Chapter 6 MJ #3
The captions don’t reveal any names, so I continue my scrolling, hoping to see Oliver jump out at me. I pass posts about their annual Trunk or Treat, and I’m watching a short video of them riding in the Loving High School homecoming parade when my phone rings from beside me.
I don’t even have to check the screen to know it’s Rose doing her nightly check-in, so I swipe and put her on speaker.
“Well, are you still breathing?” she asks before I can even manage to say hello.
I click on a photo from the department’s presentation at the high school about the dangers of drinking and driving.
Again, some very attractive people, but no one I think would have elicited the glow on my daughter’s face when we spoke about him.
Lindsey doesn’t get excited about just anyone.
Whoever this guy is has to be some kind of Prince Charming, and none of these men fit the bill.
“If I wasn’t, do you really think I’d be answering the phone? I’m just having some wine.” I swirl it in my glass, clicking the trackpad to enlarge another picture.
“What are you doing, Myra Jean?” Her voice burns like an interrogation lamp. “I hear you over there tapping away on that damn computer. You know that thing will rot your brain.”
“If you must know, I’m trying to see what I can find out about this Oliver fellow.”
“In that case, proceed. Have you found anything yet?”
“Not really. A couple of possibilities, but nobody who—” I stop midsentence when I see him.
He’s got warm brown eyes and dark hair that’s just unkempt enough to tell me he doesn’t take himself too seriously.
His smile is kind and framed by the tiniest scar above his upper lip.
I read the short post that accompanies the picture: The Loving Fire Department is pleased to welcome Oliver Beckett to the crew.
“Myra Jean,” my sister says. “Did you find him?”
“Yes, I did, and he’s cute too.”
“A handsome firefighter.” She sighs into the phone. “Isn’t that the dream? Makes a girl want to fall and not be able to get up, if you catch my drift. Or maybe set a small fire. Not a big one, though, just enough to—”
“That’s brilliant.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks, and then quickly adds, “Wait. What is?”
I snap the laptop shut and plop it on the cushion beside me.
“I want to meet this guy, Rose,” I say. “Didn’t you see Lindsey?
How happy she looked? I think there could be something special about this one, but I want to see for myself.
I’ll stage a little fall. It’s a small department, so the chances of him coming on the call are high, and if he’s really as great as he sounds, maybe I can—I don’t know—give Lindsey a little nudge in the right direction. ”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Rose trills in my ear.
“There are about a million and one reasons why this is a disaster waiting to happen. Not to mention highly illegal. Besides, you’re a terrible actress.
” She sputters out a laugh. “Remember when you tried to tell the kids their goldfish went to live at SeaWorld?”
I do. They were so insistent upon calling SeaWorld to ask Goldie to come home that I finally had to come clean and tell them their beloved fish had made her final voyage straight down the toilet. The kids were traumatized for weeks.
“Come on, Rose. You saw how excited Lindsey was. She deserves to find someone who loves her—to settle down and be happy. She needs this, okay? I need this.”
Rose clicks her tongue. “You know you shouldn’t meddle in the affairs of others.”
“That’s certainly never stopped you before,” I say, and I can practically hear the smile that forms on her lips.
“Well, if we’re doing this, we’re going to do it right,” she says finally. “In a way that doesn’t land us both in the slammer for Christmas. I don’t think my book club friends will understand when I send out a card that says, ‘Merry Shiv-mas.’”
“With the stuff y’all read, I think they might. Didn’t you read some prison-themed romance last year?”
“Oh, shut up,” she says. “When are we doing this?”
“We?” I ask. “What do you mean we?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?”
“Fine, but how are we going to meet him, since you vetoed the fall idea?”
“The old-fashioned way,” she says. “With baked goods. ’Tis the season to take our first responders some delicious goodies to show our gratitude, don’t you think?”
“Yes! Of course!” Something sparks in my chest, like a pilot light being turned on for the first time in years. “So, when are we doing this thing?”
“I’ll meet you for lunch Wednesday, and we’ll take them to the fire hall.” I can practically see her rubbing her fingers together like the evil genius she is. “And tomorrow night, we bake!”
Rose arrives at my house a little after six Tuesday evening to find me in the kitchen, already working on the brown butter brownies.
“I’ve got good news.” Rose smiles as she helps herself to a cookie from the jar on the counter in the kitchen. “Oliver is working tomorrow.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I posed as Sharlene from The Loving Herald,” she says in a thick southern accent through a mouthful of snickerdoodle. “Said I was doing an introductory piece on the new hire and asked if I could schedule a time to speak with him tomorrow.”
I gasp. “You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.” There’s a mischievous glint in her forest green eyes as she reaches her hand, adorned with red-lacquered nails, back into the jar. “The receptionist tried to grab him for me tonight, because apparently he was there.”
“Did you speak to him?” We haven’t even put our plan into motion, and already she’s blowing our cover.
She waves her hand as though she’s swatting away a fly as she dawdles over to the fridge, in search of a drink. “No, of course not. I hung up when they put me on hold.”
I’m starting to get anxious. So anxious that when I move to take the butter off the stove, I trip over my own feet, sending the majority of the butter sloshing over the side of the pan and onto the floor.
I toss the pot onto the counter and crouch to dig some cleaning supplies from the cabinet under the sink. “Rose, can you grab me some more butter,” I ask over my shoulder. “And don’t step over here, all right? I spilled the—”
Rose’s scream pierces the air, followed by a loud thud. I nearly give myself a concussion whipping my head out of the cabinet.
“Rose!” I shout. “Are you okay?”
I turn to find my sister on the floor, turned toward me on one side, moaning like a whale.
“Oh my God, Rose!” I rush to her side and help ease her onto her back.
She starts to slowly move one limb at a time, stopping with a yelp when she gets to her left foot.
“I can’t move it,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “I think it’s broken. You’ve got to call for help.”
“Don’t move,” I say, rising to dig my phone out of my purse on the counter. The adrenaline pumping through me makes me so jittery that the damn thing nearly slips from my hand. I pause mid-dial and gasp. “Oh my God, Rose, what if Oliver comes?”
“Great, I hope he does,” she hisses. “You can interview him while he peels my ass off the floor.”
“Right. Sorry,” I say. I dial 911, and the dispatcher answers on the second ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Um, hi. Yes.” I clear my throat. “I need help. Well, it’s not me. It’s my sister. She’s fallen, and she can’t get up.”
Rose throws her hands up. “God, I’m the old lady in the infomercial.”
The sound of clicking on a keyboard comes through the phone. “Okay. Does it appear that she’s broken anything?”
“Woman down!” Rose cries. “I need some help here!”
“Her left foot looks pretty swollen,” I say into the phone. “I’m scared to try to move her.”
“It’s best not to move her as long she’s stable.” Stable? I definitely wouldn’t say that. “Let EMS take a look at her first. Where did she fall?”
“In the kitchen,” I answer. “She slipped on some butter.”
“I always knew food would be my downfall, but I never thought it would happen like this.” The blue vein in Rose’s forehead throbs, and she covers her face with her hands.
The dispatcher must hear her because I swear he stifles a chuckle.“All right. I just need to get a little more information from you.”
I give him our names and my address before disconnecting the call. “They’re on the way.”
“This is all your fault, you know,” she hisses. “You brought this plague upon our house when you suggested staging a fall. This is karma.”
I don’t remind her that she was the one who’d planted that idea in my head to begin with.
Less than ten minutes later, the sound of sirens in the distance grow closer. Rose is sprawled on the floor between the kitchen island and the stove with her arms splayed out.
I run to the window in the living room to peek outside, and my heart lurches into my throat when the source of the sirens comes into view.
“Rose!” I snap the curtains shut and hurry back to the kitchen. “I think the whole damn fire department’s here. There’s two fire trucks and an ambulance. And the fire marshal!”
“Dear God,” Rose wails. “How do I look?”
A pounding on the door startles us both.
“Shit!” I shake out my hands and rush back to the door, flinging it open. There on the front stoop is the fire marshal flanked by two other firefighters in their department-issued T-shirts—one of whom is Oliver.
“Hi. She’s in the—”
A strangled moan worthy of the Ghost of Christmas Past filters in from the kitchen.
“Please,” I say. “Follow me.”
I lead them to the kitchen where Rose is flopping around like a fish that’s washed ashore.
“Help me,” she cries out in a voice that falls somewhere between a squawk and a breathy Marilyn Monroe. “Please! Help!”
I clamp my lips together to stifle the nervous laughter bubbling in my throat and instead focus on Oliver, who’s surveying the scene.
“It seems you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a pickle.” The fire marshal kneels beside her, and Rose responds with a groan as she writhes around on the floor.