11. Ember
Ember
“I don’t need supervision.
I need better instructions and possibly a helmet.”
— Emmy
The white linen dress is sitting on my air mattress like a piece of abandoned high fashion, completely rejected by the realities of rural decorum.
It looked sophisticated in theory.
Elegant. Respectful. Quiet.
Unfortunately, when I put it on fifteen minutes ago, I looked less like a thoughtful attendee at a memorial service and more like I was about to divorce a senator on a yacht.
So instead, I’m staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tugging at the sleeveless black denim dress I pulled out from the bottom of my final U-Haul box.
I leave my curls down, letting them fall over my shoulders, and choose a muted, dark berry lipstick instead of my usual aggressive red.
The walk from the Gilded Goat to the main fire station on Third Street takes me about ten minutes and by the time I round the corner, the heat is already rising from the black asphalt in shimmering, wavy lines.
The entire town of Suncrest Hollow is here.
Main Street is completely blocked off by two massive, sparkling clean fire engines, their bumpers polished so bright they practically blind you in the midday sun. An enormous American flag hangs between the extended ladders of the trucks, framing the entrance to the engine bays.
The atmosphere isn’t a funeral, but it’s not a parade, either.
It’s heavy, thick with the scent of hot pavement, cheap cologne, and the faint, sweet smell of the thousands of glazed donuts Marge must have stayed up all night frying.
I step onto the apron of the station, my leather boots clicking against the concrete, and immediately feel the collective weight of forty pairs of eyes shifting toward me.
The low murmur of small talk drops by about ten decibels.
I see Martha from the historical society standing near a folding table covered in programs, her pearl necklace catching the light as she leans over to whisper something into the ear of a man in a beige suit.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” a gruff voice says from my left.
I turn and see Greg—the contractor from the bakery. He’s wearing a crisp plaid shirt, his thick arms crossed over his chest, looking at my black denim dress like I’ve shown up to a baptism in a swimsuit.
“Morning, Greg,” I say. “Lovely day for a community gathering, isn’t it?”
“Didn’t think this was really your scene, sweetheart,” Greg says. “Tommy didn’t have much use for branding strategies. This day is for the people who actually spent their lives here.”
A sharp, cold prickle of defensiveness rises up my throat, but before I can deploy a highly sarcastic corporate retort, a shadow appears next to us.
“Leave the girl alone, Greg,” Marge snaps, stepping into the space between us.
She’s holding a massive stainless-steel tray of cinnamon rolls.
“She worked a shift on my production floor without crying or breaking my aluminum bins. That’s more than your nephew did before he quit to go play video games in his mother’s basement. ”
Greg lets out a low grunt, his jaw shifting as he looks at Marge.
He doesn’t argue with her.
Nobody argues with Marge.
He just gives me one last, lingering squint before turning on his heel and walking toward the coffee station.
“Thank you, Marge,” I say, letting out a breath. “I was about to offer him a comprehensive analysis of his consumer feedback loops, and I don’t think he would have appreciated the terminology.”
“Don’t thank me,” Marge says, adjusting the heavy tray in her hands. “Just don’t stand around looking like a tourist. Help me set these rolls on the main buffet before the volunteers eat the tablecloths.”
“Consider me deployed,” I say, instantly taking one side of the heavy tray.
I say it with far more confidence than I feel.
The truth is, my stomach is tight.
Like I’ve accidentally wandered into somebody else’s family reunion.
We work our way through the crowded engine bay, sliding past groups of older men in faded veterans’ caps and young moms holding toddlers.
I put down the empty tray and then I see him.
Oh.
Oh, that is deeply unfair.
Brooks is standing at the front of the bay, right next to the brass memorial bell.
He is wearing his formal dress uniform—the white chief’s hat tucked under his left arm, the dark navy wool jacket buttoned tight across his broad chest, and his silver badge pinned perfectly over his heart.
The uniform looks immaculate, tailored so precisely to his frame that it should honestly be considered a public safety hazard for the female demographic of this county.
His jaw is set, his eyes clear and completely focused as he talks to an older woman in a black dress—Tommy Miller’s widow, presumably.
As if he can feel the sudden heat of my gaze, his head turns. His eyes cut through the crowd, tracking across the room until they lock onto mine.
My breath catches in my throat.
His brow relaxes by a fraction of an inch, a tiny, silent acknowledgment that I actually showed up.
At ten o’clock sharp, the station siren lets out a short, low wail, and the crowd instantly falls into a deep, absolute silence.
Brooks steps up to the microphone. He reads the incident log from June sixth, three years ago. He doesn’t over explain. He doesn’t use poetic metaphors. He just speaks the facts—the wind speed, the arrival time, the structural failure of the south wall.
When he says Tommy Miller’s name, his voice doesn’t break, but his fingers tighten against the edge of the podium until his knuckles go completely white.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The silver bell rings three times, the clear, sharp metallic notes lingering in the hot air long after the sound dies down.
I look at the floor, my hand tightens into a fist against my dress, feeling a strange, heavy lump in my throat that belongs entirely to a history I have no right to claim, but can’t help but feel anyway.
Grief is strange like that.
Sometimes proximity is enough to feel the shape of it.
I look up at Brooks, and the rigid, stoic isolation radiating from his broad shoulders makes my heart ache with a fierce, sudden desire to split that burden with him, even if it’s just by standing in the same room.
The minute the formal ceremony ends, the serious atmosphere evaporates into a loud, chaotic, small-town festival. The garage doors are rolled up completely, letting the bright afternoon sun flood the concrete bay as the local country station begins to blare out from a pair of ancient speakers.
“Emmy! Emmy, look at my dress!”
A pink streak cuts through the crowd, and suddenly Sophie is standing right in front of me, spinning in a wild circle. She’s in a bright pink sundress with white lace trim, though she still has her glittery purple rubber boots on her feet.
“Sophie! You look like an absolute vision,” I say, dropping down onto my knees so I’m eye-level with her. “You look so gorgeous.”
“My daddy let me wear my boots because the fire trucks have water on the floor,” she explains proudly, leaning her small hands on my knees. “Did you see my daddy’s hat? It’s white. The other boys have black hats because my daddy is the boss.”
“I did see his hat, Princess. It’s very impressive,” I say, looking up just in time to see Brooks walking toward us. He’s unbuttoned the top collar of his dress jacket, his white hat now resting on the hood of a truck behind him.
“She’s been tracking you since we got here,” Brooks says, stopping two feet away from us.
His eyes scan my black denim dress, a slow, appreciative glint appearing in them that makes my stomach do that unauthorized little flip again.
“You didn’t wear white.”
“You told me not to. I know how to follow orders,” I say, standing up and dusting off my knees.
I take a half-step closer into his space, tilting my head up so my hair spills over one shoulder. “Your uniform is… highly effective, by the way. Very authoritative. I feel an overwhelming urge to check my smoke detectors. Or perhaps submit to an immediate safety inspection.”
Brooks lets out a low, rumbly laugh, the sound warm and easy, though his eyes darken slightly as they trace the line of my neck. “The uniform is ninety percent wool, Ember. I am currently roasting like a Sunday ham.”
“A very dignified, premium-cut ham,” I clarify with a smirk, my voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Though if you need someone to help you unbutton the rest of that heavy wool, I suppose I could volunteer my services for the sake of public health.”
He lets out a grunt, his jaw shifting as a slow, dangerous smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “Watch it, city girl. Marge is standing right by the coffee, and she’s already armed with a ladle.”
“Brooks! Bring the girl over here!”
A shout comes from the back corner of the bay, where a group of older men are sitting around a folding table with a cooler of domestic beer. One of them is a massive man with a thick white beard and a faded Suncrest Hollow Fire Department t-shirt.
Brooks rubs the back of his neck, looking at me with an apologetic grimace.
“That’s Ben. He was the assistant chief when Tommy was alive.
He’s been trying to get me to drink a Budweiser since nine this morning.
Come on. If I don’t introduce you, he’ll spend the next three weeks asking Marge who the ‘weird girl’ at the memorial was. ”
“I am not weird, Brooks. I’m unique,” I mutter, but I follow him anyway, Sophie holding onto my left index finger as we weave through the tables.
Ben looks up as we approach, his eyes tracking from Brooks straight to my face.
“So you’re the one who bought Arthur’s place,” he says. “The city girl who won the lottery.”
God.
I’m going to die as “the city girl who won the lottery,” aren’t I?
Apparently, mentioning to one single customer at my first bakery shift that I “accidentally became a millionaire” was a catastrophic strategic error.
Because now the entire valley knows.
Not in a malicious way, exactly. More in the way small towns treat information like an Olympic relay sport.