Chapter 8
PATTON
Bright and early the next day, I’m at the old firehouse with my keys, a measuring tape, and a fierce determination to make meeting Vincenza quick and painless.
She is already here because, of course, she’s early. Bundled up like a snow bunny, she wears a cream-colored coat with a faux fur-trimmed hood. Her hair is pulled back in a neat bun, and under her mittened hands, she carries a clipboard.
“Good morning!” she says as bright as the February sun reflecting off the snow. “Thanks for doing this before your meeting.”
I mutter, “Let’s get this over with.”
“Absolutely. Efficiency is my middle name.”
“I thought it was Sparkles-Sequins-Sticky Notes.”
She stops walking. Blinks at me. “That’s three names.” As if belatedly realizing something, a crease forms between her eyebrows. “Wait, did you just make a joke?”
“No.” Feeling punchy, I lean over and peer at her clipboard, pointing. “Says so right here.”
Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold.
“That was definitely a joke.”
“It was a statement of fact.”
Her mouth twitches. I almost glimpse a smile. “Do you need coffee? You’re acting weird.”
“You’re the one gripping a clipboard before seven in the morning.”
“Someone has to be organized.”
“Someone could also relax.” I rub my hand over my face after an emergency call made for a long night.
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’m relaxed.”
“Sure and my middle name is Glitter Gremlin.”
She looks like she’s about to explode with laughter, but doesn’t trust it.
Without thinking too deeply about the direction my comments might take this conversation, I ask, “What’s a person named Vincenza’s middle name and how do you get Winnie out of Vincenza?”
“The obvious nickname would’ve been Vinny, but I already have an uncle by that name. When my brother was little, his V’s sounded like W’s, so I just became Winnie.” She shrugs as if that’s a reasonable explanation, but I don’t get her middle name out of her.
I unlock the man-door and enter the old fire house. The building smells like sawdust, slightly damp brick, and home. I swipe the switches on the bank of overhead lights and they flicker to life. The main bay is gutted—exposed beams, concrete floors, and the brass pole glinting in the early light.
Vincenza steps inside and her lips part. “This place is amazing.”
“It needs work.”
“But I can see its character. The stories it could tell. The ones it will when you open the bakery.” She runs her hand along the brick wall.
My mouth dips because, according to the pattern we established—as enemies or rivals, according to the guys—never mind the permitting headache, she’s not supposed to show any interest in this place.
“How long was this the active fire station?”
“Over a hundred years. Until the county commissioned the new complex.”
“And now it’s going to be a bakery.”
“That’s the plan.”
She turns to me and her expression fills with curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps interest that’s less like a professional obligation laced with irritation and more like …? But what this is, I’m not sure. “Why a bakery?”
The question catches me off guard. “Why not?”
“I’m serious. You’re a firefighter. Why not open a gym or brewery or something … firefighter-y?”
I could blow her off. Give a surface answer. But her soft gaze makes me pause.
“Captain Kendrick left me this building. He was like a father to me and he had a sweet tooth.”
Her eyebrows bob. “That’s really … sweet.”
The door bangs open. Austin strides in, followed by Scotty, James, and Hayes. They’re like prairie dogs popping up from holes, appearing exactly when I don’t need them.
Austin grins. “Winnie! You’re here early.”
“Site measurements,” she explains, holding up her clipboard like they’re the police and we were caught in the middle of committing a crime. “I was asking about this place. It’s really cool. I’ve never been in this kind of fire station before.”
“We used to call it the ‘House,’” Scotty says.
“Home sweet home,” James adds.
“Makes a certain kind of sense since you’ll be baking sweets. How did you come up with Crush Cakes?” She glances at me, likely recalling when I wouldn’t share one with her.
James chuckles. “So one night, Austin here was trying to impress a girl—”
“We’re not doing this,” I interrupt.
As if giving a fire oxygen, Austin launches into the story with unbound enthusiasm.
“She loved cupcakes. I thought, how hard can it be to bake?
Spoiler alert: not easy. After looking up an intimidating recipe, I opted to buy a box mix.
Following the directions, I whipped ‘em up, put them on a paper plate covered in tin foil—”
“And sat on them,” James finishes.
Making jazz hands, Reese says, “And Crush Cakes were born.”
“I didn’t know that part.” Hayes clutches his stomach, laughing.
“I had a bench seat in my truck and they slid over when I stopped to get gas,” Austin says defensively.
Vincenza’s hand flies to her mouth with laughter as her eyes crinkle and her shoulders shake.
“But here’s the thing,” Scotty continues. “They were still good. Better, even.”
James says, “The compression made them denser, richer. Like life literally crushed them and they came out stronger.”
I add, “Which was like what Cap always said.”
We all go quiet because the man looms larger than life, even in death.
“What was that?” Vincenza asks.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Cap always said that whether you get knocked down at work or in life, always get back up.”
“Rise up,” Austin adds.
James follows, “Stand tall.”
“Repeat,” Scotty adds.
The mood and morale rise and stand at attention.
Then, with a flourish, Reese says, “When life crushes you, make cake.”
“That is profound,” Vincenza says. “And the cake part is hilarious. Did you get the girl, Austin?”
He glances at his feet. “Nope.”
James says, “But a new dessert at the house got played on repeat.”
Hayes adds, “Definitely worth it.”
They all grin at Vincenza like she’s passed a probie test. As if she’s one of us now. She smiles back, then asks questions about recipes and renovation styles.
That first day I saw her at the beginning of the summer before I left on assignment, this is exactly what I was afraid of.
Her fitting in.
Her becoming part of this.
Her making it harder to keep my distance.
I cut in, “We should take those measurements. I have to get on the road.” And not a minute too soon.
Her smile dims slightly. “Right. Yes. Work.”
The guys exchange looks I ignore.
Vincenza and I spend the next twenty minutes measuring doorways, discussing ramp angles, and marking spots for handrails. She’s thorough, professional, and asks smart questions about traffic flow and winter conditions.
When we’re done, she tucks her clipboard under her arm. “I’ll have the permit drafted by the end of the day. Should be approved by next week.”
“Thanks.”
“And Monday morning, we really do need to finalize the Fireman’s Ball timeline.”
“I’ll be there.”
“On time?”
“I’m never late.”
“We’ll see.” There’s a challenge in her voice. A spark I recognize from trivia night and it disarms me.
The guys tucked back into their prairie dog holes or wherever they’d appeared from.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Me too. Big day of permit reviewing ahead.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“It’s riveting. You should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather—” But I’m not sure what, because I realize that we’re standing close.
When did that happen? I can smell her perfume again and the little beauty mark above her lip teases me.
“See you Monday,” she says.
“Monday.”
She heads for the door, then pauses. “Patton?”
“What?”
“This place is going to be great. Captain Kendrick would be proud.”
The words unexpectedly hit the dense part of my chest. Not trusting my voice, I nod.
She leaves, and I stand in the empty firehouse, surrounded by sawdust and memories and the ghost of her presence.
My phone buzzes.
Austin: She’s nice.
Me: She’s nosy.
Austin: She laughed at my story.
Me: Everyone laughs at your stories. Usually AT you, not WITH you.
Austin: You like her.
Me: I tolerate her.
Austin: How generous of you.
Me: She’s competent.
Austin: Not helping your case.
Me: Serviceable.
Austin: Now you’re just being weird.
I don’t respond because the truth makes a riotous crawl into my awareness. If I pretend I don’t like her, I can convince myself not to in a bizarre version of “fake it until you make it.”
I’m toast. I lock up the firehouse and head to my truck, intent on driving far, far away from these thoughts. Carson City is an hour’s ride. I have a department meeting about budget allocations and equipment upgrades. Important stuff. Things that matter.
But my mind repeatedly jumps ahead in time to Monday morning and meeting the woman with the deep, mocha eyes and full lips who will undoubtedly be waiting for me.
For the first time, the notion of going back to the house alone doesn’t seem too appealing.