by Kilby Blades
The original algorithm was theirs and theirs alone. They used that one with its unfiltered probabilities to break the rules and place their offshore bets.
Spiro would kill them, literally, if he ever found out. And if he didn’t, a parade of mob-connected bookies behind him would.
But that was the key to their business model. Love had a price, and that was their secret. Lucky in Love, not Las Vegas, was always the house.
“Yo, Manning! ’S’up?” Gunner said as he entered the Maplewood, New Jersey fire station, and offered Tate a fist bump. Gunner’s platoon started to roll in, adding to the flurry of activity in the firehouse as they prepared to take over when Tate’s team came off their 24-hour shift.
“It’s been quiet, too quiet. Know what I mean?” Tate said, hoping he wasn’t cursing them with a last minute call. He couldn’t wait to reacquaint himself with his pillow and enjoy the next 72 hours off-the-clock. He had rooms to paint, a spare bathroom to renovate, and a damn squirrel to trap.
The little guy had made some recent late night visits inside the rafters over his bedroom, and Tate had yet to find out how the squirrel had gotten inside. He suspected the telltale oak tree that fanned over his home like an umbrella played a part in the little guy’s escapades.
Gunner nodded with a crooked smile and glanced at his watch. “Still an hour until eight. Never know what can happen.” He winked as he walked by, heading toward the chatter in the upstairs kitchen.
Tate moved deeper into the garage and tucked himself in-between two fire engines, hoping for a few minutes of privacy to make a call.
He hated Valentine’s Day almost as much as he hated his ex-wife. It had been three years to the day since she’d pissed on their marriage. Nothing says, “I love you,” quite like, “I’m leaving you for my personal trainer and taking half your net worth.” In his mind, her betrayal would be forever linked to this holiday.
But there was one person who adored it, and for her, he’d make the effort, regardless of his personal feelings. She answered on the second ring.
“Tate, honey! Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom,” he said, a smile touching his lips.
“Thank you for the beautiful flowers, sweetheart. That was so thoughtful,” she said, sounding as delighted as she did every year when his bouquet of red tulips arrived.
A tradition his father had started and that Tate had picked up when he was seventeen, after his father’s death in 2001 on 9/11. Widowed at forty, his mom had never remarried. Now fifty-eight, she had a high-powered career as a financial services executive and was well able to take care of herself. But as her only child, Tate felt a responsibility to look after her—something his greedy ex-wife had always resented, no matter how nice his mom had been to her.
“I’ll pick you up at noon on Sunday,” he said.
“You sure you won’t come to church with me?” she coaxed.
Tension invaded his jaw, but he managed a polite reply, “Not this time.” Unlike his mother, his faith had died with his father in the collapse of the World Trade Center.
“Got to run.”
“Before you go, honey, did you catch that squirrel yet?” Her question contained both curiosity and concern, as much for him as for the squirrel. She was a staunch believer in the ‘catch and release’ method, even for bugs.
He sighed and rubbed his temple. “It’s on my agenda for tomorrow.” He hoped there were no early morning skirmishes over his bedroom before then. He needed some sleep. Who knew the damn things could make so much noise?
His mother laughed softly. “It could very well be a she. Mating season started this month.”
Oh, joy. At least someone was getting tail back at the house. He gave a mirthless laugh. “Noted. See you Sunday.”
As Tate headed to the stairs, an alarm tone pierced the air and his personal radio crackled at his side with a call from dispatch. So much for a quiet night.
The good-natured ribbing in the kitchen above him abruptly stopped. Chairs scraped across the floor followed by the thunder of heavy footfalls as Tate’s team rushed downstairs to gear up for their last call.
Tate joined them, and in less than a minute, the garage bays emptied. A fire truck and two engines peeled out with sirens wailing on their way across Maplewood to put out a residential fire.
“What the…?” Tanya Gates muttered. Her stomach clenched at the sight of all the emergency vehicles with spinning red and blue lights that filled her new condo complex’s parking lot.
“Uh…Is that where you live?” asked the hipster Uber driver with more than a little trepidation as he pulled up in front of the temporary wooden blockades marked “Maplewood Police Department.”
Tonya gulped, speechless, as her eyes tracked the high-pressure water arcing from the fire hose to the flames coming through the second-floor windows of her townhouse unit.
“This can’t be happening,” Tanya muttered. Tears welled in her eyes and blurred her vision.
Here she thought her day couldn’t get any worse between working a turbulent flight from San Francisco that placed her in the unfortunate path of an infant’s projectile vomit and discovering a flat tire on her car in the Newark Airport employee parking lot.
Those things had been unpleasant, but this…this was unspeakable.
Too shocked to think straight, Tanya mindlessly grabbed her handbag and the small suitcase on the floor beside her.
The driver turned and gave her a concerned glance. “You going to be okay? Want me to take you somewhere else?”
She stared at the fire, transfixed, and whispered, “No.” Then she exited the car into the brisk, smoky night air and slowly walked toward the mayhem, suitcase rolling behind her.
Several firefighters worked the blaze from a ladder truck, while others worked hoses and various duties near the other large red vehicles.
As Tanya drew closer, mouth agape, she noticed her townhouse was the only one burning. A testament to fireproofed walls, she guessed.
A portly police officer with kind eyes stopped her as she wandered closer to a fire engine and the emergency personnel gathered there. A plume of smoke-filled air that smelled like a chemical campfire blew in her direction, making her eyes water from more than tears.
“Miss, you need to stay back,” he said gently, blocking her way.
“That’s my home,” she whispered as she watched water douse the flames.
He pointed at his squad car. “Come sit for a minute. Let me get your information.”
She stared at him blankly. This couldn’t be happening. Didn’t he understand that her sanctuary was collapsing before her eyes? Sit? She didn’t want to sit.
He squeezed her shoulder through the wool coat she wore and gave her a gentle shake. “The paperwork will help you with the insurance company.” He tipped his head. “Come…”
The officer’s words passed over her, like water over rock.
She stood rooted, unyielding, her gaze trained on the smoke billowing from her home, and her knees weakened when the tragic realization hit her. Her photographs. The suitcase handle slipped from her fingers and her throat tightened.
“No!” She wrestled free from the officer and ran blindly, lungs heaving, toward one of the fire engines pumping water.
“Miss!” the police officer yelled behind her.
Ignoring him, Tanya kept running full tilt until she reached the closest firefighter. He turned as she skidded to a halt.
One glance into his handsome face and time collapsed in on itself. The shock of recognition buckled her knees. Even with the ginger beard and the passing years, she would recognize the man standing in front of her anywhere, with his red hair and piercing blue eyes. If he smiled, there would be a dimple denting his left cheek.
He stood before her like an angel answering a whispered prayer. More tears slipped down her cheeks. If there was one person in the world who would understand, it would be him.
“Pictures…of my dad�
�in the bedroom,” she choked out, expending her last shallow breath before her eyes rolled back in her head and the ground rose to meet her.
Tate froze in place, staring in disbelief, as he caught the gaze of the tall, willowy woman in front of him. He blinked and took in her delicate features and the long, elegant neck swathed in a silk scarf with a familiar airline logo.
He’d seen that unusual combination of wide-spread hazel-green eyes and warm cocoa skin on only one person in his life. On a girl he once loved. Someone he’d lost touch with a long, long time ago.
His heart thundered and blood rushed through his ears as recognition sparked on her face. “Pictures…of my dad…in the bedroom.”
Her words hit him like a gut punch. “Tanya?” he whispered as she collapsed in a dead faint. Like his father, hers had been one of the 2,606 souls who perished in the World Trade Center on 9/11. The shared experience had galvanized their friendship.
He lunged and caught her under the arms before she hit the pavement, then swept her into his arms. “I need an EMT!”
She felt small and weightless in his arms as he ran toward the ambulance with her cradled to his chest. An EMT met him halfway.
“Check her for shock.” Tate carried her to an awaiting stretcher and reluctantly laid her down. But not before he took a long look at her to memorize every detail. “Take good care of her… she’s a friend. I’ll be back.”
Then he jogged toward the fire truck and the Battalion chief. “I’m going back in,” he said, slipping his mask over his face.
His captain glared. “Like hell you are, Manning! Wait until they finish knocking down the fire,” he said, but Tate was already moving.
Tate knew it was stupid and reckless—that he should wait for the secondary sweep—but he understood like no one else what she’d lost. If those photos weren’t protected by a door, they’d be as good as gone…if they weren’t already.
The guys from the engine company were still fighting the blaze upstairs as he entered the charred first floor.
The point of origin had been an appliance in the kitchen.
A toaster.
There didn’t seem to be any evidence of arson or accelerants, but he’d leave that to the investigators. Either way, the situation was almost under control. If he was lucky, the open flames would be out by the time he hit the second floor.
Tate took the stairs two at a time and caught up with the hoses in the smoke-filled hallway. Any visible flames had been extinguished when he reached the master bedroom.
“Hey, what are you doing up here?” One of the guys asked over the intercom.
“Trying to save something important,” he said, and entered the bedroom. He did a visual sweep of the soot-stained walls and charred furniture. Smoke obscured his visibility, but he could make out the dresser and he searched there first.
A few framed photographs were among the remains. Soot covered the cracked but intact glass. He couldn’t see the pictures inside but snatched them up anyway. He examined the other surfaces, then headed toward the closet. He checked the door first to eliminate unwanted surprises. There were none waiting in the large walk-in space.
The contents inside were smoke-damaged but untouched by fire.
He shined the beam of his flashlight methodically around the closet, along the shelves over the hanging clothes, and then underneath until he spotted two brightly decorated photo boxes. He grabbed them both, adding them to the photographs from the dresser. One last sweep over the plastic tubs in the corner turned up nothing relevant. Satisfied, he left the way he came in.
The guys assigned to the secondary search and overhaul headed inside as he exited the front door. He slipped off his face mask and proceeded toward the ambulance.
He still couldn’t believe it was Tanya. How long had it been, anyway? Eighteen years since he’d met her at Montclair Academy, their private high school, during grief counseling for kids who had lost parents on 9/11? Seventeen years since she’d left for L.A. to try her hand at a singing career, and he had headed to Notre Dame on a football scholarship?
He hadn’t wanted to lose her. They’d promised to stay in touch, visit, not stop…loving each other. Promises kids couldn’t hope to keep with time and distance working against them.
Emotions stirred things inside him he hadn’t felt in longer than he cared to admit. She had been the one person who’d understood him down to his soul, and no one since then had ever come close.
And here she was, living less than a mile from his house. How had that happened? When had that happened?
Tate rounded the back of the ambulance. Tanya looked up from where she sat on the stretcher, looking shaken but all right.
“She’s fine,” the EMT said, winked, and stepped away, giving them some privacy.
His gaze locked with Tanya’s and he drew in a nervous breath. The boxes suddenly felt awkward in his hands. She was even more beautiful now than when they were teenagers.
He cleared his throat and said the first thing he thought of. “This is all I could find.”
Her brows furrowed and her hazel gaze slid to the boxes with the charred frames balanced on top. She bit her quivering lip, nodded, and held out her hands.
He had a million questions racing through his mind, least of which was, “Why did you break our promise?”
Every word Tanya wanted to say to Tate lodged inside her throat. The boxes and soot-covered photo frames shook in her hands.
Tate had recovered her pictures. Most of them, anyway. Her favorite was missing. A photo of her and her dad when she was fifteen at the Paper Mill Playhouse after her professional musical debut as Cosette in Les Misérables. Landing the part as a mixed race lead in a mostly white production had been a coup back then.
She loved that picture of the two of them sharing her proud moment, their heads touching with bright, matching smiles. Euphoria filled her eyes, the same shade of hazel-green as her father. She kept the photograph next to her bed, close enough to look at every night before she went to sleep.
Even with its loss, gratitude welled up inside her. Everything in her home was replaceable, except for what Tate had recovered.
He stood before her, looking unsure of what to do with his hands, a tentative and assessing look creasing his brow.
Still not trusting her eyes, she swallowed hard and managed to rasp, “Tate? Is it really you?”
A look of relief washed over him. He nodded and dropped to one knee so they were at eye level. A small smile lifted the side of his mouth, a dimple denting his ginger-bearded cheek. “Yeah, it’s me.”
He lifted the boxes from her hands and placed them carefully on the ground then he removed his gloves and dropped them onto the pavement alongside the boxes.
Slowly, he took her hands in his. “Is there someone you’d like for me to call…?” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “A husband, maybe? Or your mom?”
She shook her head, avoiding his gaze and thinking only briefly of the engagement she’d broken off six months before. “I live alone. My mom’s in Arizona now.” The thought of calling her mom before tomorrow was out of the question. She’d never get through a conversation without shattering into a million pieces. No. Not tonight.
“Hey…” He squeezed her hands, surrounding and warming them with strong fingers and rough palms, the palms of a man who worked with his hands. She found that comforting somehow. “Tanya? Look at me.”
She met his earnest blue gaze. The intensity sent a flutter rippling through her middle.
“Do you need a place to stay tonight?”
She bit her lip and a tear slid down her cheek. She nodded and dipped her chin. Any plans to slip into flannel pajamas and enjoy a night in her new home, binge-watching Netflix, was a distant memory.
Dropping a hand, he brushed the tear away with his thumb sending a shiver over her skin, and said softly, “You’ll stay with me then.”
Her head jerked up. “What?” They hadn’t seen each other in years and he was o
ffering her a place to stay? “I-I can’t let you do that,” she stammered.
“Yes, you can,” he said, his jaw set in a determined line. “I have a guest room. It’s not a problem. Really.”
She’d heard through a friend that he’d gotten married to his college sweetheart. He could have a whole brood of children by now. “I don’t want to impose on you and your…family.”
He laughed softly. “Divorced. No family to impose on.” Relief and veiled excitement sparked inside her.
He fished a key ring out of a pocket on his turnouts and removed one of the keys. Pressing it into her palm, he closed her fingers around it. “Take it. I live five minutes from here. 25 Highland Place. You shouldn’t drive. Want me to get you an Uber?”
No need to mention her stranded car and the flat tire. She nodded, at a loss for anything else to say. The key felt warm in her closed fist. “Thank you,” she whispered.
A pretty, petite Asian woman in her mid-twenties with pink-tipped hair, wearing black jeans, combat boots, and an expensive fur-trimmed parka walked up. “Sorry to bother you,” she said, and extended a gloved hand. “Hi, I’m Liv.”
Tanya tentatively shook it, surprised at the woman’s firm grip, while Tate rose to his feet.
Liv pointed around the corner to another set of townhouse units, “We’re neighbors. I just moved in. I’m so sorry about your home…I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’d be happy to give you a ride over to Highland. I’m running into town to pick up a pizza. It’s no bother.” She flushed and put a hand to her mouth. “I hope that doesn’t sound weird…I just want to help.”
Something about the tiny woman’s self-deprecating demeanor disarmed Tanya and immediately set her at ease. It was nice to finally meet someone in her complex, even under dismal circumstances.
Picking up the boxes with the frames resting on top, Tanya smiled softly and rose from the stretcher where she’d been sitting next to the ambulance. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”