Chapter 2 #2
“No. They rubber stamp everything Lucas decides. The big hurdle was getting him on board.”
“Then what happens?”
“As soon as they approve the measure, I'll set up an account at the bank to fund the department.
You'll need to submit an initial budget to me, and I'll start disbursing funds to you.
At the end of every quarter, you'll send me an accounting statement of what money you've spent and how.
I'll use that to adjust your funding for the next quarter.”
He held the folder out to her. “I already built an initial operating budget. It's in the package.”
She nodded back and took the folder. Efficient, he was. She liked that about him.
“You’ll need to apply for an occupancy permit, but you don’t need to wait for the town council vote to submit that. I’ll have the mayor sign it as soon as it comes in, and you can get to work in the station.”
He nodded. “I’ll get right on filing that.” A pause. “As soon as I figure out how to do it.”
She smiled warmly. His uncertainty on how to proceed after he marched into the mayor’s office so confidently was rather endearing. “Let me print one up for you now.” She typed quickly, and in a moment, her printer disgorged the blank application.
“Thanks.”
He sat down in the visitor chair by her desk and filled out the form in neat, precise handwriting. She took the form from him and carried it into Lucas’s office. The mayor was on a call, so she dropped the application in her boss’s in-basket.
Gray was still standing by her desk when she emerged. She asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
He hesitated. She recognized the look. He was working up to asking for something.
With a cautious glance at the closed door to Lucas’s office, he lowered his voice. “The blueprints we talked about. Would it be possible for me to look at those sometime?”
She murmured back, “They're in the city's document storage unit. I have the key. I can let you in and help you find what you’re looking for.”
“Whenever works for you. No rush.”
But the way he said it, too casual, too unpressured, told her it was anything but casual. He wanted those blueprints. She didn't know why, and she wasn't going to ask. Most of the answers that came to mind were possibilities she shied away violently from thinking about.
“I'll check my schedule and let you know,” she said.
He thanked her again and left.
She turned back to her screen and did not think about silver eyes, broad shoulders, or jeans that fit just right
No, siree. Not her.
Bonnie didn't intend to go to the fire station.
But then Lucas stepped out of his office after lunch and said, “Drop these off to the Lawton boy.” He handed her the signed building occupancy permit and a stack of forms that would need to be filled out before it reopened.
The mayor disappeared back into his office, and she heard the distinctive rolling clicks of his safe unlocking. He came back a moment later and handed her a ring of keys. “These belong to the firehouse. I think the spare engine and ambulance keys are on there, too.”
She nodded and took them. Her hand inexplicably trembled as she grasped the cold metal ring of keys.
Death. She associated the firehouse with death.
It might not be where the eight lost firefighters were interred, but to her, the station looked like one of those fancy mausoleums rich folks buried their families in.
She put the keys in her bag along with the paperwork and headed out to her car. She would leave them in the fire station mailbox on her way home.
But when she pulled up to the station, one of its two big garage doors was lifted. The sight of the station opened up was a visceral shock. She hadn't seen the building look anything other than abandoned in four years.
Gray must already be cleaning up the place or maybe working on the fire engine.
As she turned into the station's parking lot, she saw him through the open door, sleeves rolled up, working his way down the engine bay with a push broom. A cloud of dust rose behind him.
The sun transformed the years of grime into fairy dust hanging in the air, coating everything it touched in glittering gold. The fire engine stood in the bay beside Gray, its red paint dulled to the color of dried blood under a thick layer of dust.
She'd known she would have to come here eventually. Reopening the fire station was a municipal project, and she was the municipality. There would be inspections, permits, paperwork. She couldn't avoid this building forever.
Deep breath. You can do this. You’re just dropping off some papers and keys. Two minutes and you can leave.
This place had always been the exclusive sanctuary of the firefighters. The wives were invited a few times a year to come to dinner or bring the kids to a picnic in the big training field behind the station. But mostly, only the men had hung out here.
Two nights a week, each guy in the department had been on call with another firefighter. The pair slept in the firehouse and made ambulance runs as needed in Cobbler Cove and the surrounding area.
In the event there was a serious accident, usually a car crash, or in the rare event there was an actual fire, the two guys on call got the fire engine and ambulance ready to roll while the other firefighters rushed over to the station, jumped in their gear, and piled into the vehicles.
She didn't feel ready to face going into the station. Maybe she would never be ready. It was the last place Brent was alive before the fire. This was a bad idea. She reached for her car’s ignition switch.
But the side door of the station, the one leading from the parking lot to the living area, opened just then. Grayson stuck his head out and made eye contact with her.
Rats.
She got out of the car reluctantly. Said hello in response to his mildly surprised greeting. Walked to the door Grayson held open politely for her. Why did this feel like walking to her own execution?
The answer to that was obvious. She had no wish to face the memories—the guilt—this place was bound to dredge up.
The smell hit her first. Stale air. Dust. The faint ghost of diesel fuel. And underneath it all, something she couldn't name. It was the gloomy scent of a place that had been sealed up for a long time with its grief locked inside.
She froze at the edge of the common room, her senses reeling at the half-circle of recliners. She'd forgotten about those. Brent always sat in the one just to the left of the center one reserved for JB Henderson, the fire chief.
An urge to go over and touch the headrest of Brent's recliner nearly overcame her. That was the last place his head had touched before he died.
How weird was that?
Gray spoke quietly from behind her, a gentle quality to his voice as if he realized it would be hard for her to come in her. “What brings you down here?”
His sympathy nearly undid her. She paused for a moment to fight back a wave of tears.
“I brought—” Her voice broke, and she took a wobbly breath. Tried again. “I brought the signed permit and the next batch of paperwork for you.”
She pulled the key ring and stack of forms out of her bag. Her voice came out reasonably steady. Whew. Breakdown averted. “Just so you know, this is the first of many stacks of forms there will be for you to fill out.”
Well done, Self. She didn't sound as if she was on the verge of bolting out of here like she'd seen a ghost. Specifically, her husband's ghost.
“Thanks,” he replied evenly. “You can set those anywhere.”
She stepped over to the counter where whoever had cooked supper used to lay it out buffet-style. She laid down the keys and forms softly, so as not to stir the thick layer of dust hiding the white quartz countertop the guys had installed just a few weeks before the fire.
Delivery completed. She could leave now.
But she didn't leave.
She turned and looked around the day room.
It was exactly as she remembered in some ways, and worse than she'd imagined in others. The eight recliners in an arc in front of the big projection screen on the far wall were dusty and forlorn, the indents of their occupants' bodies still visible beneath a layer of gray filth.
The row of hooks above the coffee maker still held a half-dozen mugs. Thankfully, Brent's oversized mug with the loud proclamation, “World's Hottest Fire Fighter” wasn't there.
It hadn't been returned to her with Brent's other personal effects. She supposed it was in the house, somewhere. Maybe still waiting in the kitchen sink to be washed or maybe in the dishwasher that had never been unloaded these past four years.
A few jackets hung on pegs by the door, name tags on masking tape above each hook too faded to read, now. A bulletin board still had a duty roster pinned to it, the paper yellowed and curling around the edges, the names of dead men written in JB's careful hand.
She spotted Brent's name on the roster. His day off was marked. Tuesday. The fire had been on a Tuesday.
He hadn't been on duty that day. He'd slept in the bunk room Monday night and had been hanging around the station Tuesday because his wife was mad at him and had locked him out of their house the night before.
Brent wasn't supposed to be here that day. He was supposed to be at home, his pager turned off.
If she'd let him stay—
She shut that thought down with the sharp ruthlessness of four years of practice.
Grayson spoke behind her. “Are you okay? This must be difficult for you. Being back here like this.”
She nodded, at a loss for words.
Her gaze landed on the framed picture beside the television, and she almost broke.
It was a photograph blown up nearly to poster size of the eight members of the Cobbler Cove Fire Department.
They wore their turnout pants—heavy yellow canvas with reflective stripes around the ankles and held up by suspenders—and dark blue T-shirts with the logo of the Cobbler Cove Fire Department in white.
The guys grinned and mugged for the camera in dumb bodybuilder poses.