After the Blaze
Louisa Masters
After the Blaze
Copyright © 2020 by Louisa Masters
First published March 2020 in the When the Smoke Clears anthology
Editor: Hot Tree Editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Contents
After the Blaze
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Hi from Louisa!
Also by Louisa Masters
About the Author
After the Blaze
Friendship can be everything… until it’s not enough.
Charlie Madden left his city life behind to help his great-aunt run a quilting shop in rural Lakes Entrance. He loves his quieter new life… almost as much as he loves Archie Tucker.
Archie, his closest friend in town and everybody’s favourite person, has no idea how Charlie feels, and Charlie’s not willing to risk their friendship by making a move. He can be content to love from afar as long as Archie’s still in his life.
But then bushfires sweep the region, and CFA volunteer Archie is called out to battle the blaze… and as Gippsland burns, Charlie realizes that some things are worth the risk.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Meg Bawden for conceiving of and coordinating the anthology that spawned this story, and to all the amazing authors involved. It was such a pleasure working with you all.
Hugs always to my amazing editor, Becky at Hot Tree Editing, and to my newsletter subscribers, who supported my decision to write this story instead of the freebie I promised them.
And lastly, thank you to all our CFA (Country Fire Authority) volunteers, who are such an essential part of every rural community. I cannot think what Australia would do without you.
Chapter One
December 31, 2019
Have you ever felt completely and utterly helpless? Not for yourself—for someone else. Forced to stand by and watch them suffer, unable to do anything to help?
I never have before, but this summer seems to be all about helplessly wringing my hands while others suffer.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I croon, patting the little girl’s back as she sobs against my neck. “I’m so sorry.” Three feet away, her harried and exhausted mother shoots me a grateful look as she tries to calm her screaming infant. He doesn’t want to be calmed, of course—he’s tired, his routine is shot to hell, the air is hot and smoky, and nothing around him is familiar. It’s noisy and crowded here at the evacuation centre; not exactly conducive to him taking a nap.
Maisy, the toddler in my arms, mumbles something about her “pretty princess bed,” and even though I know the loss of a bed is nothing compared to whole towns and lives, my heart breaks for her. She’s not quite three. That bed mattered to her; more, it’s symbolic of everything else that’s gone.
Finally, her sobs peter out, and a little while later, she goes slack and heavy. I wait a few minutes, then carefully lay her on the camping mattress in the back of her mother’s SUV. Theirs isn’t the only car parked here at the reserve and doubling as a home. The place is packed full—last I heard, evacuees were being sent on to Bairnsdale because there just isn’t room for so many people. Not exactly a great way to spend New Year’s Eve.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Emma, the overworked mother, whispers. Her son has finally stopped screaming, and I really hope for all their sakes that they manage a decent nap. Or at least some quiet time.
“No problem. Can I get you anything, or do anything else?”
She shakes her head. “Just… if you hear anything about my husband?”
“Of course,” I assure her. “I’ll be here for a few more hours, and I’ll let you know if any news comes.” Her husband is a volunteer firefighter for the CFA, and he’s been busy the past few days—well, weeks, really. There’s a very good chance he doesn’t know yet that she and the kids are here and their house is ashes. Emma got out of Buchan only an hour before the fires swept through. Happy New Year, right? She’s left messages on his phone and with the relevant authorities, but the firefighters are overworked right now.
Desperately so.
I make myself smile at her and then move on. I’m not here at the Lakes Entrance evacuation centre in any official capacity. There are a bunch of us locals who just come when we can to help out in any way we’re needed. The “official” volunteers know what they’re doing, so we make ourselves available when they need extra hands and try to help the evacuees with anything they might need the rest of the time—like rocking fractious children. It’s not much, but it’s better than sitting at home watching East Gippsland burn around me and wondering how Archie is.
If he’s okay.
I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Charlie Madden. I’m twenty-six years old, blond hair, brown eyes, and I live in the coastal town of Lakes Entrance, Victoria, with my elderly great-aunt. I used to be a city boy, but when Aunt Hannah broke her leg three years ago, right when my job was downsized, I came out to look after her quilting and haberdashery shop… and just never went back. I’ve always been into crafts, and it turns out quilting is something I’m particularly good at—along with other sewing. I made a decent amount of change last year making wedding dresses for local brides. It’s a great little side business. So now I manage the business, and Aunt Hannah reigns over the shop with her expertise and gossip and teaches everyone fancy stitches in the quilting classes we offer.
Until a year ago, I was living with her in her cosy two-bedroom cottage, but we finally decided that since I wasn’t leaving, we should make more permanent arrangements, and I found a tiny one-bedroom unit not far from the shop. It’s not much, but I love it.
My life here is comfortable and ordered and calm. It’s a small town, population right around five thousand, but because it’s a tourist destination, there’s a decent range of shops and restaurants—and in the summer, the population surges to over twenty thousand as all the city people come to visit. This year, the population bump is due to bushfire evacuees from nearby towns, not tourists, and many local businesses are already struggling.
Do I miss the benefits city living has for a young gay man? Yes. No doubt there. The year-round gay community here is much smaller, and worse, everyone knows everyone else and their business. It’s a lot harder to keep anything private.
For example, everyone who frequents the shop knows about my adoration of Archie Tucker, and believe me, I never told anyone. They just know.
Who is Archie? Archie is… perfect. (Cue besotted sigh.) Well, he’s not actually perfect, but he comes damn close. He’s a scion of one of the wealthier families in the area. The Tuckers own a five-star resort, function centre, and golf club just out of town, and it’s not uncommon to see helicopters whirring over town, ferrying the elite from Melbourne. It’s that kind of five-star resort, not one of the ones ordinary people splash out on for a special weekend away. There are no prices listed on their website—I checked once, right after I moved here. For a friend. Well, okay, it was because I was trying to come up with ways to ac
cidentally-on-purpose run into Archie, and I thought staying at the resort might do it. Needless to say, I gave up on that idea fast.
But it’s not Archie’s family or money that enthrals me. It’s him. I met him my first week in town, when he brought his grandmother to the shop to buy fabric, and I’ve seen him every week since then, because he brings his grandmother in every week. That’s the kind of guy Archie is—he drives his elderly grandmother to a quilting store and waits patiently for an hour, reading a magazine or messing with his phone or (most often) talking to me while she gossips with Aunt Hannah and their friends and selects fabric. Which he then cheerfully carries out to the car.
He’s gorgeous, with curly black hair and grey eyes, a profile that could grace a statue, and a full, smiling mouth. Seriously. He smiles a lot. He’s a year younger than me and works as assistant general manager of the resort—he’s being groomed to take over one day, since he’s the only one of his siblings who’s interested. He plays on the Lakes Entrance footy team in winter, the cricket team in summer, and he’s heavily into sailing. He helps out with the youth group, organized a fortnightly karaoke night at the pub, and always has time for any community event that needs volunteers.
And he’s a CFA volunteer firefighter.
Daunting, yeah? One of those people you admire from afar but who’s destined to end up with someone equally daunting and impressive.
So I’m sure you can imagine how my first meeting with him went. It was before I even knew all that stuff about him—he was just the hot guy who came into the shop with an old lady.
And my jaw dropped.
In fact, I was so busy staring at him that I missed what his grandmother said and earned myself a rap across the knuckles from her fan.
Because she’s the kind of old lady who carries a fan.
“Young man, I asked who you are.” The imperious note in her voice could not be denied.
I dragged my gaze away from the Adonis hovering a few feet behind her and said, “Uh… Charlie. I’m Charlie.”
She raised a single eyebrow, which made me instantly envious, because no matter how much I practice, I cannot do that. “Hannah’s nephew?”
That got my attention. Aunt Hannah had talked about me? Why? I’m just one of a dozen great-nieces and -nephews.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to help until she can get around better.” I didn’t bother to explain that she’d been injured—I learned within my first hour there that everyone already knew.
She looked down her nose at me, which was a neat trick. I’m short for a man, but she’s still about four inches shorter. Her gaze lingered on my face, then drifted down to my hands, and I knew she was taking in the eyeliner and nail polish. That made me nervous. Aunt Hannah had assured me the town was fairly open-minded, but still…. “Do you know anything about quilting?”
“Grandma,” Archie chided, but she shushed him.
“Probably not as much as you,” I told her honestly. “But Aunt Hannah’s been teaching me since I was a kid, so I’m not totally ignorant.” I was actually a better-than-decent quilter even then, but I didn’t want to brag.
The way she studied me made me feel like I might have failed at life, but just when I was ready to burst into tears or apologise for even existing, she nodded. “I’m Amelia Tucker. Your aunt is a dear friend of mine. Is she able to have visitors?”
“She’s still at the hospital in Bairnsdale, but if you’re headed over there, I’m sure she’d love to see you. We expect she’ll be able to come home next week sometime.”
She looked over her shoulder at the young god, who smiled.
“We can go when you’re finished here, if you like,” he offered, and part of me went from lust to love right then.
“Thank you.” She turned back to me. “This is my grandson Archie. Talk to him while I find what I want.”
“Ah… can I help y—” I stopped when she levelled a “please don’t waste my time” look at me. “Let me know if you need help finding anything,” I finished weakly.
Archie chuckled and came up to lean on the counter, looking affectionately after his grandmother as she wandered into the stacks of quilting fabric. When he turned his warm gaze on me, I almost swallowed my tongue.
“Archie Tucker.” He offered his hand. Fortunately, shaking hands is a reflex action, so I found myself following social protocol without having to think.
“Charlie Madden. Hah, we both got saddled with old-fashioned names.”
Yes. I said that. To a guy I’d just met.
My cheeks went hot, and I began to stammer an apology, but he waved a hand dismissively and grinned… and that was when I saw his dimples.
That’s right. He has dimples. Are you beginning to understand my adoration?
“I’m named after my grandfather… and his grandfather. You?”
“My grandfather,” I agreed. “Not sure about his grandfather.”
“It could be worse,” he commiserated. “We could be named after our grandmothers.”
I laughed, and he laughed, and that was the first time I met Archie Tucker.
When Aunt Hannah came home five days later, I’d barely settled her in her armchair with a cup of tea before she turned her sharp gaze on me and said, “I hear you met Archie Tucker.”
I blushed just thinking about him. “He came in with his grandmother on Saturday,” I said, even though she obviously knew.
“He’s a nice boy.”
“He seemed very nice,” I agreed, praying my cheeks wouldn’t get any hotter.
“He’d be a good friend for you. He knows what it’s like to be gay in a small community.”
I knocked over her mug and tea splashed over the side table and onto the floor.
“Shit! Sorry, Aunt Hannah. Let me get a tea towel.” And I escaped to the kitchen, where I breathed deeply for a few moments and tried not to get too excited about the fact that Archie is gay.
The thing is, my gaydar is absolutely worthless. I’ve never been able to tell if someone is gay or not unless they actually come out and tell me—no pun intended. I’ve even been flirted with and not realised it until it was pointed out in short, no-nonsense sentences. So there was no way for me to guess that Archie is gay. I’ve always considered my lack of gaydar somewhat unfair, since people take one look at me and just assume I am gay. I guess I have a vibe.
So over the past three years, Archie and I have been friends. He’s a friendly guy. I see him every week at the shop, and he often calls and invites me to join him and his friends at the pub, or to watch whatever sporting match is being played. I’ve even gotten somewhat involved as a volunteer for the local footy and cricket clubs because of him.
But he’s never shown any interest. And there’s no way I’ll throw away our friendship by asking for more—he’s too important to me. I just adore him from afar and enjoy his friendship.
And try not to let the Matchmaking Quilters Association embarrass me.
It’s not really an association, of course. I just made that up. I’m talking about the women who visit the shop. It worries me a lot how easily they all guessed about my adoration. Am I so obvious? Does Archie know too? Is he just too nice to say anything about it?
I can’t think about that for too long or I’ll drive myself nuts.
Anyway, the MQA women are determined that I’ll have a happily ever after with Archie. I deserve it, they tell me, and he needs a nice boy like me. We complement each other. Even his grandmother is part of the MQA—and didn’t I almost have a heart attack when she called me over one Saturday and quietly suggested I should ask him out. Thank fuck he didn’t hear her. I managed to get her to swear that she would never mention it to him, in return for which I would put aside anything new that had the raspberry colour she’s been working with so she could have first refusal. I got scolded when Aunt Hannah found out, but so far, she’s let me keep to it.
So while the MQA doesn’t overtly interfere, there’s been a lot of behind-the-scenes manipulation.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten a call to please come over and change a light bulb or fetch something that’s been stored on a high shelf (I may be short, but I can use a ladder without fear of a broken hip), only to arrive and find that Archie’s been called out for the same reason, with the MQA matron muttering about how she’s so forgetful, she must have asked us both, and why don’t we go have something to eat together when we leave?
Archie knows what they’re up to, of course. He smiles at them knowingly, then rolls his eyes once they turn their backs, and we go to the pub for a meal and have a great time and never talk about it. I guess he figures the ladies are just matchmaking us because we’re both gay? Regardless, I haven’t been publicly humiliated by the whole thing… yet.
Chapter Two
Nine o’clock is looming by the time I finally head home. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. It’s New Year’s Eve, but the town is eerily quiet—not many people feel like celebrating with most of Gippsland burning. I know I don’t, which is why I’m going home to be alone. There’s not a lot of food in my house, since I haven’t been home much in the past few days, but I’ll cobble some sort of dinner together and then watch TV in my boxers for a while before I fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a sore back an hour later. I haven’t slept well lately. We’re not in direct danger from fires here in Lakes Entrance (although bushfires aren’t exactly predictable, so who knows), but the pervasive fear in the area isn’t exactly conducive to rest.
Oh, fuck it. The truth is, I’ve been too worried about Archie to sleep properly. I know he’s been called out several times since November, but the last time I spoke with him was at Christmas, and things have taken a drastic turn for the worse since then. I heard that all volunteers have been called out and are working ridiculous shifts to try to stay ahead of these fires. For all I know, he’s been out there for the past week. I’ve sent a few texts to let him know I’m thinking of him, but it really doesn’t surprise me not to hear back—he’ll be either actively fighting fires or resting to go back out. I’d know if something had happened to him—and no, not because of a cosmic connection. If something had happened to Archie Tucker, the whole town would be talking about it.
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