Chapter 12
As impulse buys went, the antique fire alarm had been a sweet deal, especially since Warren bought it with leftover donuts. He would wire it to his doorbell when he got home. A surprise fire alarm might be just the thing to keep door-to-door salespeople at bay from now on.
“Be careful you don’t hurt yourself,” he cautioned Dawn as he watched her carry it with one hand. “Those screws in the back could scratch you. Mrs. Olson secured them with masking tape, but they still stick out.”
“I’ve handled antiques before, Warren.” Dawn shot him a look. “Focus on carrying that trunk instead of worrying about my wellbeing.”
“Sorry.” He readjusted his grip on the trunk. “I didn’t mean to be patronizing.”
“At least you’re aware of the issue and quick to apologize.” Dawn grinned and clicked the key fob. Her Beemer beeped two blocks away. “Are you sure you don’t want my help? That chest weighs a ton.”
One hundred twenty pounds of dead weight was more like it, but luckily, the handles were sturdy. “Mrs. Olson told me her great-grandfather brought this trunk with him from the old country.” Warren took one step at a time. “If he can carry it from Ellis Island, I can carry it to your car.”
“I’m sure he had a covered wagon to help him.” Dawn’s mouth wobbled into a smile. “You don’t have to prove how macho you are. I’m already impressed by how you convinced Mrs. Olson to let me buy the sweaters in the first place. And the trunk! This type of craftsmanship could be displayed in the National Nordic Museum.”
“But you’re giving it to Sierra, right?” Warren would have claimed it for Mikaela otherwise. The chest would be the perfect place to store childhood mementos, like soccer trophies, artwork, and favorite stuffed animals.
“Yes. No way am I parting with this beauty. I love old things.” Dawn opened the back of her SUV. “Thanks for carrying this out to the car for me and for saving the day back there. I didn’t know you spoke Norwegian.”
Warren carefully loaded the trunk into the back of the BMW. “I’m not fluent.” He took off his jacket and made a nest for the fire alarm before placing it next to the trunk and securing the hatch.
“You seemed pretty fluent back there at the house when you and Mrs. Olson were chattering over coffee and leftover donuts.”
“She was easy to talk to. Her accent was clear, and she spoke slowly enough that I could understand.”
Warren climbed into the passenger seat, pleased with how the morning had turned out. Talking with Mrs. Olson had been rejuvenating. Yes, she was a complete stranger, but after fifteen minutes in her kitchen, she had become a friend. Warren had a soft spot for retirees, especially the ones who, like his parents, insisted on staying in their own home until the bitter end.
Mrs. Olson had made him tell her all about how he learned Norwegian and who he was related to. They compared family trees and didn’t find any connections since she grew up in Ballard and Warren was from Olympia. But Mrs. Olson was familiar with Normamma Hall in Tacoma, where his uncle Mike used to go. She had been shocked that Warren hadn’t joined the Harper Landing Sons of Norway Lodge and scolded him good naturedly to become a member.
“My uncle Mike taught me Norwegian when I lived with him for two years in high school,” Warren explained. “He was my great-uncle. Uncle Mike was a carpenter who built custom kitchen cabinets.” He grinned, remembering the man’s dry humor and quick wit. “His main focus was teaching me how to swear in Norwegian, but Mrs. Olson didn’t seem to mind my colorful vocabulary.”
Dawn laughed. “That’s funny.”
She twisted around and tossed her patchwork purse onto the back seat. As she did so, Warren received a tantalizing peek of her cleavage.
“I don’t think of you as having a foul mouth,” she added.
“You should hear me in Norwegian.”
Dawn clicked on her seatbelt. “Norwegian curse words would have come in handy when Sierra was five and insisted on watching Frozen on repeat. I love Disney movies, but there’s only so much Olaf a person can take.”
“Mikaela went through a Frozen phase too.” Warren grimaced, remembering that dark time.
Four years ago, he’d used every spare moment to study for the captain’s exam, assuming things were fine between him and Raquelle. He knew she was troubled by migraines and how endometriosis was making it difficult to conceive a second child, but he had no idea that she was day-drinking and opening secret credit cards. It wasn’t until Raquelle ran off with the UPS guy that he realized the depths of her despair. By then it was too late; the damage between them had been irrevocable.
Now, whenever he heard the opening bars of “Let it Go,” he pictured Raquelle’s Mini Cooper swerving out of their driveway, leaving behind a seven-year-old Mikaela sobbing in his arms. “Sometimes curse words are the only appropriate ones to use,” he said.
Dawn nodded in agreement. “It sounds like Mr. Olson used to have a foul mouth, too, when he was alive, according to what their grandson told me. Her late husband was a firefighter, right?” Dawn started the car and turned on her blinker.
“Yup. Thirty years with Seattle Fire. But me speaking Norwegian isn’t what changed her mind about that sweater sale.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Dawn. “She seemed all set to sell those sweaters to Greg before you saved the day.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Warren looked at her admiringly. “It was you in that pretty red dress you’re wearing.” His eyes lingered on the soft curves of her neck and shoulders. “Mrs. Olson thought you, with your blond hair, were Swedish.”
“It’s from a bottle,” Dawn admitted. “The hair, not the dress. Although my grandmother was Swedish. I sewed the dress from a pattern I found online that reminded me of one she wore in an old photo I found.”
“It’s beautiful.” He meant it. Dawn didn’t throw out the man-slayer vibe Brittany did, but she was equally gorgeous. “Norwegians and Swedes don’t always get along,” he continued. “So Mrs. Olson assuming you’re Swedish might have worked against you.”
“But then you busted in speaking Norwegian, and she made her decision.” Dawn squealed with glee again, just like she had when she burrowed into the sweaters. “The look on Greg’s face was priceless!” She patted his arm before pulling into traffic.
Warren shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“I can’t wait to list the cardigans on my Etsy site.” Dawn tapped a button on the steering wheel, and Black Hole Sun began playing on the speakers.
“I love this song.”
“Me too.” Dawn turned it up. “All my friends listened to country in high school, but I was a grunge fan all the way. It’s the only good thing to come out of Seattle as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Okay.” Dawn sighed dramatically. “There’s also coffee.”
“How do you take your coffee?” Warren asked. “Just in case I show up on your doorstep again someday, bearing pertinent information and beverages.”
“I’m a latte girl, and I hate mochas.” She made a face. “Chocolate, yuck.”
“Good to know.” He filed that information away for later. It never hurt to be prepared.
“Thanks for the coffee this morning. I like drip too,” said Dawn. “And thanks for the information about Brittany Barrow and Will Gladstone. What are we going to do about the beach?”
“We?” Warren repeated the two-letter word and felt his pulse race.
If only there could be a “we” that included Dawn and him. He loved that Mrs. Olson had thought Dawn was his better half, so he hadn’t bothered correcting her. She had asked about their children, and Warren had told her about Mikaela and Sierra as if the girls were sisters. Warren hadn’t meant to be deceitful, but there were a multitude of Norwegian phases he didn’t know like “crazy ex-wife,” “antique store hottie,” and “out of my league.”
“Yes, we ,” said Dawn. “We can’t let Brittany and Will get away with this, can we?”
“No, but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to do without the chief’s approval. I’ll call him as soon as I get home.” Wiring his new doorbell would have to wait.
“Good.” Dawn nodded. “I was thinking I could contact Cheryl Lowrey at the Nuthatch and offer to help with her campaign. She’s my mentor from the chamber of commerce New Business Owner Program, and we get along great.”
“Cheryl’s Brittany’s opponent, right?”
Dawn nodded. “Yes. Only so far, it seems like she’s barely trying.”
“I haven’t seen any Cheryl Lowrey posters, but there are Believe in Brittany signs everywhere.” Warren’s stomach clenched, remembering the horrible things Brittany had said last night. He couldn’t believe he’d paid for that fancy French dinner that tasted like it had come from a cardboard box. “I wonder how much campaign signs cost?”
“I don’t know.” Dawn turned down the volume on the radio when it went to commercials. “I won’t be able to compete with Will Gladstone’s money, not even if I asked Mark to help me, which I won’t. But maybe I could sponsor a fundraiser for Cheryl’s campaign.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve firefighter calendars, I’m in.” He smiled when she burst out laughing. Maybe his flirting skills weren’t so rusty after all.
“I wasn’t thinking about a calendar until you mentioned it.” Dawn looked at him and winked. “But that’s not a bad idea.”
Warren folded his arms across his chest. “Not going to happen.”
“But I want to see what that tattoo is on your arm.” Dawn looked over at his left bicep. “I can only see half of it.”
That sounded like a come-on to him. Warren grinned and pulled up his sleeve. “It’s Minnie Mouse with Mikaela’s name and birthdate.”
“I didn’t know you liked Disney.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a Mousehead, but I’d be the first to say that the happiest place on earth really is the happiest place on earth.”
“I love Disney World and Disneyland. I pull Sierra out of school the first week of December each year, so we can go when the crowds are smallest.”
Warren wished he could afford to do that too. “Their kitchen protocols are impressive for food allergies. Mikaela is allergic to peanuts. We went to Disneyland when she was four, and the chefs came out and spoke to us at each restaurant in the park.”
“Have you gone back since?”
Warren shook his head. “I’m saving for a trip next year. Until then, our vacations revolve around borrowing my friend Saul’s camper and visiting the national parks. We went to Mount Rainier last summer, and this August, we’re going to the North Cascades.”
“I’ve always wanted an RV.” Dawn sighed longingly. “I’m horrible at fixing things, though, and something always breaks on a travel trailer.”
“You can say that again.” Warren chuckled. “When we were in Rainier, one of the slide-outs wouldn’t stay out, and I had to jimmy it with a hemlock branch.”
“See? I wouldn’t have been able to figure that out. I’m not mechanical like my dad was. He was always fixing things on our trailer when my sister and I were growing up.”
“You can sew, though. That’s a handy skill to have when owning an RV. Saul’s camper has ripped cushions and torn curtains. It needs a sprucing up big time.”
“That part of RV ownership, I’d be great at. Backing into tight spaces, not so much.” Dawn shuddered. “Parallel parking in Ballard is as hard as I go.”
“Parking doesn’t bother me.” Warren pulled down the sun visor to shield his eyes. He’d left his glasses in his car. “Mikaela’s my sticking point. As much as I love to get her away from a screen and immersed in nature, she gets bored after twenty minutes.”
“What about hiking or fishing?”
“She likes those activities... to a point. But when we come back to camp and it’s time to relax, she starts rolling her eyes at any suggestion I make.”
“Could she bring a friend with her? My sister, Wendy, was one of the best parts of camping when I was little.”
“We offered to bring her friend Emilie this year, but her parents said no.” Warren sighed, remembering the sting. “They said they didn’t feel comfortable sending her since Mikaela’s mom wasn’t coming too.”
“But you’re divorced.”
“Yup.”
“So it was because you’re a single dad?”
Warren nodded. “To be fair, I don’t trust Emilie’s parents either. The one time I let Mikaela go over there for a slumber party, they gave the girls M&Ms. Luckily Mikaela didn’t eat them because she knew they could be cross-contaminated, but still...”
“That was careless. I don’t know Emilie’s parents very well, but I remember they were fifteen minutes late picking her up from Sierra’s birthday party.”
“That’s annoying.” Warren felt weird, discussing Emilie’s parents like this, but it also felt good to vent. “They’ve been late picking Emilie up from my house too.”
“Back to the calendar idea—” Dawn started.
“Nope,” Warren interrupted. “Not going to happen.”
“You didn’t let me finish!” Dawn smirked. “What if it was a baked goods calendar from the Nuthatch Bakery? Each picture could be something different, like blackberry tarts for August or apple fritters for September.”
“Pumpkin pie for October and pecan for November. That’s a great idea.”
“My friend Melanie’s a photographer, and she’d probably take the pictures for free.”
“You’d still have production costs, though,” Warren pointed out. “And the whole point would be to raise money to print campaign posters.”
“True.”
“And we’re not even sure Cheryl wants our help. She doesn’t seem serious about campaigning against Brittany to begin with.”
“I’m not sure why,” said Dawn. “I’ll ask her. But I bet she will be once she knows what’s at stake for the beach.”
“You know,” said Warren, thinking back to his other experiences with fundraising, “another way to raise money would be a pancake breakfast. When I first started at Harper Landing Fire, we hosted a fundraiser to raise money for burn victims at Harborview Medical Center.”
“I remember volunteering at that when I was in high school. My dance studio performed a number.”
“In the apparatus bay.” Warren could still picture the dancing girls in their fishnet stockings and bowler hats, even though it had been nineteen or twenty years ago. “I was twenty-one at the time and a brand-new probie. How old were you?”
“I was a sophomore. So fifteen, I guess.”
“You guys were great. I didn’t know you were a dancer.”
“Yeah. Lottie Burke from the Red Slipper was my instructor.”
“Cool.” Warren had a dancing background himself but didn’t feel like revealing that information.
When he’d lived with Uncle Mike, he’d been dragged to Normamma Hall twice a week for lessons in halling, a traditional Norwegian folk dance. They were always short on teen boys, and Uncle Mike had scored major points with his Sons of Norway friends for bringing new blood into the mix. Warren’s costume still hung in the back of his closet, even though it no longer fit.
“I danced for twelve years.” Dawn slipped on a pair of large black sunglasses. “First in Kennewick and then at the Red Slipper, which was in the same building the Forgotten Hug is in now.”
“That’s cool,” said Warren, “but also sad that the dance studio is gone.”
He’d never thought about enrolling Mikaela in dance lessons, but she might like that more than soccer. If he was going to confess his secret halling skills to anyone, it would be Mikaela. Maybe Mrs. Olson was right, and he should join the local Sons of Norway lodge in Harper Landing.
“I think about Madame Burke every time I hang a quilt over the ballet barre,” said Dawn. “I took ballroom lessons in college and always tried to get Mark interested, but dancing wasn’t his thing.”
“Ballroom, like the box step and waltz?” Warren knew those steps too, thanks to the Lutefisk and Meatball Banquet.
“Yeah, and the two-step and polka.”
“I don’t polka,” Warren blurted without meaning to.
“But you waltz?” Dawn pushed her sunglasses up and gave him an excited look before focusing back on the road.
“A little,” he admitted. “Normal waltzing, not Viennese.” He was surprised at how quickly the terms came back to him.
Uncle Mike had been a great waltzer. All the widows at Normamma Hall had fought over him. He’d been tall with shoulder-length silver hair and always wore a freshly pressed suit.
“Where did you learn to waltz? Did your parents teach you?”
Oh boy, there’s no escaping it now. Warren scratched his jawline and tried to figure out why he didn’t want to talk about this. He wasn’t ashamed of his mad skills on the dance floor. Halling was fun, and it had been the lone bright spot his sophomore and junior years. Home with Uncle Mike meant sleeping on a fold-out couch in the living room and waking up early in the morning to build cabinets. But it had also meant Friday-night dinners at the lodge and learning to cuss in Norwegian. Warren felt flooded with emotion, thinking about it now.
“It’s easier talking about the fire that burned down my house than it is about dancing,” he said gruffly.
They were entering Harper Landing, and the familiar streets brought Warren a little peace, which he needed at the moment.
“Why?” Dawn asked.
“I told you about my great-uncle, right?”
Dawn nodded. “Your uncle Mike, who took you in after the fire.”
“His real name was Mickael, but he went by Mike. It’s where I came up with the name Mikaela.”
“You named her after your great-uncle who took you in during a difficult time?”
“Yeah.” Warren cleared his throat and used the moment to gather himself. “He was old, really old. And he’d been planning on selling his cabinetry business and moving into a retirement home when the fire happened. But he couldn’t bring me with him to an old folks’ home, so he kept at it, working fifty hours a week when he could have been enjoying retirement and taking it easy.”
“He must have loved you a lot,” said Dawn in a quiet voice.
Warren folded his hands in his lap. He couldn’t believe he was talking about this. “He loved my mom even more. She was his only niece. Uncle Mike didn’t have any children of his own, and she was his princess. Whenever he used to visit us, he’d stock our freezer with smoked fish that he caught with his buddies out on the Sound.”
“Was he a dancer?”
“Yes. He danced all the time at the Sons of Norway lodge. Uncle Mike was an active member.”
“It sounds like we both had dramatically eventful sophomore years.” Dawn clicked on her blinker and turned onto her street. “My parents got divorced, and I moved to Harper Landing, while you survived a fire and moved in with your uncle.” She put her sunglasses in their compartment. “But I didn’t learn another language, so you win.”
“I didn’t realize it was a competition.” Warren was relieved that she didn’t press him for more details.
Uncle Mike did finally make it to the old folks’ home, where as expected, the ladies loved him. He’d lived long enough to see Warren earn his associate degree from community college and gain acceptance to the Fire Academy. But two decades later, his uncle’s death from heart disease still hurt. Life with Uncle Mike was what had transformed him from a boy into a man.
“You know what this means?” Dawn slapped the steering wheel. “You can be my date for the chamber of commerce fundraiser at the yacht club this September.” She looked at him with sparkling blue eyes. “They’re going to have a dance band.”
“Are you asking me out?” Warren’s eyebrows shot up. “Two months from now?”
“Well, yeah.” Dawn pulled in front of her house then began backing into her driveway. “I guess I am. Good-looking men who can dance are a hot commodity around here.”
“Are you saying I’m hot?” Warren grinned as he watched her squirm.
“Don’t get a big head about it.” Dawn turned off the car. “You still have awful taste in women.”
“I don’t know if that’s true anymore.” Warren rested his elbow on the center console and leaned forward. “Because I’m beginning to like you a lot.”
He noticed her flush, and it made his pulse beat wildly. He was so close that he could reach over and kiss her lips, which were the same color as her cotton dress. Her bare shoulders were tempting too. But should he risk it? Like Dawn said, he had horrible judgement when it came to women. Maybe he was misreading signals.
“I like you too,” she said breathily.
Nope, he wasn’t misreading the signals. “Was it my company?” Warren asked. “Or my killer antiquing instincts?”
Dawn leaned toward him ever so slightly. “You did seem pretty excited about those vintage hose attachment thingies.”
“Nozzles.” Warren smelled the sweet lavender scent of her shampoo. “Made of brass.”
He loved how her teeth were slightly crooked and how she was gently biting down on her bottom lip. But maybe that meant she didn’t want a kiss. Warren was so rusty at this. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
Don’t overthink it, he told himself. He unbuckled his seatbelt, cupped her face with both hands, and crushed their lips together with a delicious pressure that sent shivers down his spine. Her tongue tasted like maple sugar, and her skin felt like silk. When she grabbed his torso and pulled him toward her, he knew his risk had paid off. Dawn was kissing him back with an intensity that matched his own. He closed his eyes, immersing himself in the moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made out in a driveway like this, not since high school, at least. Newness and unfettered optimism lifted him up, buoying his spirits until he floated on joy. He slipped his hand down and undid her seatbelt so they could be closer. When it caught on her arm, she jerked back, and the moment sank.
“Sorry,” said Warren, breathing hard. He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the seatbelt debacle or his out-of-practice kissing skills.
“Why are you apologizing?” Dawn untangled her arm from the seatbelt. “I’m the one with coffee breath.” She swept her curly blond hair away from her forehead.
“I didn’t even notice.” Warren stared at her mouth, desperate to kiss it again, knowing he should wait for an invitation. “All I tasted was maple bars, and those are my favorite.”
“Well then,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “it’s a good thing I don’t like chocolate.”
She clutched the collar of his shirt and pulled him back for a blissful round two.