive culinary creation.
Didn’t the man understand what was at stake, and that Silas (and his foster children) had no choice in the matter? That Chief Leroy Browning would simply direct the local police to turn up and bodily remove the boys?
“You want to put that in here, hon?” Lottie materialized at Ricky’s shoulder with a large cardboard box. She blinked in surprise at the green-tinged potato mash. “My, that looks like something out of a cookbook. Smells great, though.”
“Excuse me?” Ricky wrenched his mind back on track. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”
His mom’s special hummingbird cake, glossy with cream cheese frosting, was already wedged into one end. He nestled the pie into a clean tea towel and packed it alongside.
He needed to get to the church hall, put on a cheerful face, and then face down Silas Beecham.
Coming home had been a mistake.
Ricky’s feet were lead balloons. And his heart, well, it felt as bruised and battered as it ever had been. The urge to throw his stuff into a bag and hit the road for New York City was almost overwhelming.
He’d demand his job back, stay at a motel until his sublet apartment was free. Lieutenant Ricky Sharp had complied with every single thing that the therapist and the counselor and the Fire Department had thrown at him. He was fit to return.
Lottie fixed him with all-knowing eyes. She closed the box flaps with deft movements and laid her hands on top. The joints were slightly swollen from decades of washing up and cleaning and cooking and baking.
When his mom spoke, her voice had the no-nonsense tone Ricky knew so well.
“I had Molly Caitens on the phone this morning, wanting us to go visit them at the retirement village for morning tea next week.”
Ricky grunted. He opened his mouth and closed it.
“Don’t you think we deserve to hear it from you, whatever it is?”
His father, who must have been lurking in the hall, materialized in the kitchen.
“Ah,” said Ricky weakly. He took a deep breath. Once underway, this train was unstoppable.
The icy lump in his chest, the anger and regret of a secret carried for too long, began to melt. And it hurt like hell.
“Okay. Though I don’t want you to think for a minute that I didn’t come home to help out and to spend time with you both.”
His mother made a pretend swat. Ricky smiled.
Home. God, it felt good .
He slumped into a chair with all the grace of the gangly teenager he had once been. His parents slipped into their familiar places at the table and waited.
“So,” Ricky began. “A few months back we got a call out to Hammels, the public housing block in Far Rockaway. Usual situation, smoke coming from the window. Some idiot has lit a candle, or dropped off to sleep with a cigarette, maybe turned the chip oil up too high ...”
***
F ifteen minutes later they were still sitting there. The cheesy fragrance of pie hung in the air.
Lottie was uncharacteristically silent.
“That must have been a mighty shock son,” said Herbie gruffly. His brown eyes were bright under bushy grey brows.
“Chrissie Caitens,” the older man continued. “You two were stuck on each other when you went away to college, but we never realized there was anything serious until you both up and headed for the city. It was Chrissie this, Chrissie that, when you were talking on the phone. And then one day it was just you coming home at Thanksgiving, not a whisper about Chrissie.”
Ricky flushed. He nodded. The relationship with Chrissie had always felt surreal, at least in the beginning. Parents invoked a humdrum, sensible reality that would come later. Parents would ask foolish questions about whether a shared house full of would-be artists was conducive to Ricky’s intensive training schedule, and how come he had time to attend all-night parties when he was too busy to come home for a weekend.
His mother patted his hand, and he glanced at her pale, set face.
“So what did Christine’s parents have to say?” Some of its former steel had returned to his father’s voice. “Did they know about the baby?”
Ricky closed his eyes briefly. “No,” he said flatly, briefly reliving the experience of watching the bereaved parents hear that their daughter had had a child, and that she had never told them. And that Ricky had been so estranged from their daughter that he hadn’t even known that he was a father.
It had not been a comfortable conversation.
Ricky swallowed.
“In the end, I think that the news was a...comfort to them. When I told them that I was trying to find the baby, they shook their heads and told me not to bother. No point, they said. The child will be settled in a good home, and it would be cruel to take her away from her parents and maybe brothers and sisters—even if the county would consider doing such a thing, which they won’t.”
Lottie squeezed his arm. Her eyes were full of tears.
“You know they’re right, honey.”
Ricky clenched his fist. “But I don’t know that.” He stared at his parents. “I was never given a choice. And surely...surely, a father has the right to know his child and to care for her? I’ve got to try. You do see that?”
Herbie leaned back and coughed. It took him a few seconds to catch his breath.
“So, what will you do next son?”
His father’s mild words landed in Ricky’s ears with a thump. A thump of understanding that Ricky was not only an adult but a parent, and that his own parents were not going to shower him with advice and exhortations.
Ricky forced a smile. “I convinced the Caitens to go through Chrissie’s stuff, whatever survived the smoke and got packed up by social services and sent to them, all still in a box in their storage. See if there’s anything there that mentions a baby, and that identifies me as the father. It’s a long shot, I know.”
His phone buzzed, and he glanced down. A calendar reminder. And he was already behind time.
“Sh—, sorry...I got to get this food down to the church hall.”
He stood up, feeling awkward. “Mom, Dad...”
Before he could finish, both parents rose to their feet and embraced him. The warmth and strength of their arms around him, the familiar scent and shape of them, their unquestioning acceptance, was so sweet that Ricky almost lost his fragile control.
“Thanks,” he muttered thickly. He stepped back, smiled. Drew in a deep breath, felt himself settle.
And in that same moment, he understood a bittersweet truth. That sometimes, most times really, parenthood was about letting go.
***
“Y ou simply don’t have the evidence.”
Jodi was trying hard to sound like a detached professional rather than a woman whose dreams of romance have withered on the vine. Her first, half-humorous (okay, desperate ) text to Ricky had been met with silence. She hadn’t sent a second.
A girl had her pride.
She’d been surprised when Ricky turned up (late) to the community meal with a homemade cottage pie the size of one of her grandfather’s old encyclopedias. Watched as he proceeded to schmooze every other volunteer with his willingness to dive right into the serving and then the cleaning up and had even greeted a couple of regular clients by their names.
Now Jodi was elbow to elbow with him in Silas’ study, and she was not happy at all.
She renewed her attack. “You’ve got circumstantial evidence, sure. People saw the boys hanging around, they clearly sneak the odd cigarette, and they stick out like sore thumbs in town because they are foster kids. Not good enough Ricky.”
Silas glanced at Ricky’s set expression.
“I wish that was all, Jodi,” said Silas gravely. “But it’s not. In the interests of full transparency, Hattie found these in the boys’ room.” He pushed two packets of old-fashioned matches across the table.
Jodi’s eyes widened. “What? Matchbooks? Where did they get those, from an antique store?”
She peered over and read the black printing on the sky-blue cover. “Cosimo’s pizza store, Seneca Falls.”
Ricky finally spoke. “People collect this stuff. Like beer mats and baseball caps.” He lifted his eyebrows at Silas, who looked briefly uncomfortable.
“Apparently the history group at the retirement village put together displays of memorabilia, and the twins helped themselves to some matchbooks from someone’s collection,” said Silas.
Jodi took a deep breath, trying to dispel her growing unease.
Ricky picked up the matchbooks. “I appreciate you handing these over,” he said in a neutral tone, as though they were discussing the loan of a mower. “I know it can’t have been easy.”
Silas’ wide smile wiped the compassion off Ricky’s face. Jodi sat up straight.
“Hattie and I are handing these over to you because it is the right thing to do. But that doesn’t mean that we think that Joshua and Judah are guilty of arson. Quite the opposite. Hattie found these matchbooks about three months ago, when she was putting clean laundry in their bedroom. We discussed the matter and decided to say nothing. Trust has been a big thing with these boys. Hard-earned on either side, so we decided to wait and see.”
“And now you know,” said Ricky.
Silas leaned back in his chair, and Jodi was reminded once again that he was a former CEO, a powerful man whose instincts about people were probably spot on. His green eyes were piercing.
“Three months ago, Ricky. So, Hattie and I talked with the boys early this week and they agreed to hand them over. The same matchbooks that have been there for three months.” He pointed a large finger. “One matchbook is full and has a stain on the back. The other one is missing a couple of matches.”
Ricky turned over the shabby cardboard squares.
“They tell you anything else?” His voice was quiet.
Silas grunted. “Those fires at the school last year, and in the corner store. They did that. And we will ensure that the boys apologize. They’ll also be spending their afternoons helping out down at Ted Solomon’s shop for a few weeks. I’ve already talked to him.”
Jodi could sense Ricky’s growing frustration. His jaw was clenched and his narrow, serious face was a series of hard angles.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough,” said Ricky flatly. “Chief Browning wants them at the council offices, with whatever guardian and legal representation they need. I pushed it out to nine on Monday morning.”
Jodi’s chest tightened. She glanced from one man to another. Both faces were stiff, stubborn.
Anger flashed across Silas’ face and was quickly repressed, as though the ruthless corporate executive had almost broken through. “You’ll forgive me if I take legal advice on that,” he said in an even tone.
Jodi’s phone vibrated, not for the first or second time since they’d been sitting there.
“Why am I here, Silas?” she said abruptly. “I expected a blast for that...unfortunate...story that my assistant put online without my knowledge or permission .” She ground out the last few words and shot Ricky a dark glance. “I apologize for that. And I take full responsibility. I understand that you and Hattie are keen to defend the boys.” She paused. “And I believe them too.”
Jodi stopped, realizing that yes, despite the mounting evidence, she did believe the boys. Not that Joshua and Judah weren’t capable of a brooding truculence that bordered on defiance when cornered, but this? No way.
She continued. “I can’t write an article to defend them, not on the strength of my instincts and these matchbooks.” She snaked out a finger and pulled a matchbook from under Ricky’s broad palm. He let it slide away. “Though there’s a story here, that’s for sure.”
Silas nodded. “I asked you to come too because I wanted to share something confidential with you both. And I know that you will respect that.”
Jodi met Ricky’s gaze. His grey eyes were dark with some emotion she couldn’t read. He turned to Silas.
“I can’t stop Chief Browning from talking to them, not unless you can produce iron-clad evidence. I tried, believe me.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it ruffled into wavy spikes which seriously disarmed the full force of his grim words.
“And, as the Acting Editor knows full well—”
Jodi inspected her nails thoughtfully. Maybe grass green was a poor choice. Blue was much more calming.
Ricky continued. “—I am not convinced that the boys did it either. But my hands are tied—”
Jodi couldn’t help herself. She fixed Ricky with a glare.
“Whatever happened to the presumption of innocence? Due process?”
Silas made a calming motion with his hands. “It’s okay, Jodi. Ricky’s only doing his job. How we respond is up to us.” He let out a long breath. “What I wanted to tell you is this. Josh and Judah are close, even for twins, because they had to be, simply to survive. Both their parents struggled with substance abuse, and they were removed by social services and returned, several times.”
His sharp eyes narrowed. “They were removed permanently when social services discovered that they had been abandoned, in a squat. According to the boys, for at least a week. Then a series of foster homes.”
Jodi tried to swallow, but her throat felt raw. She glanced at Ricky, whose jaw was clenched.
Silas went on. “They were moved to the county services and settled in Temple Mountain when their father somehow tracked them down in New York, demanding that his sons be returned. The court denied him, but he has not given up.”
Understanding hit Jodi like a bucket of icy water. “So if Joshua and Judah wind up back in the city in the juvenile system, their father...”
Silas nodded. “He’ll find them. Probably make the case that the system has failed.”
“They are underage,” said Ricky, “so their names won’t be disclosed. But I get it, any paperwork has to be watertight.”
Silas nodded. The preacher looked tired, thought Jodi, imagining the broken nights and early starts as well as the busy days.
“One more thing,” said Silas heavily. “Those boys have more than a healthy distrust of authority. One of their foster fathers had the bright idea that all they needed was old-fashioned discipline, so he locked them in their room with barred windows and zilch furniture for hours at a time.”
He leaned forward.
“If you put Joshua and Judah in an enclosed space and threaten that there’s more to come, all hell will break loose.”
***
J odi and Ricky walked down the front steps of the rectory in silence. It was unexpectedly mild, despite the snow banked up against the house and clinging to the branches of the huge trees.
She lifted her face to feel the soft, fragrant breeze on her cheeks. It was a promise that spring would come again, that the winter months would give way to a flush of green buds and that the frozen earth would be transformed.
Ricky followed her gaze. “I used to miss this in the city. The way you can smell the change in the seasons. My mom’s garden—one day it’s a damp heap of mulch, and the next she’s picking lettuce and tomatoes.”
By unspoken agreement, they kept walking down the street. Jodi felt the numbness in her heart yield just a little.
“Do you miss living in the rectory?” He saw her frown and hastily added, “Although you have a beautiful apartment. It’s about twice the size of my place in Queens.”
Ricky had an apartment in Queens?
Of course he did, she told herself. She’d always known that he was on a short contract with the town council. He’d never actually said that he was going back to New York when it finished. But then, he hadn’t needed to.
Jodi forced her mind back to the present. She knew his question was about more than where she lived.
“I haven’t lived in the rectory for a long time. I’d gone before Jaylee came back home with Isaac. Gramps and I got on fine, but...well...when the job came up at The Monitor , I found my own place.” She paused, reliving the quiet satisfaction that she still felt every time she opened her front door. “And I love it.”
She shrugged, a little embarrassed. “And then the Beechams arrived last year, and everything changed anyway.”
Her eyes slid sideways. She tried to ignore a frisson of pure longing at the sight of his lean, compact figure tramping through the sodden leaves. At his strong, stern profile, and the way his eyes lit up when he saw her. Even now, when Jodi had humiliated him in front of his boss and had essentially thrown the twins straight into Leroy Browning’s firing line with The Monitor story.
She’d noticed, of course she had. Because Jodi was the same. That rush of warmth, the deep glow of desire, all for a man who seemed to be slipping ever further from her grasp.
Foolishness. Sheer foolishness .
She jammed her gloved hands into her pockets. Her mind obligingly wandered into an (admittedly subjective) list of his faults.
Ricky Sharp was stubborn to the point of being pigheaded, and passionate to the point of obsession. Not to forget brave to the point of self-sacrifice, possibly even foolhardiness? Her private research had thrown up a bevy of media reports of commendations for a man who always led his team from the front.
Perfect firefighter material, in fact, because who else runs into the burning building when everyone else is running out?
And Ricky was secretive. Slow to trust. Played his cards close to his chest.
Even with her. Perhaps, especially with her.
A car coasted slowly down the street, the snow tires rumbling on the gritty surface. It was followed by a motorcycle, the driver bundled head to toe in black and the fog-like exhaust hanging briefly in the cold air.
The silence hung between them, bursting with unsaid thoughts and feelings.
“How about you?” she ventured politely. “Still staying with your parents? You must all get on pretty well.”
“Yeah, we do,” he said lightly. “Bit of a squeeze, but it will do for now.”
More silence. The faint glow of the shops and restaurants in the main street was visible up ahead. They slowed, somehow reluctant to go their separate ways.
Most regular folks were at home now, winding down from the working week and thinking about groceries and basketball games and whether it was still too cool to invite the neighbors over on Sunday afternoon for a grill. Searching Netflix or catching up on reality television.
They both spoke at once.
“I should have replied—”
“I can’t believe Dougie—”
They laughed, suddenly self-conscious. Ricky stepped close. He tucked his arm into Jodi’s casually, as though they were old school buddies, and steered her in the direction of the shops and cafés.
Jodi’s heart skittered around in her chest, just like the unreliable organ it was turning out to be. She had to dig deep for her woman-of-the-world smile.
“I didn’t get any of that cottage pie—well, maybe a taste,” he admitted. “And forgive me for noticing, but you spent almost the entire time chopping lettuce and topping up ketchup bottles. May I buy you a late supper?”
Jodi smiled. Enjoy the moment, she told herself briskly. And it felt more than good, the warm, solid weight of his arm against her soft breast, and the scent which she was now privately labelling as Hot Fireman. Damp wool, wood smoke, coffee, soap, and a hint of Old Spice.
“You may,” she said gravely. “I was sorry to miss the cottage pie. I’ve never seen one with grilled parmesan and green mashed potato.”
He laughed. “That’s what my mom said. But the volunteers said nobody complained.”
They sauntered along the sidewalk, both aware that they were the focus of interested eyes and whispered conversations and that social media would be buzzing even before they reached Bean & Co.
By unspoken agreement, Jodi and Ricky didn’t tackle the elephant in the room until they were seated in a corner table and had ordered grilled cheese and ham sandwiches and coffee.
Ricky opened his mouth, but Jodi jumped in first.
“What happened was my fault,” she said crisply. “I’m the Acting Editor. Dougie is a bit of a loose cannon, but I should have allowed for that.”
She looked deep into his eyes and met the same intensity. A sudden heat sparked between them, a deep desire that was both frightening and exhilarating, and they both looked away. Jodi knew she was flushing.
The moment passed. Ricky took a breath. Cleared his throat.
“You don’t need to apologize for doing your job, just like I’m doing mine. I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on you though.”
“Fair point.”
Their food arrived, sizzling with flavor, and Jodi spent a second wondering how it was that plain cheese and ham under the griller could make strong men (and women) moan with delight.
Maybe it wasn’t just the sandwich.
Silence fell, a companiable lull as the food was consumed with the respect it deserved. A few minutes later Ricky sipped his coffee and then relaxed against his chair with a sigh of contentment.
“I don’t know what’s possessed Leroy Browning, but all of a sudden he won’t let this thing go. I know the election is coming up, but picking up a couple of foster kids and accusing them of arson seems risky without some solid evidence.”
“What did Bonnie have to say?”
He paused while the waiter topped up the mugs.
“Bonnie was already primed. She says she was compelled as a good citizen to approach the boys when she saw them teasing a cat. And after that, well she thought she ought to keep an eye out.”
Jodi sniffed disdainfully. She let out a long breath. “Though the boys did light those other fires, so Silas says. And that’s more evidence against them.”
Ricky nodded. They stared at each other for a few seconds until Jodi broke the silence.
“Can I come out to the retirement village with you? Gramps says it’s still got police tape around the shed.”
He shook his head. “No, sorry. It would be worth my job if anyone, aka Bonnie Browning, sees you inspecting the site with me in tow. And I’m not done here just yet.”
Jodi tapped her nails on the table. She thought about work and the growing list of chores waiting at the office. The newspaper owners, not surprisingly, needed to be reassured that the city wasn’t about to sue the shirts off their backs, and a couple of regular advertisers were grumbling about bad publicity.
And yet this was the biggest story in town since the pandemic. And, as Dougie had misquoted, sometimes you had to publish and be damned.
“How about I turn up unexpectedly after you’ve done your fire investigator thing?” she suggested. “The local reporter taking photos and looking for comment. It would be weird if I didn’t .”
“True.” There was a definite twinkle in Ricky’s eyes. “I know it’s the weekend, but with the Chief hauling the boys in on Monday, I need anything I can find right now.”
Jodi nodded. “That’s perfect. I normally visit Gramps Saturday morning and bring his shopping.” Memory nudged her, and she pulled out her phone.
“I’ve got Alma this weekend too. Saturday is her play therapy with her mom and the family counsellor, and I promised she could help me do the shopping afterwards. My grandfather is teaching her to play chess.”
Jodi pulled up a photo from her phone, showing the elderly minister and the slightly built child leaning over the chess board.
“You will both miss Alma when she goes.” Ricky’s voice was gentle.
Jodi’s eyes prickled.
“Yes,” she said finally. “That little girl has had a tough life, and she’s flourished with the Beechams.” Jodi’s voice turned wistful. “Sometimes I wonder why the county can’t simply let things be. Surely that...woman, her mom... has lost her chance at being a mother. It’s none of my business, but...Alma was as happy as pie at the rectory, and then her mom decides she wants her child back. Like a blood link is stronger than the loving family Alma has found.”
Ricky grunted. There was a faraway look in his eye.
“What does Alma want? Does she get a say?”
Jodi took a deep breath.
“Of course she does,” she said ruefully, meeting his eyes. “She wants her mom.”