Home Fires (36 page)

Courage, compassion, and devotion to duty. Firemen had it all, twenty-four seven. And now Rose had one of these brave men as her very own hero for the rest of her life.

How lucky could one woman get?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen Irene Paterka fell in love with writing at a very young age. She was in her early 20’s when she fell in love with her very own hero-husband-fireman Steve.
HOME FIRES
was inspired by the courage and devotion to duty she’s witnessed throughout the years from Steve and his fellow firefighters of the Charlevoix Township Fire Department. None of them fail to answer the call when the monitor trips and they’re toned out by Central Dispatch for a fire run. Kathleen is the author of numerous novels which embrace universal themes of home, family life and love, including the Women's Fiction series, "
The James Bay Novels
". She is the resident staff writer for Castle Farms, a world renowned castle listed on the National Historic Register, and co-author of the non-fiction book
FOR THE LOVE OF A CASTLE
, published in 2012. Having lived and studied abroad, Kathleen's educational background includes a Bachelor of Arts degree from Central Michigan University. She and her hero husband Steve live in the beautiful north country of Michigan's Lower Peninsula. Kathleen loves hearing from readers. You can contact her via her website at
www.kathleenirenepaterka.com
.

If you enjoyed
HOME FIRES
,

check out these other titles in
The James Bay Novel series
by Kathleen Irene Paterka:

The James Bay Novels

FATTY PATTY

(#1 – available now!)

HOME FIRES

(#2 – available now!)

LOTTO LUCY

(#3 – coming soon!)

FOR I HAVE SINNED

(#4 – coming soon!)

Non-Fiction:

FOR THE LOVE OF A CASTLE

(available now!)

Coming in 2013:

ROYAL SECRETS

Turn the Page for a free bonus read!

LOTTO LUCY

Book #3 in
The James Bay Novel series

BONUS READ

LOTTO LUCY

A James Bay Novel

KATHLEEN IRENE PATERKA
 

Copyright 2012 © KATHLEEN IRENE PATERKA

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

CHAPTER ONE

I’m a cash-only girl and I’ve never been a gambler—with my money or my life. So when Kris Henderson and I stroll into Pete’s Place, our small town’s gas station/convenience store to pay for my gas, Pete Kelly’s suggestion I buy a lottery ticket has me chuckling and shaking my head before the words are out of his mouth.

“Aw, come on, Lucy. Whatdya got to lose?" His craggy eyebrows lift high. “It’s only a buck.”

“Sorry, Pete, but you’re talking to the wrong girl. I don’t gamble.” When you live in place like James Bay, ticking off the wrong people can come back to bite you. But Pete—a fixture in our town for the past seventy years—and I have always gotten along. I like Pete just fine. Thing is, I like my money more.

“What’s the big deal?” he says. “Do yourself a favor and buy a ticket. Besides, you’re in the Lottery Zone.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“The Lottery Zone.” He straightens behind the counter and points upwards. “See that? The salesman from the State Lottery Commission stuck it up there a couple days ago.”

Kris and I glance up to see a neon-glo sign swaying above our heads. LOTTERY ZONE glitters in bold swirls against stripes of yellow and black.

"It's some damn promotion they've got going,” he says. “If I don't ask for the sale, you don't pay for the ticket." 

“Sorry, I don’t gamble. You should ask Kris.” I nod at my colleague. “Spending money is her hobby.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” she spits in protest. “Besides, I’m broke.”

Pete eyes me over the cash register. “You never know, Lucy. Buy a ticket, and you could end up the lucky winner. You could even get your name in the headlines on the front page of that paper of yours.”

Kris and I trade glances, then laughter. As reporters for
The James Bay Journal
, it’s our job to write the news, not make it.

Pete rolls his eyes. “Maybe you girls think it’s funny, but I don’t. My sales are down, and I’ve got a quota to meet. You want the state to yank my machine?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Pete’s Place has the busiest gas pumps in town, not to mention the best prices on beer and wine. Hard to believe his store doesn’t do a thriving business selling lottery tickets.

“Sorry, Pete, but I’m only buying gas today.” I scrounge through my latest purse, digging for my wallet. The oversized leather pouch resembles a duffel bag and things inside have an odd way of disappearing. Today it's my wallet that's a no-show.

"You could save yourself some time and hassle if you paid at the pump,” he says.

Kris snorts. “And use her credit card? Lucy would rather die than break out the plastic.”

"It's only for emergencies," I say, trying not to sound too prissy.

She eyes me suspiciously. "Define
emergency
."

Too bad someone hasn't defined the word for Kris. Maybe then she wouldn't have a problem keeping her own credit cards tucked safely away where they belong. But my colleague isn’t sucking me into playing semantics today. We spent too much time gabbing over lunch and I’m running late. The Hospital Foundation's latest ribbon-cutting ceremony starts soon and I'm scheduled to cover the story.

"I prefer to operate on a cash-only basis,” I say. “If I can’t afford it, I don't buy it."

She huffs a long sigh. "There's your problem, Lucy. Why are you so scared of spending money?"

"The better question might be, why don't more people feel that way? Too much easy credit gets people into trouble. Thanks, but no thanks." I come up with my wallet and slide my last two twenties across the counter. With payday still another week away, and the price of gas soaring higher than the scorching summer temperatures, I can’t afford to bask in thinking I’ve got money to burn. I’ve never lived on easy street. In fact, there’s a For Sale sign on the front lawn of the house where Grandma raised me. Plus, a mortgage still due, and no takers in sight. The way I’m going, I’d need a million lottery wins to get me out of my money mess.

Pete counts out my change, then dangles the bills just out of reach. "Whatdya say, Lucy? You’ve got seven dollars here. That equals seven chances to win. All it takes is one ticket."

“Sorry, Pete, but you’re wasting your breath. Like Grandma always said,
the best way to double your money is to fold it in half and stick it in your wallet
.”

“That Grandma of yours didn’t know everything,” he mutters.

I’ll have to give him credit. When it comes to being successful in business, my old friend Pete learned the secret a long time ago. Never give up. But two can play at that game.

“Pete, how long have you known me?”

He scratches his bald head. “Pretty much all your life, I guess.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Now think back a few years. Remember when I won the Miss James Bay Contest my senior year of high school?”

He frowns. “Can’t say that I do.”

I cluck my tongue, holding back the smile. “How about last year when I landed the biggest trout in the annual fishing tournament and won the thousand dollar prize?”

The furrow in his brow deepens. “I thought Bob Campbell took first place last year.” He hesitates. “Or maybe it was the year before?”

Poor guy, he still doesn’t get it. “It was last year, Pete,” I say gently. “Bob won the contest, not me.”

“But you just said—”

“I was only kidding,” I say, suddenly ashamed of myself for egging him on.

He peers over the cash register. “What about that Miss James Bay thing?”

“Pete, honestly, can you see me entering a beauty contest? I’m the unluckiest person you’ll ever meet. So me buying a lottery ticket would be like throwing good money away. Guaranteed I wouldn’t win. I never win anything.”

“Seems like I remember you winning some scholarship or something to the university,” he muses.

“Partial scholarship,” I correct him. Though a lot of good it did me. The money barely made a dent in my student loans. Four years later, I’m still paying the bills, the most recent of which arrived two days ago. It’s still unopened on my kitchen counter where I tossed it. I haven’t worked up the nerve to rip it open and see how much the interest has accumulated.

Kris plucks a candy bar from a display and shoves it on the counter. “What’s the big deal, Lucy? Buy yourself a ticket. It’s only a dollar.”

“And so is this chocolate,” I reply. “Buy your own candy.”

“Come on, Lucy, please? I’m a little short on cash. I’ll pay you back.”

“Where have I heard that line before?” I push the candy bar back at her.

Kris eyes the chocolate with a woeful face. “Just so you know, I’m holding you personally responsible if my blood sugar plummets and I keel over. My family is hundreds of miles away. Who’ll take care of me?”

“I’ll drive you to the E.R. myself,” I promise, trying not to smile. My colleague Kris Henderson is irreverent, witty and everything I wish I could be myself (spiky blond hair excluded). But Kris hasn’t lived here very long. And though I’ve spent twenty of my twenty-five years in this little town, that doesn’t mean I’m naive enough to believe I’ve earned local status. That right is reserved solely for people like my father and Pete, both born and raised in James Bay. You could live in this town for fifty years and still be merely a
local wanna-be
.

I turn to Pete with an open palm. “Could I please have my change?”

“Sure, Lucy, no problem. You want your money, here’s your money.” He slaps the bills into my hand. “Glad to oblige. After all, it’s not like you owe me. At least, not much.”

“Owe you for what?” I ask warily. That sly smile on Pete’s face has stripped away some of his seventy-plus years and I suddenly have a funny feeling I’m being set up.

“No big deal, it was just an interview,” he reminds me. “Remember? You came waltzing in here a couple days later, thanking me for all the great quotes I gave you, and telling me how people were writing letters to the editor… plus how that Kendall guy that runs your paper actually gave you a compliment. But don’t let that get you feeling guilty, Lucy. You keep your money. Like I said, you don’t owe me. It was just an interview.”

Maybe if he hadn't fetched up that hilarious hound dog expression, my mouth and wallet would have stayed shut. But Pete and I have been friends since I got my driver's license and started pumping my own gas. And all kidding aside, Pete makes a good point. I
do
owe him. That interview he gave me last month about the escalating price of gasoline had some colorful quotes about the little man getting screwed. My story made the front page above the fold and generated a slew of heated letters to the editor.

Letters to the editor sell papers. People buy extra copies, happy to see their name in print.

"When’s the last time someone told you what a great salesman you are?" I say, laughing. "All right, I'll buy a ticket. But only
one
," I warn him.

"Thatta girl, Lucy." He waltzes behind the lotto machine. "You want to choose the numbers or you want an easy pick?"