Fireproof (12 page)

Since leaving his position in 1999, Mr. Campbell had grown closer than ever before to his wife. Though some men became unbearable when stuck at home, he found peacefulness in Joy's presence. He'd even taken up watercolor painting—and wasn't there some poetic justice in that, after decades of working with water as his medium?

Of course, Joy's recent stroke had complicated things.

Mr. Campbell helped her as best he could—from the chair to the toilet, from the chair to the bed—and harbored some nagging guilt that his former high-stress job had precipitated her body's shutdown. Each time he cared for her bedsores, he reminded himself it was the least he could do for this precious wife of his.

“So tell me, Caleb,” he said, “what do you need to know this time?”

“It's about Catherine.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I'm, uh . . . I'm wondering if you think she'd rather get a pair of shoes or a bouquet of flowers.”

“Thinking ahead for her birthday, are you?”

“Sure,” Caleb said. “Something like that.”

“Flowers or shoes, huh? I guess I'd have to go with the shoes. Even as a little girl, she used to put on her mama's heels and go strutting around the house.” Mr. Campbell rested a hand on his belly and reminisced. “Come to think of it, though—there is one problem with that idea.”

“What's that?”

“Well, you probably know, Caleb, but she's got real specific tastes when it comes to clothes and that sorta thing.”

Caleb remained silent.

During the lull, Mr. Campbell heard his wife's wheelchair coming down the hall to his study and that gave him an idea. “You know, you oughta ask Catherine's mother about this. Joy'll be better in that department. In fact, you're more than welcome to come on over and—”

“Uh, thank you, Captain. Actually, it's no big deal.”

“You sure? 'Cause we can—”

“I'm sure. Hey, I gotta run, but thanks for the input.”

“Anytime, Caleb. Anytime.”

The line went dead, and Mr. Campbell looked up to see his wife in the doorway. She was holding aloft her chalkboard with three words scrawled on it:

TELL HIM ROSES.

CALEB REGRETTED EVEN making last night's call to his father-in-law. All he was looking to do was hurry through one of
The Love Dare
's requirements, not go on some complicated shopping expedition. The very thought made him shiver.

He glanced around to assure himself his crew was on task. With trucks in constant need of attention, Wayne and Eric had been sent to check tire pressure on all vehicles. Simmons was speaking with dispatch about road construction updates that could affect their routes if sent on a run. Terrell was in the kitchen, straightening the place up, and—Caleb suspected—still trying to figure out the trick behind the cake disappearance.

Caleb slipped into the first bay with his phone and made his move.

“Blooms 'N More,” a woman's voice answered. “May I help you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I, uh, need to order some flowers for my wife.”

“Well,” said the woman on the other end, “that's awfully sweet of you.”

“I can do this over the phone, right? I just give you my credit card info or something?”

“Sure. Did you have anything particular in mind, sir?”

“No, no. It doesn't matter.”

“Okay. We could go with a dozen roses.”

“Sure. I mean—hold on, how much does that cost?”

“Uh, it's forty-five dollars for a dozen.”

“Forty-
five
? No. That's too much. Do you have something cheaper?”

“Well, we have a small bouquet of wildflowers for twenty-five.”

“Yeah.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “That's more like it. Let's go with the twenty-five. You don't happen to have any coupons or sales running, do you?”

“Umm. Not at the moment, sir.”

“Okay, how about a box of chocolates or something?”

“We have a red heart-shaped box that's very popular.”

“And how much are those?” He leaned against the bay wall, between the rows of soot-stained coats and fire helmets.

“Six dollars.”

“For a box of . . . Aww, you're killing me.”

“Or there's a smaller, gold-foil box for two-fifty.”

“That's better.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Okay,” Caleb said, “how about a little stuffed bear?”

“The small bears go for eight, and the large—”

“All right, forget the bear.”

“No bear. Got it.”

“How long is it gonna take to throw something like that together?”

“We can have it ready for you in half an hour. Would you like a small card to go with the flowers?”

He braced himself. “Should I even ask how much those run?”

“Is free okay?”

“You've sold me. I'll take one.”

“We can write a message on it for you, if you'd like. Also free.”

Caleb considered the option, but could think of no appropriate message, nothing he meant from the heart. This florist woman— she was the expert, right? He'd get her advice. “What do guys usually put on things like that?”

“Well, you do hope she likes this stuff, right?”

“Yeah.” Caleb pushed away from the wall. “That sounds pretty good.”

The lady cleared her throat. “‘I hope you like this stuff '?”

“Perfect. Okay, here's my credit card info.” Before hanging up, he remembered to throw in a quick “Thank you.”

The florist responded in a droll voice, “You're welcome, Romeo.”

CHAPTER 17

C
atherine entered the house through the garage. She'd had a decent day, and even brushed past Dr. Keller a few times, yet the moment she turned the car into their subdivision, she found her mood plummeting and a headache coming on.

Not right now, honey. I have a headache.

Wasn't that the old excuse? Well, she didn't need any excuses of late.

Life in this house, with Caleb, was no longer something she enjoyed. She'd made it clear that she had little interest in physical companionship, and Caleb reciprocated by turning his interests elsewhere—like the Internet. She didn't know whether she should be upset that he sometimes forgot to delete all the history from his online meanderings, or if she should be glad he no longer tried so hard to hide it from her.

Maybe he hoped it would spark some jealousy on her part. Or that it would get her stimulated in the way it did him.

Instead, it just turned her stomach.

She'd been an object before, in a short-lived high school relationship that left her feeling dirty and used. She certainly had never expected her husband would be of the same ilk, but of late, things had been going downhill for both of them. Truthfully, not much would surprise her anymore.

She
was
surprised, however, by the flowers on the table.

Arranged in a simple glass vase that looked almost like a Mason jar, the wildflowers were thin and pitiful, and could've been plucked from any neighbor's front yard. Although a small box of chocolates was supposed to sweeten the deal, the ridiculous card betrayed Caleb's inadequacy in the romance department.

“You hope I'll like these?” she murmured, reading his short note. “Way to splurge, lover boy.”

Her lips curled in disgust; then she dropped the card to the dining table and marched off to the bedroom where she could get out of these clothes and high heels. At the rate things were going, she might as well start packing.

CALEB WAS IN the firehouse kitchen, grabbing some A-1 steak sauce to go with his plate of sirloin and home-style potato wedges. At the counter, Lieutenant Simmons was thumbing through the
Albany Herald
.

“You want some of these potatoes,Michael?”

Simmons shook his head and turned back to the newspaper.

Caleb thought back to their conversation the other evening, after Simmons had glued the shakers together. Caleb had used his position unfairly, taking a cheap shot at their friendship under the guise of his superior rank.

“I've allowed you to speak freely . . . don't abuse it.”

Who was the one being abusive there? It was just the sort of thing he had sworn not to do when becoming a captain late last year. True, there were levels of respect between officers, but Simmons had spoken as a friend, whereas Caleb had lashed back as a superior.

“Look, man,”Caleb said. “I got an extra steak. All yours, if you want it.”

Simmons raised an eyebrow. “Steak?”

“If you want it.”

“Sure. How 'bout we split it?”

“How 'bout you take the whole thing and stop being ridiculous.”

“Yes, sir.”

They exchanged a smile, and Caleb knew things were back to normal.

At the table by the window, in the slatted light through the blinds, Eric,Wayne, and Terrell were once again preparing for the testing that was to come. Though they'd spread books, pencils, and highlighters across the table, they were more engaged in verbal saber-rattling than actual study.

“Man, you done lost your mind,” Terrell said to Wayne.

“Terrell, I can bench three hundred right now.”

“For real?” Eric asked.

“Why can't we all come to the same obvious conclusion?”With hair gelled and spiked,Wayne looked around to make sure he had the attention of all present. “That I . . . am the man.”

Caleb strolled forward and sat at the head of the table. “All I know is that the
man
left a thermal-imaging device on the bumper of the truck last night.”

“Mm-hmm.” Terrell shot the driver a censoring look.

“That's an eight-thousand-dollar piece of equipment,Wayne.”

“All right. My bad, Captain. But that still doesn't change the fact that when it comes to difficult situations, I can take it.”

“Man, I can't take this much ego. Wayne, you been braggin' on yourself for ten minutes,” Terrell complained.

“It ain't braggin' if it's true.” Wayne gestured with his pencil. “Last week at the apartment fire, I pulled off two attack lines, laid my own supply line, and caught a hydrant in under two minutes.”

Caleb snagged Simmons's eye and made a drinking motion. Simmons nodded and angled toward the fridge.

“So what?” Terrell said. “There's other folks that could do that, man.”

“Not from
this
station.”

“Tom McBride could,” Caleb said.

“At Station Four?”Wayne sneered.“Are you kidding? He might could do it in two and a half, but he can't do it under two.”

“Mmm, I don't know.”

“Captain, he's strong, but he's not as fast. I could take him any day of the week.”

Caleb shrugged. “You know,Wayne, you seem pretty high on yourself. I think confidence is a good thing, but you . . . you're over the top.”

“Man, he way over the top,” Terrell agreed.

Wayne lifted both hands. “I can back it up. That's all I'm sayin'.”

Simmons walked into view with two bottles of hot sauce, the slogan printed along the bottom:
Hotter Than the Lake of Fire
. He set them in front of Caleb, then drummed the table with his hands. “Wrath of God, baby.”

Caleb grabbed the nearest bottle, eyeing the list of ingredients.

“What's that for?” Eric asked.

“We're about to have a little contest,” the captain told his crew. “We're gonna see if Wayne really is the man—that is, if he's up to the challenge.”

“Oh,”Wayne said, “I'm all about this.”

Caleb slid the second bottle across the table, then unscrewed the cap from his own. “All right, I'll go first.”

“What're . . .What're you gonna do?”

Caleb fixed his attention on the bottle with the flaming yellow-and-red label. He shifted in his seat, readying himself. “Michael, time me.”

Wayne shot a worried glance around the gathering.

“You got it,” Simmons said. “Ready? Go.”

To wide-eyed stares, Caleb tilted the bottle to his lips and started guzzling. The best thing was to make this quick and show little reaction. He might let his eyes water, but that was the most he would let his driver see from him.

“No, way,” Eric said.

Caleb backed off, pressing his fist to his lips and feeling the furrows in his forehead deepen. He forced the mouthful down, then tilted his head back for another go.

“Man, you crazy,” Terrell said. “Look, he gonna drink that whole thing.”

Caleb winced, scrunched his eyes shut, gulped, took a deep breath, then forced the last of the bottle's contents down his gullet in a series of short swallows. He slammed the Wrath of God down, held his forehead, and reveled in Wayne's expression of intense worry.

“Twenty-three seconds,” Simmons declared.

“Ooooh.” Terrell was chuckling.

Caleb blinked a few times, wiped the red juice from his chin, and shot his gaze to the other end of the table. “All right, man. You're up.”

The guys turned their heads toward Wayne.

“All right,” he conceded, “that was impressive. Until I do it in under twenty.”

“Two-zero?” Eric said.

Wayne stared Caleb in the eyes and twisted off the bottle cap. He tossed it back over his shoulder in a show of fearlessness that was about to be put to the test.

“We're all watching,Wayne. Let's see it.”

“Time me.”

“Oh, I'll time you,” Simmons said. “Ready?”

“Ladies . . .”Wayne lifted the bottle.

“Go!”

Wayne started with valiant resolve, draining a third of the contents in throat-clenching, Adam's-apple-wobbling gulps. His face reddened and he fell forward, trying not to spurt the juice back out.

“C'mon,Wayne,” Caleb said.

“Go,Wayne,” Eric said.

“It's
hot
.”