2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Brandy
The Denture Fire Department, the community center, and the police station were essentially all connected by hallways in one large brick building that was surrounded by an enormous parking lot. I was pretty sure if everyone in Denture parked in the lot, there would still be extra spots.
My office building was down the street a tad too far to walk if I was wearing heels, which, since I was trying to make a good impression, I was.
I pulled in, parked, and sat in my car for a minute.
I wasn't nervous. I was absolutely not nervous.
I was a fifty-year-old woman who had managed the office staff of a manufacturing plant for over twenty years.
The same fifty-year-old who was starting a whole new career, a whole new life. I closed my eyes and swallowed.
“Nope, I can do this.” I looked in the rearview mirror. “I’m not going there. Damn it, I'm fun, they’ll love me,” I told myself like the talk show I'd watched last week instructed us to do.
I felt more confident. “Huh, maybe that guy wasn't a quack after all.” I grabbed my notebook, checked my lipstick again in the rearview mirror, and got out of the car.
The bay doors were open, both of them, and the enormous trucks were inside.
I’d never been this close to a fire truck.
Everything about it screamed it was powerful and meant business.
The place was clean and organized in that particular way that told you whoever ran this place ran it like a religion.
Hoses coiled just so. Gear hung in identical rows.
A floor so clean you could eat off it, which I would not be doing, but the option was clearly there.
I was two steps into the bay when something the approximate size and weight of a small horse materialized out of nowhere and planted itself directly in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
The biggest dog I had ever seen in my life had his head cocked to one side and was eyeing me as if I had either stolen his favorite toy or we were now BFFs.
One of the two, and I hoped it was the latter one.
Black and white, giant, with a head the size of a basketball and eyes that were now looking at me with the calm authority of the one who ran this place, and he knew it.
“Oh,” I breathed. “Hello there.”
He sniffed my outstretched hand with great dignity. Then leaned the full, considerable weight of his head directly into my palm like he'd known me for years and had simply been waiting for me to show up.
“So, BFFs, huh?” I mumbled, and right then and there I was in love with this massive Great Dane.
“Cap, back off, you're going to cover her in hair.”
The dog didn’t move, but I looked up to see who was talking.
The voice belonged to a handsome man on the stairs who was tall in the way that filled a doorway without trying, with the kind of clean jawline that had absolutely no business existing in real life.
Green eyes, short dark brown hair slightly graying at the temples.
He was in his dark blue uniform pants and a matching uniform T-shirt that was tight around his biceps and upper chest. He had the posture of a man who had never slouched a day in his life but had definite opinions about people who did.
He was, without a doubt, the reason women said they liked a man in a uniform. Because right now, I certainly did.
“Cap, is that your name?” I asked, giving the dog another scratch. Cap scooted closer to me, so he was against my leg. “He's wonderful.”
“He thinks so.” Something in his expression shifted, not quite a smile but possibly in the neighborhood of one, before it was gone.
He crossed the bay toward me with his hand extended as he eyed me.
“Usually, he barks his head off when a stranger's around.” The man moved his green eyes up to mine. “Can I help you with something?”
“I'm Brandy Wilson, the new—”
“Ah, the community ambassador. I'm Nick Carson.” He held out his hand, giving me a firm, efficient handshake that, when it was over, I instantly missed.
“The mayor sends his regards. He thought I should come and introduce myself.” I explained why I was here. Had the mayor sent his regards? Technically, no.
Something flickered across his face at that comment.
“I'm sure he does.” He glanced at my notebook, then back at my face, and I got the very distinct impression that Nick Carson already knew exactly why I was standing in his bay and had some thoughts about it that he'd keep to himself.
“I'd give you the tour myself, but I have a call in—” his eyes cut briefly to the large silver wall clock — “seven minutes.”
“Of course, I should have called. Please, don't let me—”
“Jo,” he said without raising his voice, the way people said things when they're confident they'll be heard.
A woman appeared from around the side of the truck.
She appeared to be about twenty years younger than me, solid and capable looking, with short dark hair that was cut in a masculine style.
Jo had an expression that said she found most situations mildly amusing.
She wiped her hands on her dark uniform pants and looked me over in a way that was direct without being rude.
“Jo, this is Brandy Wilson, the new Community Ambassador. Give her the tour, will you?” He looked at me. “Ms. Wilson, nice to meet you.”
And then he was gone, back through the interior door, leaving me with Jo and Cap and the distinct impression that I had just been dismissed in a very efficient way.
Jo and I watched him go. Then she looked at me.
“Don't take it personally,” she said. “He's like that with everyone.”
“The mayor said he was thorough,” I offered.
The corner of her mouth went up. “Sure,” she said. “We'll go with that.” She jerked her head. “Come on. I'll show you around.”
Jo, Cap, and I headed around the same truck she'd first appeared from.
I decided within approximately fifteen minutes that Jo was the best kind of person.
The kind who told you exactly what they thought without being mean about it, who knew everything about everyone and shared it at the appropriate volume and snark.
She showed me the trucks, the equipment, the hoses rigged and ready. Jo explained things like someone who loved their job without needing you to be impressed by it. I was impressed anyway. All of it.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Eleven years.” She said it simply. “Longer than half these guys.”
“Eleven years? You can’t be that old.”
She chuckled. “Thanks, I’ll have whatever you’ve been drinking.”
I laughed.
“I’ve always looked younger than I am. I’m thirty-nine.”
“Damn, girl,” I was floored. “I would have never guessed. Is it hard to do the job at your age?”
“You mean as a woman?” Jo put her hands in her pockets.
“Well, yeah.” I felt a twinge of embarrassment for asking, but I really wanted to know. “Is it?”
“It can be, especially when the young bucks come up. But I work out, and that helps.” She smiled and leaned against the wall. “Plus, there’s no substitute for experience.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
Cap, who'd stuck with us the entire time, pressed himself against my leg in a way that suggested he had adopted me and considered the matter settled.
“He likes you,” Jo said, rubbing his head.
“The feeling’s mutual.”
We passed through the common area, which was a big open room with a long wooden table that could easily seat twenty. We rounded the corner into the kitchen, and Jo stopped so abruptly I nearly walked into her back.
“Oh great,” she said.
I leaned sideways and looked around her.
Every single cabinet in the kitchen was open, the drawers too.
All of them hanging wide, empty, cleaned out completely.
And everything that had been in them was piled on every available surface in no particular order whatsoever.
Including the open oven, microwave, and the top of the refrigerator.
“What happened?” I asked.
A man was standing at the coffee pot in the middle of all of it. He didn't turn around.
“The cops.”
“Bastards,” Jo said. “Damn, I hate to admit it, but this is a good one. Dave, this is Brandy Wilson, the, what was it again?”
“Community Ambassador. Hello.” I offered him my hand.
“Hey there, nice to meet you.” He aggressively shook my hand. “Sorry, this happened on your tour.”
Dave Thompson was exactly what his name suggested — a solid, cheerful, thoroughly normal Midwestern man who shook my hand like it was a contract of friendship.
He had a smear of something on his uniform shirt.
He immediately told me his wife, Karen, made the best chili in Denture and he thought I should plan a chili cook-off.
I looked at the open cabinets. “You said the cops? What does that mean?”
“They did this. We sort of have this...” Jo paused.
“Thing. It's a thing,” Thompson interjected. “A big thing.”
“Yeah, a thing with the cops. Kind of a practical-joke tug-of-war.” She said as she was already moving to the nearest counter, picking things up and putting them back in the correct cabinet.
“Can I help?” I put my notebook down and started handing her things.
“Did the chief see it?” Jo asked Thompson.
“He's the one who found it.” Thompson poured his coffee. “I heard him swearing from the bunk room.”
“No one saw them come in?” I asked.
“Nope,” Dave said, causing Jo to wince.
“Can't the chiefs put an end to this?” I asked, handing over two bottles of olive oil.
Thompson laughed. “Never happen.”
“Those two have been doing this for years,” Jo continued. “Back and forth. To be fair, last month we covered McAlister's office with Post-it notes.”
“Covered every surface,” Thompson said, with a pride that suggested this may have been his idea. He pulled out his phone and showed me pictures of a bright yellow office.
“We heard it took three guys an hour to get them all,” Jo said with a smile.
“So, you're both okay with causing the other's messes?” I said, gathering silverware.
“Yeah, keeps the job from getting boring.” Thompson shrugged.
I looked around the kitchen at Jo and Thompson, putting things back with the calm of people for whom this was simply part of the job, and the open cabinets slowly filling back up.
I guess if it didn’t bother them.
I picked up a stack of travel mugs and started putting them away.
When it was over, we all sat down for a much-deserved break.
That's when I looked at the wall behind the table.
A long stretch of photos, framed and hung with the kind of care that told you they mattered.
The pictures were all of kids climbing on fire trucks and running through the sprays off the firehouse.
Each had a plaque on the bottom that read Kids Safety Week and the year.
Eleven years of it, by my count, running the length of the wall in chronological order.
The bigger frames were surrounded by smaller ones of kids in plastic firefighter hats sitting in truck cabs.
Little hands pressed into ink pads and then onto paper, fingerprints blooming into a hundred tiny records of a hundred tiny people.
Kids pulling the hoses through an obstacle course.
Firefighters crouched down to kid level, patient and smiling. Year after year after year.
“That's our Safety Week. We love it,” Jo said beside me. Her voice was different — quieter, warmer. “The whole crew does. Chief started it my first year.”
We left the dining room and headed down the hall. A younger man who could easily be the cover model of a firefighter calendar nearly walked into us as he rounded a corner.
“Scott,” Jo snapped.
“Sorry, sorry.” He recovered fast, snapping straight, and stuck out his chest and his hand. He was young — mid-twenties maybe — with the particular posture of someone recently out of the military who was still remembering that he was allowed to relax now. “Hello, ma'am. I'm Scott.”
“Brandy Wilson. Community Ambassador.”
“Oh yeah, that's a sweet title. You need it on business cards.” He smiled a smile that I was certain all the young ladies in town texted about. “What is a Community Ambassador anyway?”
“Scott’s the rookie.” Jo's voice dropped one degree.
“Like you know what a Community Ambassador does?”
“No, but that's for Ms. Wilson to tell us, when and if she wants to.”
I put my hands up. “First, call me Brandy. All this Ms. Wilson sounds like kids in my mother's classroom. I'm just Brandy. Second, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what a Community Ambassador does either, other than plan events, that is.”
“Cool. Well, I'm off to the shower. It was nice to meet you.” Scott stepped around us and walked away.
Jo and I glanced at each other and, smiling, shook our heads as we both understood the unspoken knowledge women had about men.
“Well,” I said when we arrived back where we started. I crouched to give Cap a proper goodbye scratch. “Thank you for the tour, Jo. Genuinely. I really appreciate the hospitality.”
“You're welcome.” Jo leaned against the truck with her arms crossed and looked at me in that direct way of hers. Then she pushed off the truck and pulled out her phone. “You got plans tonight?”
“I—” I blinked. “No, not really. Just some unpacking.”
Was she asking me out?
“Good, join us for dinner. My wife's a great cook. Truthfully, she'd give Thompson's wife a run for her money in the chili department.” She said it in a way that wasn’t a challenge, just information being delivered.
“Oh, I couldn't impose—”
“Ruthie's already expecting you. Plus, she makes enough for twelve whether there are twelve people or not. I'll bet you five dollars you leave with leftovers.”
I stopped. “Expecting me?”
“Yeah, I texted her that I was giving you a tour. She insisted, as a new person in town, that I invite you over.” Jo's mouth curved. “Please don't say no to her. She'll blame me and say I didn't invite you the right way. It'll become a big issue.” She rolled her eyes.
Cap sat on my foot.
“Well, I've always loved a good bet, especially when it involves food.” I smiled. “When and where?”
Jo pulled out her phone, asked for my number, and texted me the details.
After that, Cap walked me to my car and I headed to the store before going to my office.
My grandmother always said a good guest doesn't arrive empty-handed. So, twenty minutes later, I swung by my house and picked up a bottle of wine. Then a quick stop to pick up a flower bouquet. This was, after all, my first social engagement of my new life.
Goodness knew it had to be better than the two-day-old pizza and cardboard boxes that awaited me if I stayed home.
And I had to admit, I was excited.