Charming the Firefighter (4 page)

He went still. Studied her. “You’re acting weird,” he finally said. “I mean, you know, more than usual.”

Lovely.

She started to roll her eyes, but then realized she couldn’t very well lecture him on the disrespectful gesture if she did it herself, so she pretended to find the ceiling extremely fascinating.

“I’m fine,” she said, feeling no desire to assure him when, in all honesty, he didn’t sound worried, but more...put out. Then again, when was he ever concerned about her feelings?

She poured wine into her glass, the bottle significantly lighter than when she’d opened it not thirty minutes ago. How had that happened? She’d only had a glass...or had it been two? She gave an inner shrug. And took a healthy sip.

Having lost her appetite knowing she’d be dining alone, she’d opted to catch up on some of the work she’d brought home. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to concentrate, not with her out-of-control emotions clouding her thoughts. Wine was a surprisingly effective remedy for what ailed her.

Even if the numbers on the laptop screen were now a bit blurry.

It was an interesting discovery, and one she could have made years earlier had she ever allowed herself to have more than one glass of the wonderful stuff.

“Mom!”

She jumped and, horror of horrors, had wine sloshing over the edge of the glass and onto her hand. She sucked it from her fingers. “Why are you yelling?”

Andrew gaped at her as if she were the one who’d lost her ever-loving mind. “Because I’ve asked you the same question twice and you haven’t answered me.”

She blinked at him. Why was he so upset? Teenagers. Lord only knew what got into their heads sometimes. “I already told you, I’m fine.”

Better than fine. She actually felt...good. Light and floaty and sort of free. As if all her worries had simply drifted away. Although oddly enough, for all her floaty feelings, her eyelids were becoming heavy. It was increasingly difficult to keep them open.

Andrew’s narrow gaze flicked from her, to the glass, to the bottle. “Are you...are you drunk?”

She whipped her head around and leaped to her feet, but had to grab the table so she didn’t topple over. Just a rush of dizziness from standing too quickly, she assured herself. “Of course not. I do not get drunk. I have never been drunk. Not once in my life.”

And why she was speaking so slowly and carefully, she had no idea.

Andrew smirked—oh, how she hated it when the boy smirked. “Whatever.”

She bristled and straightened, lifting her hands from the table as if to prove to both of them she was not only capable of maintaining her balance, but sober enough to do so. “Andrew, you know how I feel about drinking to excess.”

“I know how you feel about everything. Every. Damn. Thing.”

What was wrong with that? She made her expectations clear, let him know her thoughts, views and opinions on the matters that were important. Her views on drinking—especially underage drinking—smoking, drug use and sex may be conservative, but there was nothing wrong with making good, smart, responsible choices and respecting your body.

“Why all this concern about my sobriety?” A thought occurred to her. “Will there be drinking at this picnic?”

“You caught me,” he said as he flipped his sweatshirt from one shoulder to the other. “I’m just trying to divert attention from the fact that Luke’s mom bought a keg so her son and all his friends can get wasted. Too bad she drew the line at hiring those strippers we asked for.”

“The scary part is I’m not entirely sure you’re joking.”

His answer to that was, yes, one of his impressive eye rolls. “Keys?”

“On the hook by the door.” Where they always were. Well, where she always put them. He, on the other hand, seemed to have a hard time remembering to hang them up after using her car. One time she even found them in the freezer.

She prayed he remembered to brush his teeth every day. No need to worry about him using deodorant, though. Or aftershave. The child splashed the potent stuff on like it was some sort of muscle-building, beard-growing, girl-catching elixir.

The room spun. Which was incredibly strange as she hadn’t actually moved. Maybe wine on an empty stomach hadn’t been the best idea. Lesson learned.

She’d always excelled at learning her lessons. And not making the same mistakes twice.

While Andrew texted someone, she pulled the raw turkey burgers from the fridge, then crossed to the double doors and stepped out onto the patio. Inhaled the warm air. There. That helped. A little food, a little fresh air and her head would clear right up.

She set down the plate, then knelt and turned on the gas to the grill.

“Bye,” Andrew said, stepping outside.

“Hold it.” She straightened—too fast, it turned out, as the world pitched and spun. “Were you born in a barn?”

“Seeing as how you were there, you’d know that better than me.”

“Ha-ha. Close the door.”

While he did, she shut her eyes for a moment, got her bearings. “I don’t recall you asking for permission to take the car.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said, jiggling the keys, “since you’re not going anywhere.”

Irritation pricked her, dimming some of her previous glow. She couldn’t fault his logic—after all, she had nowhere to go. But did he have to rub it in? Her foot began tapping in agitation as if of its own accord. She wasn’t jealous of him. That would be ridiculous. She was thrilled beyond measure he’d made friends. That he didn’t have her shyness, her awkwardness around others. And it wasn’t as if she was a complete social pariah. There were a few women in the office she chatted with. Sometimes.

When they initiated the conversation.

“I’m not going anywhere, but seeing as how it’s my car, it’d be nice if you asked first.”

She winced. That had sounded close to...well...whiny was the only way to describe it. She pulled her shoulders back. She wasn’t a whiner. She was a doer.

A doer with absolutely no social life whatsoever.

How wonderful.

Andrew shifted, impatient to be gone. “Can I take the car?”

She wanted to say no, but that would be petty. Besides, if he didn’t drive himself, she’d have to take him. And she was seriously considering a third glass of wine, since what she’d had already was making her feel...not quite happy...but certainly no worse for the wear. “I suppose.”

He brushed past her. “See ya.”

“At nine,” she reminded him, since he’d had a hard time lately remembering when his curfew was. He didn’t even acknowledge she’d spoken, just descended the two wooden stairs and crossed to her car in the driveway. He climbed in, buckled up, then, with the sound of the radio thumping much louder than was necessary, he carefully backed into the road.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered. So glad to see he appreciated her letting him go to Luke’s, use her car and avoid her company for yet another day.

Didn’t matter, she assured herself. She was fine on her own. She’d have a nice dinner, catch up on her work and maybe even finish the bottle of wine. Why not? Everyone else seemed perfectly content to indulge in bad behavior once in a while.

Maybe it was time she joined the party.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to worry about giving her teenager the wrong impression since the child preferred to spend his time anywhere and with anyone but her.

Frowning, feeling more than a little sorry for herself, she jabbed at the grill’s ignition button, though something in the back of her mind told her not to.

Too late. There was a loud boom and the lid flew open as a wall of flame engulfed her.

CHAPTER THREE

“I
THOUGHT
YOU
were dead.”

With a groan she fervently hoped wasn’t audible, Penelope eased onto one of the two high-backed stools at her wide kitchen island. “So you said,” she murmured. “Several times.”

More like twenty, but who was counting?

Well, yes,
she
was counting, but she doubted her young guest was.

“No,” Gracie Weaver said somberly, shutting the door to the deck. The girl had gone out to make sure the grill was off. “I mean I seriously thought you were dead. Really, completely dead.”

Penelope frowned, but her face felt sunburned and any movement or twitch hurt so she schooled her expression. “Is it possible to be sort of dead?”

She winced—another painful moment—and wished she could see her words floating in the air so she could grab them back before they reached Gracie’s ears. The last thing she wanted was to encourage her neighbor’s sixteen-year-old daughter to continue this inane conversation.

Maybe if she pretended to die—really and completely—the teen would go on her way.

“Oh, it’s very possible.” Gracie opened and shut several cabinet doors, her movements comfortable, as if she went through a stranger’s cupboards on a daily basis. “I once read an article in
Reader’s Digest
or
National Geographic
or something about this man who was in a coma for two months, but, get this—” she stood on her toes, the heels of her bright pink flip-flops lifting from the ground as she reached for a glass on an upper shelf “—he could hear everything going on around him. His brain was completely working the entire time. Can you imagine, being trapped in your own body, your mind working, but being unable to get your body to do what it wanted? Not being able to escape?”

Penelope glanced wistfully at the door. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

Gracie filled the glass at the sink and carried it over to Penelope. “Here. You should drink something so you don’t go into shock or get dehydrated.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” But to appease—and hopefully silence—the girl, Penelope took a small sip of water, the trembling of her hand barely noticeable.

She still wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute she’d been having a nice little alcohol-induced pity-fest and the next, she’d been flat on her back, the scents of propane and singed hair filling her nostrils. Her head had spun, her face stung and a low, annoying thrum filled her ears. But it hadn’t been all bad. She was, for the most part, unharmed. And lying on the sun-warmed deck, blinking at the puffy white clouds drifting across the sky, her thoughts still pleasantly blurred by that last glass of wine, had been sort of calming. Peaceful.

Until Gracie arrived.

By then, Penelope had struggled to a sitting position and had only been catching her breath, getting her bearings. But Gracie had insisted on helping Penelope get inside—though Penelope took great pride in standing on her own two feet, on making her own way.

Now her little savior wouldn’t leave her alone. And Penelope, never any good at asking for what she wanted, had no idea how to get rid of her.

“I really am fine. I appreciate you checking on me,” she added in case she’d come across as ungrateful. Or worse, rude. “I’m sure you have better things to do today than worry about me.”

Worry. Annoy.
Why quibble?

“Not really. Besides, you shouldn’t be left alone. You might have a concussion. Or internal injuries.”

“I don’t.”

“But you could,” Gracie said, studying her with a gaze that was way too direct, way too adult for someone so young. It was unnerving. “And you wouldn’t even know until you fell unconscious or started coughing up blood or something.”

“That’s a disturb—”

“Are you hungry?” Gracie asked. “I could make you something to eat.”

“I’m—”

“That’s probably stupid, huh? I mean, you just had a near-death experience—”

“I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near—”

“The last thing you want is a snack, right? Then again, you might want to celebrate being alive and I noticed you have brownies—”

“Really, I don’t—”

“—and what better way to celebrate still being among the living than with some chocolate?”

Penelope wanted to cover her ears and beg Gracie to be quiet, just for a moment, but the determined and talkative girl walked over to the pan next to the stove.

Humming the same Fray song Penelope had danced to earlier, Gracie brought the brownies to the island, then once again invaded Penelope’s privacy by searching through several kitchen drawers.

Penelope slumped. She surrendered. A woman had only so much fight in her, and she’d used up her stores with her son.

Her home was being overrun by a five-foot-two-inch wisp of a girl in cuffed jean shorts and a floaty white peasant top. A thick floral headband held back Gracie’s light brown hair, the riotous curls reaching her waist.

Penelope couldn’t imagine the time and effort needed to take care of that much hair. Her father believed long hair was nothing more than vanity. Her mother—whose own hair was still kept in the same short, layered style she’d worn since her college graduation in 1970—thought it was too much work.

Touching the ends of her chin-length hair, Penelope set her elbow on the counter. Even after she’d been on her own, independent in every possible way, she’d never let her hair grow past her shoulders.

Almost as if she was trying to gain her parents’ approval.

Still.

She dropped her hand and straightened. Absurd. Years ago she’d realized she no longer needed to prove anything to her parents. She didn’t care what they thought of her if they were proud of her.

If they loved her.

She could grow her hair as long as she pleased. Could color it and wear makeup and dress in any manner she so chose.

Except thirty-eight counted as middle-aged. Long hair would now be inappropriate.

Wonderful. She was old, haggard, divorced and unappreciated by her only child. Gracie was right. She really did need a brownie.

With a soft aha, Gracie faced her, waving a small spatula in the air. “Molly says chocolate is the perfect food, good for any and all occasions. Celebrations...commiserations...breakups and makeups...”

Using the spatula, Gracie cut into the dessert, whacking away at the chocolate all willy-nilly so that a few brownies were huge, a few were tiny and none were all-four-sides-are-perfectly-equal squares, as brownies should be.

Curling her fingers into her palms, it was all Penelope could do not to grab the pan and save her dessert from such butchery. How difficult was it to cut straight, neat lines?

Gracie dug out a huge, misshapen brownie and set it on a napkin. “Here you go.”

Penelope glanced from the dessert in Gracie’s hand up to the cheery, expectant grin on her face. “Thank you.”

Then she broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth because Molly—Penelope’s neighbor and Gracie’s stepmother—was right. There was never any occasion that didn’t go well with chocolate.

Even occasions such as suffering first-degree facial burns, being ditched by your own son, and, oh, yes, being alone while everyone else had somewhere to go and people who actually wanted to spend the day with them.

The bite stuck in her throat so she took another one to try to push it down. No need to feel sorry for herself. She was fine. Things could have been much worse, after all. She was healthy and whole and not seriously injured.

She ran her fingertips over her eyebrows. Still there.

See? She was just dandy.

But she’d been careless. Stupid. She really could have been seriously injured. Or killed.

All because she’d let her emotions get in the way of her good sense. Had let Andrew’s behavior and attitude upset her to the point where she’d been unable to think of anything else.

She couldn’t be an effective parent if she took things so personally. If she let him hurt her feelings or make her angry. Composure. Control. Those were the traits she needed to focus on. They would help her do her job of raising a productive, well-adjusted, hardworking human being. One she could send out into society without guilt, doubts, regrets or fear.

She shoved more brownie into her mouth. It wasn’t helping. Maybe chocolate didn’t make things better. What she needed, she decided on a brilliant flash of insight, was another glass of wine.

And possibly one of the Valiums she’d been prescribed during the worst of Andrew’s illness. Of course, she’d had way too much pride to ever take any of the pills. Pride that was currently crumbling faster than her brownie.

Wine was definitely the lesser of the two evils.

She slipped off the stool and crossed to the table, snagging her glass and the bottle. On her return trip she wove a bit, her steps not exactly steady. Perhaps Andrew was right. Perhaps she had imbibed a little too much alcohol.

Except she didn’t feel drunk. She felt quite good—other than her twinges of self-pity, her stinging face and her sore rear from landing so hard. She certainly wasn’t acting drunk. No dancing topless on the table, no wearing a lamp shade on her head. She had complete control still.

She set down the bottle, then sipped from her glass. Glanced over to see Gracie staring at the pan of brownies with undisguised longing. “Would you like one?”

Gracie smiled and it lit her entire face. She wasn’t what Penelope would call a pretty girl—took one plain Jane to know a plain Jane, after all—but she was cute with her wild hair and big gray eyes.

“I’d love one, but I’m a vegan. I don’t eat any meat products, and that includes eggs and dairy. Well,” she continued, as if Penelope had asked her to go on, which she definitely had not, “actually, I only decided to start practicing veganism last week. My dad, of course, thinks it’s stupid, but then he’s a carnivore right down to the barbaric practice of hunting animals—like going out and shooting a helpless deer makes him some sort of alpha male. Molly says it’s his way of providing for his family, but I figure it’s easier and costs less for him to go down to Pineview Market and pick up a package of ground beef, you know?”

No, Penelope didn’t know. Just as she didn’t know how to respond to Gracie. How to act or react with the girl around. She was much happier on her own, taking care of herself and Andrew. She didn’t need or want help.

“I’m not sure—”

“Besides, no one I know even likes the taste of the animals he brings home. I mean, who eats rabbit, squirrel or venison? If it was that good, they’d have it in the stores, am I right? But he just laughs, like my beliefs and ideas are some big joke, so I decided to counterbalance his overabundance of meat consumption by going vegan.” Gracie slid another longing look at the brownies. “I’ve been good, too. I mean, Friday it was super hard because I forgot my lunch and it was pizza day—which is the only decent food they serve at school—but I held firm and I was really proud of my willpower.”

“Well,” Penelope said, shifting in her seat. Did the girl want a pat on the back or the go-ahead to forget her convictions this one time? “If you’re sure—”

“Then again, I haven’t eaten dinner yet on account of my entire family going to my grandmother’s for a picnic, which, let me tell you, Molly was not happy about. Not that I blame her. Grandma can be so mean. Like last time she actually told Molly she was gaining too much weight even though she’s the same size she’s been at this stage with all the other pregnancies. Molly started crying, right then and there, and Dad just sort of stood there like he had no clue what to do or say. I mean, how hard is it? Your mother insulted your wife. Your pregnant wife. The woman who popped out five—and counting—sons for you. Say something. But he didn’t so I had to step in and then I got in trouble for being mouthy and disrespectful to my grandmother. Where’s the justice in that?”

Was Penelope supposed to answer that? “Thanks again for helping me. I really am feeling—”

“So, I’m sure a brownie would make me feel way better about being abandoned on a holiday by my own family,” Gracie continued, as if she had no intention of ever running out of steam, breath or words. “And it’s not like you actually told me you used eggs or butter to make these.”

She stared at Penelope as if waiting for something. Penelope had no idea what. Denial? Confirmation? She couldn’t read minds, after all, and was horrible at deciphering expressions. Oh, how she hated these situations. Social situations, which, oddly enough, this one definitely qualified as. She was always insecure and out of her element. It didn’t help that her hair smelled singed and the pleasant, buzzed feeling she’d had was fading to a pounding headache.

She gulped more wine, then refilled her glass.

She could tell Gracie that of course she’d used butter and eggs. Who made brownies without those ingredients? And why would you want to?

But she respected the girl’s determination to stick to her guns and eat healthy.

Plus, if she told Gracie the brownies were definitely not vegan-friendly, maybe, just maybe, the girl would leave, go to her own house.

Her empty house. Then they would both be alone.

How depressing was that?

“No,” Penelope finally said, “I didn’t tell you there were animal products in the brownies.”

“In that case, and without any verbal proof or confirmation, I’ll have a small one.” Wrinkling her nose, Gracie nodded. “Half a one. Just a bite, really.” She cut a tiny piece from the pan and ate it. “Two bites. Two bites can’t hurt, right?”

“Thanks, again, for the help,” Penelope said, standing so she could usher the girl out the door. “I don’t want to keep you from this gorgeous, sunny day.”

Gracie waved that away. And ate another bite of brownie. “I was just reading in my room. I have to be careful because I burn really easily and with all the new research on the hazards of too much sun exposure, I prefer to stay inside.”

Penelope hung her head. She felt foggy. Her thoughts not quite clear. If they were, she’d be able to think of a way to get rid of Gracie—in a polite, careful manner, of course. Her ears started to ring. No, she thought, frowning, not ring, more like...blare.