TORCH

TORCH

by

Sandy Rideout

Copyright © 2012
Sandy Rideout

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter  8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Chapter 28
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Chapter 29
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Chapter 30
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Chapter 31
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Chapter 32
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Chapter 33
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Chapter 34
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Chapter 35
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Chapter 36
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Chapter 37
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Chapter 38
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Chapter 39
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Chapter 40

About the Author
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Also By the Author
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Excerpts

Excerpt:  Trade Secrets
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Excerpt:  Love, Inc.
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Rosewood has been written up in magazines as one of those quaint towns that’s worth a detour off the highway. The main drag is lined with cobblestones, ornate Victorian storefronts, imitation gaslights, and a couple of hitching posts. Tourists instantly fall under the town’s spell and even the locals speak of Rosewood in rapturous tones. It seems like I’m the only one who thinks dressing up an old California mining town in a hoop skirt and bonnet makes Rosewood ridiculous.

Welland Rose, the town’s founding father, might agree with me. He was 20 when he came from England in 1848 seeking gold, 22 when he found it, and 25 when he became mayor of the town that sprung up around him. According to the plaque in the town square, he was known for being forward-thinking, so I doubt he’d be thrilled that time stood still in Rosewood after his death.

On the surface, at least. Behind most of the elaborate, old-fashioned signs are regular businesses. Royally Delectable, for example, is just a diner, with stools covered in red-vinyl, a long counter where truck drivers belly up for bacon and eggs, and cozy booths where half the population of Eastfield High congregates after school. The place is known locally as Roy’s Deli and the food is amazing.

“You’re really going to order another burger?” asks Regan Wilder, my best friend.

She’s sitting across from me in the booth staring at my empty plate with wonder and a bit of envy. I don’t blame her. Regan has to watch what she eats, and it must be hard to watch what
I
eat. I’ve always had a good appetite, being a competitive swimmer, but since moving to Rosewood I eat like each meal could be my last. Everything tastes better here. I know that’s stupid, and I hate to give Rosewood any extra credit, but it’s true.

“Just a small one,” I say, although burgers only come in one size. “No fries.”

I signal Christine, the owner, and she calls, “Be right with you, Phoenix.”

It’s like I’ve lived here forever, when I actually moved to Rosewood only last week. I’ve visited Regan often over the years, though, so I know some of the locals. When I was young I wished I could live here, but now the town seems so small it’s stifling. I plan to make the best of it, though, because moving from San Diego was my idea. At least I have Regan, the kind of friend who lets me pick at her fries before she’s finished with them.

Nudging the laptop between us, I say, “Tell me more about Operation Destiny.”

Regan turns the screen around so that I can see the timetable she’s created. It lists just about every club and activity offered at Eastfield High School, where we just finished the first day of our senior year.

“I ranked them by my preference,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“As long as Robotics is near the bottom.”

“After archery, and before chess. We start with photography tomorrow.”

“I’ll unpack my camera,” I say, helping myself to her soda.

The purpose of Operation Destiny is to help Regan find her “passion,” or “calling.” She believes mine is swimming, and I would have agreed, until recently. For eight years, I was obsessed with improving my skills, shaving seconds from my lap time. But my life hit a rogue wave in June and practically capsized. I’ve been in dry dock ever since.

I fully intend to join Eastfield’s swim team, although my first dip in the school pool this morning wasn’t exactly promising. It was like I was weighted with barbells. Matt Huxley, the pool manager and swim coach, looked disappointed. He’d probably heard about the trophies lined up in my bedroom and was surprised to see me flopping around like a dolphin stuck in a net. Still, he said he was “stoked” to meet me, and hired me as a lifeguard on the spot.

Once I’m back in shape, everything will fall into place. In the meantime, I kind of like the idea of shadowing Regan to different clubs. Rosewood may not be my dream town, but I like the prospect of change. Maybe here I can be someone who isn’t defined only by water and competition.

“Hey, guys.” Regan’s other best friend, Melissa, stops at our table to chat. She’s nearly as tall as I am, which is tall, but she’s got the willowy build of the ballerina she’s trying to become. It makes me self-conscious about my muscular build, and chlorine-damaged light brown hair. Melissa’s hair is about the same shade, but hers is twisted in a sleek knot at the nape of her neck.

“How was your summer?” I ask, when the greetings are over.

“Best ever,” she says. “I took a course at the San Francisco ballet and my dancing really improved.” I bet I used to have that same faraway look when I talked about swimming. In fact, seeing that expression likely triggered Regan’s search for a calling. “How about you?” Melissa asks. “How are you settling in?”

“Fine.” It’s easier to offer the polite lie. Melissa is genuinely nice, but her elegance and quiet confidence are slightly intimidating. “Want to join us?”

“I’m meeting someone,” she says, pointing to another booth, where a cute guy sits waiting.

After Melissa leaves, I look from the guy to Regan. “Can we order two of those?”

Regan laughs. Neither of us has had a serious boyfriend. I made the mistake of hanging with one guy on my swim team for awhile in ninth grade. When I broke up with him, the other guys on the team shunned me in solidarity. Turns out my older brother, Nate, was right when he warned me not to crap in my own pool.

I expected Regan to have better luck in a small town, but it seems like she rules herself out of the game before anyone else can. She insists on hiding a few extra pounds beneath baggy jeans and sweatshirts, and a pretty face behind a mane of curly black hair. Some guy will have to see past the armor and sweep her off her feet.

Christine, gray-haired and motherly, comes over with a couple of milkshakes—chocolate for Regan, vanilla for me. “On the house,” she says. “Consider it a welcome.”

“Thanks,” I say, unwrapping the straw she hands me. “That’s so nice of you.”

“I want you to love it here,” she says, beaming from ear to ear.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I try to beam back at her, but it’s tough. I’m not wired for beaming.

“They do,” she says. “It must be something in the water.”

I raise my glass. “Or the milkshakes.”

Her laugh booms above the rock music coming from the jukebox. “Regan, your friend is lovely.”

“She is,” Regan says, smirking. Beaming doesn’t come naturally to Regan, either. If it did, we wouldn’t be lifelong friends. Her dad and mine have been best pals since they trained as firefighters. We’ve spent most vacations together either here or in San Diego, and we’ve helped each other through some hard times. Hopefully we can keep a united front right through college.

Someone calls Christine’s name and she leans down to give me a one-armed hug before excusing herself.

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Someone’s trying too hard.”

“People take a lot of pride in this community,” Regan says. Stirring her milkshake thoughtfully, she adds, “I think last night’s fire has people rattled. It’s the third arson, you know.”

I know. Dad was talking about it over breakfast this morning. He’s still obsessed with fire, although he turned down a job working for Uncle Rick, Regan’s dad, who is captain of one of the county’s three fire stations. For some reason, Dad decided to join a security company instead.

Echoing Dad’s words, I say, “One fire’s an accident, two are suspicious, three are a pattern.”

Regan chimes in on the last few words. She’s heard them before.

“What did your dad say about it?” I ask. I try to sound casual, but Regan knows I have a personal interest.

“Same M.O. as the last two,” she says. “Disabled security cameras, broken window, two empty gallon-tubs of starter fluid left in plain view, and a barbeque lighter.”

The series started in mid-June, with a fire in a condo conversion project. Fire number two was at an elementary school in late-July when my family visited Rosewood to find a place to live. Fire number three destroyed an important landmark: Welland Rose’s old homestead, now a museum.

“Dad says the guy is playing games,” Regan says.

Deadly games. The first fire killed my older brother, Nate. At the time, he was a rookie firefighter, working for Uncle Rick. Dad had strong-armed Nate into moving to Rosewood, although he had offers on bigger forces. In fact, Dad wanted us all to move here then. I kicked up a fuss about leaving the best aquatics program in the state, and I still feel guilty. As if our living here could have kept Nate out of that condo fire.

“Each fire is five weeks apart,” I muse. “I wonder if—”

Raised voices behind us keep me from finishing my sentence.

A girl with long, auburn hair is standing beside Melissa’s booth, flanked by two girls with similar hair styles. They’re all wearing skirts and high heeled sandals, although the middle girl’s skirt is shorter and her heels are higher.

“Bianca Larken,” Regan says.

“That’s Bianca?” I say. She used to be kind of homely, with carroty hair, crowded teeth and a big nose.