Welcome Back to Apple Grove (2 page)

Kate could hear Honey B. shushing her toddler, so she waited a moment before answering, “Yes, but I’m not sure if she’s tired from working overtime or maybe homesick.”

Honey B. spoke up. “When was the last time that girl went out on a date?”

Meg chuckled, and Kate huffed, “Not everything can be solved by having a man in your life.”

Honey B.’s delighted laughter had Meg chiming in. “Spoken like someone who does
not
have a man in her life right now. I could talk to Mitch and ask him to talk to Deputy Jones. Maybe he could smooth things over between you two.”

“I’m not speaking to Deputy Jones right now,” Kate grumbled.

“Um, Honey B.,” Meg said, “maybe you should ask that darling husband of yours first, before you go volunteering him for relationship duties. As the sheriff, he has enough to do, keeping the peace—and teenagers out of trouble—in Apple Grove.”

“Don’t you worry about Mitch,” Honey B. drawled. “He’ll do whatever I ask him to.”

Meg chuckled and told her friend to quit bragging.

“Would you two quit kibitzing?” Kate hissed.

“So what really happened between you and that handsome deputy?” Honey B. wanted to know.

“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” Kate told her. “Besides, we need to focus on Grace right now.”

“Kate’s right,” Meg said. “I think I’ll send her a text, letting her know that we’re having a barbecue on Saturday.”

“Good idea,” Kate said.

“Honey B., what do you think of Pat Garahan?”

“Great guy, broad shoulders, big hands, and a bigger heart.”

“Soooo,” Meg said, “what do you think, Kate?”

Kate was having a hard time following Meg’s thought process. “About what?”

“Fixing him up with Grace.”

“Oh.” Kate tried to picture the former FDNY firefighter dating her friend. An image of the auburn-haired giant with the crooked smile and great personality seemed like a good fit. “Isn’t he too busy now that his firehouse has had to cut back and lay off firefighters?”

“There are still enough guys on shift that everyone gets time off,” Meg told her.

Kate wasn’t sure about his job though. “Why him?”

Honey B. and Meg paused as if considering Kate’s question. “As a friend of the family, he’s usually at our family functions. He and Grace always seek one another out to talk to if they’re thrown together. I think with a push in the right direction, they might discover that there are sparks there,” Meg said. “Besides,” she added, “we like him.”

“But what about his job?”

“At least he has a job,” Meg bit out.

“But it’s dangerous!” Kate said.

“So is Mitch’s, but I try not to let it keep me up nights.” Honey B.’s voice was calm and soothing.

“OK, well then, what about Grace? Do you think she’ll suspect that we’re trying to set her up?”

“Not if we’re sneaky enough,” Meg replied. “I’ll have Dan invite Pat to the barbecue on Saturday.”

“What about getting your dad to invite him to Sunday dinner?” Honey B. asked.

“We don’t want them to suspect anything by having Pop invite them Saturday and Sunday,” Meg said. “We should probably maneuver them together a few weekends in a row if we can swing it—spread it out a little.”

“Hey,” Honey B. said, “don’t forget the guys play pickup soccer at least once a month.”

“Perfect,” Meg said. “I’ll find out when the next game is and let you know. Maybe we can move the game to Dad’s.”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Kate said. “You’re inviting Patrick to a barbecue this Saturday?”

“Yes,” Meg and Honey B. said at the same time.

“Then a game and family dinner over the next few weekends?” Kate asked. “What makes you think Grace will want to come back so soon?”

Honey B.’s delighted laughter caught Kate off guard. “What’s so funny?”

“Have you ever really looked at Patrick Garahan?” Meg answered. “The man is to-die-for handsome, and those shoulders of his…” Meg’s voice trailed off.

“We’re counting on his Irish charm to smooth the way,” Honey B. said, “and get Grace to come home for a couple of weekends.”

“What excuse will you use to get her home for the third weekend?” Kate wanted to know.

“I don’t know yet. Hopefully, we won’t need to think of anything. She’ll be smitten with the man.”

Kate laughed. “Smitten?”

“Grace fell in lust with Ted,” Meg said softly. “My baby sister needs something deeper, something to look forward to. A man like Patrick is just what she needs.”

“I hope you two know what you’re doing,” Kate mumbled. “I think Grace just needs time at home—not a man.”

“Everybody needs a man, Kate,” Honey B. drawled.

Meg and Honey B. were still laughing when Kate added, “We’d better hope that Grace doesn’t find out.”

“Did she say anything else?” Meg asked.

“Just that she was donating her hair to a charity that makes human-hair wigs for little girls and teenagers who are fighting cancer and can’t afford to purchase a wig.”

“My baby sister always manages to surprise me,” Meg whispered. “Honey B., I can’t believe that I’ve never really thought about donating my hair. It’s a great idea.”

“Well, you’ve been busy raising your sisters and working for your father, and then Dan Eagan moved to town.”

Meg laughed. “And that’s when my life turned completely upside down, but I do love that man.”

Kate interrupted, “So you’re going to donate your hair too?”

“Absolutely,” Meg said. “I braid it to keep it out of my way.”

“You have for years,” Honey B. added. “I like wearing mine just long enough to brush my shoulders. Gives your hair more bounce, more life.”

“I’m going to call Cait and tell her about our new plans for Grace and let her know that I’m donating my hair too.”

“I’ve always wanted to try a new hairstyle,” Kate said.

“You mean other than a ponytail?” Honey B. asked.

Kate chuckled. “Yes, do you think I have enough hair to donate it?”

“Tell you what,” Honey B. said. “Why don’t you meet us at my shop tomorrow night at eight o’clock and we’ll measure it then.”

“Sounds great,” Kate told her.

“Oh,” Honey B. whispered. “I just had this amazing idea.”

“What?” Kate asked.

“Honey B.,” Meg said, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Honey B. and Meg had been saying stuff like that to each other for as long as Kate could remember.

“I believe I am,” Honey B. told her. “We’d better get busy spreading the word; I expect I’ll have a long line of customers at the shop tomorrow.”

“What are you two talking about?” Kate demanded.

“We’re going to get as many people in town to donate hair as we can and make one large donation and let them know Grace gave us the idea.”

“Honey B.,” Meg said softly, “she’ll be so surprised…and touched. Thank you.”

Honey B. laughed. “Don’t thank me yet. So far we have you, Kate, and possibly Caitlin donating hair—we need a lot more people!”

“OK,” Meg said. “Let’s divide and conquer. I’ll call Miss Trudi—”

“I’ll call Mrs. Winter,” Honey B. said.

“And I’ll tell my sister Peggy,” Kate volunteered. “Between those three, the entire town will hear about Apple Grove’s Love Locks cut-a-thon in an hour—tops!”

“God, I love this town.” Meg sniffled. “Our neighbors and friends are always ready to lend a hand—or in this case their hair!”

“Me too,” Honey B. and Kate said at the same time.

“I’ve got to call Grace,” Kate said.

“Wait,” Meg said. “I think it should be our surprise. It’ll make Grace feel as if she’s still a part of Apple Grove, and I have a feeling that might be just what she needs.”

“Good call,” Honey B. said.

“All right,” Kate agreed. “I won’t spill the beans. Do you think we should ask Rhonda to run a special edition of the
Apple
Grove
Gazette
online tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” Meg said. “Grace might read it.”

“All right then. I’ll see you ladies tomorrow,” Honey B. reminded them.

“Night,” Meg said.

“Talk to you later.” Kate couldn’t wait to see Grace tomorrow night, but she didn’t have time to think about that now. She ran downstairs to tell her sister the news.

Patrick Garahan loved his family, but right now the oldest Garahan brother was giving him a headache. “Give it a rest, Tommy. I’m not interested in coming back to New York City to fight fires. I live in Newark, Ohio, now.”

“Yeah,” his brother said, “but you’re a New Yorker at heart. You miss the city.”

Pat sighed. It was true, he did, but that wasn’t the only issue. “I like living out here.” He thought of the friends he’d made and the great group of guys he fought fires with. “It’s not New York, but it’s home.”

“Not buying it, Bro.” After a long pause, his brother asked, “You coming for Ma’s birthday?”

“Is Moira making the cake again?”

His brother laughed. “Not if Mike can sweet-talk her out of it.”

Pat chuckled. Their brother Mike’s fiancée was the light of his life and had passed the Garahan sticking test, but she couldn’t boil water. The cake she’d baked for their mom’s birthday last year was hard to forget—hard as a rock with super-sweet icing. “All right then,” Pat told him. “I’ll be there.”

“Great! I’ll tell everybody.” His brother hesitated before adding, “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for what happened—”

Not
going
there.
“Gotta go. Talk to you soon.” Pat disconnected and rubbed his temples. If he didn’t take something for the pain now, it’d be a migraine in a few hours. He tossed his cell phone on the long kitchen table, poured a glass of water, and took a couple of pain relievers.

His phone vibrated across the table. Out of habit, he answered without checking the number. “Garahan.”

“You up for a game of soccer in two weeks?”

Pat grinned. “I’m not sure how many guys I can round up, but we’ll be there to whup your sorry ass. Next Saturday or Sunday work for you?”

“Yep,” Dan said. “Not sure what day yet. I’m writing it on the kitchen calendar now, blocking out the weekend.”

His friend paused and Pat could hear a muffled voice talking in the background. “Meg wanted me to remind you about the barbecue Saturday.”

“At your house?”

He heard a muffled voice again and waited for Dan to get back on the line. “No, Meg said we’re grilling at her dad’s house.”

He wondered why but would find out soon enough. “What time for the barbecue?” Pat asked.

“Come early. The boys can’t wait to see you.”

“So you’re planning on feeding me two weekends in a row?” Pat joked.

“Not me. I’m leaving that up to Meg and Cait. And hey, if you don’t feel like driving back and forth—because there will be beer—you can bunk on our sofa.”

Pat laughed, remembering the last time he’d stayed overnight at the Eagans’ house. He’d been the victim of a predawn surprise attack when Dan and Meg’s twin boys jumped on top of him. “Let me think about it. If I do stay, tell and Danny and Joey if they promise not to wake me up before sunrise, I’ll make pancakes for breakfast Sunday morning.”

“They’ll love it,” Dan said. “Do you need to switch shifts with anyone to make it work?”

“No,” Patrick said. “It’s actually perfect timing. I’m just finishing a twenty-four at the firehouse and traded shifts with one of the guys who needed off next week, so I’ll be free this weekend. See you Saturday.”

“Cool. Oh, hey, Pat?”

“Yeah?”

“Mitch said to be prepared to lose.”

Pat was laughing when he disconnected.

“Hey, Red!” his lieutenant called out, sticking his head in the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

Pat grinned. It was hard not to when Big Jim Muldoon was in a good mood. “Firehouse chili.”

“Oh man. Extra hot with corn bread?”

Pat shook his head. “Too many complaints about my chili from the guys last time, so I’m trying a new recipe. Don’t worry—I’ve got a big bottle of hot sauce so you can add as much heat as you want.”

His lieutenant seemed to be considering that option, and asked, “What about the corn bread?”

“Making corn muffins this time.” He looked around the kitchen and shrugged. “I was supposed to have prep help, but Mike Snelling’s MIA.”

Big Jim straightened away from the door. “He’s checking equipment. I’ll send him up.”

“Thanks.” When the older man hesitated, staring at the big empty pot Pat was going to brown the meat in, Pat swallowed the chuckle, reassuring him, “Don’t worry. You’re gonna love it.”

“Who gave you the recipe?”

“My brother Tommy.”

“Family is the glue, Garahan,” Muldoon told him. “Don’t forget that.”

Pat thought about it and slowly nodded. He didn’t want to get into a lengthy conversation with his lieutenant about the family he’d left behind in New York. The brothers were tight, no matter the miles spreading between them. If there had been any way—
no
. He shook his head.
Don’t think about New York or the Projects
. He hadn’t had the nightmare in a few months, and he was handling things just fine without drinking.

“I’ll spread the word,” Muldoon said. “How soon till it’s ready?”

Pat looked at the packages of meat he’d started to unwrap before his brother called. “Give me an hour.”

“You’ve got a bunch of hungry guys waiting. Can you make it faster?”

“Sure.” Patrick grinned. “Let me just scoop some raw chop meat on a platter and we’ll be good to go.”

“Smart-ass.” His lieutenant was chuckling as he walked away.

Pat scrubbed his hands. While he added a little oil to the huge cast-iron Dutch oven, he let his mind wander. He loved his job—it was in his blood. His great-great-grandfather had started the family tradition just a few days off the boat from Ireland. Thomas Garahan had wanted to do something for the new country he’d adopted and fighting fires seemed like the perfect way to give back to his new home. Years later, the New York City Garahans were firefighters, cops, or carpenters.

While the meat browned, he stirred slowly, thinking of what his great-great-grandfather’s life must have been like in those days. When the meat was cooked through, he opened a couple of jugs of salsa and dumped them into the pot.

He was stirring the mixture when a deep voice called out, “Oh yeah, Garahan’s making chili!”

“’Bout time you showed up to help, Snelling.”

His friend laughed. “I’m supposed to be setup, not cooking.”

“Yeah, but you missed setup.”

His friend shrugged. “The lieutenant needed me to do something for him. Not my fault. Put me on cleanup.”

Pat shook his head. “Here.” He handed Mike a bowl. “You make the muffins and I’ll make the apple crisp.”

“You know, Garahan,” Mike said slowly, “if you move in with me, you can cook and I’d do all the cleaning—we could save money on rent.”

Patrick laughed as he set out the ingredients and started measuring. “But you live like a slob.”

“I can change.”

Pat shook his head. “I doubt it. Hey, want to play soccer next weekend?”

“What time and where?”

“Not sure which day yet. But definitely noon in Apple Grove.”

Mike nodded. “I’m there. Any chance one of the McCormack sisters showing up?”

“Which one?”

Mike shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They’re both lookers and can cook.”

They laughed and talked about the last game in Apple Grove.

“What do I set the timer for?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Pat told him.

Snelling eyed the baking dishes filled with apples and crumbly topping. “Do you have ice cream or heavy cream for the apple crisp?”

“That’s what I like about you, Snelling,” Pat said, “always thinking with your stomach.”

The table was set and Mike was tossing the salad when the rest of the guys on their shift started to trickle in. Patrick loved the camaraderie and being in the heart of the firehouse—as with any home—its kitchen.

The guys were a rowdy bunch, but Pat loved the noise and the good-natured ribbing while everyone settled down to eat.

“Pass the hot sauce.” Big Jim held out his hand, catching the bottle shoved down the length of the table in his direction.

Pat shuddered at the amount of hot sauce his lieutenant poured in his bowl of chili. “Did you at least taste it first?”

Muldoon shook his head and dug into his bowl. Blowing across the spoon, he grinned. “I am now.” He chewed, swallowed, and took a big bite of corn muffin while his eyes teared up and his face turned red.

Pat and Mike laughed as Pat asked, “Hot enough?”

Big Jim wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, scooped up another mouthful, and agreed, “Uh-huh.”

Static from the two-way radio on the table had everyone bracing. Muldoon grabbed the one he’d brought with him and answered. Before he finished speaking, the men were making a beeline for the stairs while the overhead alarm sounded. Pat double-checked that everything was turned off in the kitchen before following along behind.

He was the last one to the lockers, but it took only seconds to step into his boots and pull up his fireproof pants. He grabbed his hat off the top shelf and put it on his head as he ripped his turnout coat off the hook and ran toward the ladder truck that had the lights flashing, engine revving, and the men motioning for him to hurry.

Mike had grabbed Pat’s oxygen mask and tanks, knowing that Pat, as the designated cook, needed to secure the kitchen and wouldn’t have the time.

Pat nodded to Mike and asked, “What’s up?”

Mike looked grim. “Fire in the apartments over on Third Avenue.”

“Second one this week.” Pat shook his head. “Arson?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll investigate.”

Pat stared out the window, wishing his mind would blur like the scenery. It would be easier to keep thoughts of the Projects and the last fire he’d fought in New York City—or the recurring nightmare he dreaded—from resurfacing. “It might be a coincidence.”
Was
there
really
such
a
thing?

Ladder Three and Engine Three arrived on the scene together. There was one window on the top floor that had flames shooting out of it, while the others were belching black smoke. “The roof isn’t engaged.”

“Listen up,” Big Jim shouted. “We’ve got time to do a sweep, looking for a grandmother and two little kids. Garahan, you’re the can man. Snelling, you back him up. I’ve got the irons. Feeney, you’re with me.”

Pat reacted as he’d been trained. Carrying the can of water—and the six-foot hook he used to bring ceilings down—up eight floors with one hundred and fifteen pounds of equipment on his back was a piece of cake compared to what he’d done in New York. Being stationed at the firehouse that received calls from the Projects—the North Bronx—had been hard work—double the calls received in any other five boroughs. A bark from his lieutenant was all he needed to focus. Searching for victims and putting the fire out was a priority and all that mattered right now.

They followed Lieutenant Muldoon up the flight of stairs. Patrick was totally in the zone, racing up the stairs, the others right behind him. Visibility was nonexistent the closer they got to the top floor. Smoke inhalation was a silent killer.

Pat set the can and ceiling hook down and Muldoon handed him the Halligan Hooks (a.k.a.
irons
) hanging on to the crowbar and ax, so he was ready to take the door by force if necessary. Side by side, Pat waited for Muldoon to touch the door, checking for heat. “Minimal,” he shouted.

Pat nodded. Muldoon waited while Pat did what he was famous for, taking the door. He inserted the hooks and swung the ax, hammer side down, against them. The door splintered apart with one blow. He and Snelling would take the left; Big Jim Muldoon and Feeney would take the right.

Feeling their way along the wall, they searched for door openings and windows, mentally counting them along the way, estimating the number of feet in between. The first door he came to, he reached back and alerted Mike. They dropped to their hands and knees, hoping to find the two little kids and their grandmother.

Time was running out. They needed to find the victims before the smoke inhalation was irreversible. Finally he found the opening—a doorway—he’d been looking for and hit the floor so he would have a better chance of locating the little ones—children were often hiding in closets and under beds when fire struck.

Ignoring the weight of his gear and the heat of the fire licking through the building, he searched with his hands, praying that he or one of his team reached them before the black smoke claimed a life.

Now that they were inside the apartment, the minutes passed like hours, every tick of the clock in his head counting down the possibility of surviving the smoke inhalation. Pat was sweating bullets, half due to the heat and half due to the adrenaline rush as their search of the first room came up empty. Undaunted, they repeated the process in the next room—another bedroom.

His breathing unit chimed, indicating he was now on borrowed time, as his gloved hand connected with a tiny sneaker. Seconds later, he was pulling a child into his arms and retracing his steps.