Pop’s neck began to take on the angry red flush Clark knew too well. “Maybe a better question to ask is why you took Melba Wingate to dinner? Making amends, perhaps? That used to be one of your favorite tactics.”
Clark knew he’d be dealing with harsh judgment when he first moved back into town, but this? After the stand he’d forced himself to take tonight? What was the point of trying for integrity when everyone questioned your motives? He grabbed his file and started for the door. “You are so far out of line, Pop, I don’t think it’s even worth the effort.”
“I wonder what you do find worth the effort?”
That was ironic, considering the effort Clark had put in tonight. It had taken sizable effort to put his interest in Melba Wingate aside and stay focused on what he’d come to town to achieve. He stopped, his head down and his hand on the doorknob. He’d taken the job in Gordon Falls to solve this problem between him and his father, not extend it. Help me, Lord, I want to wring his neck right now, not be reasonable. “Pop,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “do you have any interest in hearing my side of this?”
That caught his father’s attention. During the hours of conversations that led up to Clark’s nomination as GFVFD’s next chief, the one thing each of them had to promise was to hear each other out. They were terrible at it, as tonight displayed. Pop took off his baseball cap, smoothed what was left of his once-red hair and replaced the cap. George Bradens’s body language for “I’m changing gears.” “Yes,” he huffed reluctantly.
“Okay.” Clark took his hand off the doorknob. This, of course, meant that when he was done, he’d have to hear out his father’s side—which seemed unreasonable at the moment—but there didn’t seem to be another way forward. They were going to have to learn to deal with each other. The Bradens clan was down to two; each other was all they had left. If anything happened where he’d need to show his father the kind of patience Melba showed hers, some large-scale healing was going to need to take place. Might as well start here.
“Want a root beer?” Pop always did his peacekeeping with root beer. There were worse strategies.
“Sure.”
Clark tossed the files down on his desk and they walked into the firehouse kitchen. He’d spent so much time in this room it felt more like home than the kitchen at the house. Well, at Pop’s house—Clark had taken a condo down on the river in the full knowledge that both Bradenses in the same household would spell disaster.
After popping the tops off the bottles, Pop sighed and set them down on the table. “So, you bought a boat,” he said with less edge as he eased himself wearily into a chair.
“I’m twenty-eight,” Clark said. “I don’t need a note from my father.” Okay, Clark, he reminded himself, cut out the jabs. “Yes,” he revised, “I bought Jones’s boat. A fine boat at a good price. I’m of the mind that I’ll need a place to get away from the job stress now and then.”
Pop grunted. Whether or not a chief ever truly left work was a point of contention between them. Pop never stopped working, even when he was “off duty.” It was one of the reasons skipping out on Melba that first night stuck in Clark’s craw so fiercely—he’d been on the receiving end of too many such skips growing up. A host of school baseball games with no Pop in the stands. Too many birthday parties where Pop showed up late—if he showed up at all. And he wasn’t the only one who had been neglected. He remembered putting a pillow over his head to block out late-night “don’t let Clark hear you!” yelling downstairs in the kitchen when another dinner had gone cold and uneaten.
“And roaring down the river?” Pop made it sound like Clark had spun his tires out on the church front lawn.
Clark pulled his hands down his face—something he’d done way too much of tonight. “Honestly, I’m not sure what happened there. One minute I’m gently opening up the throttle under the bridge, the next Mort Wingate is standing knee-deep in the Gordon River yelling at me while his daughter fights to get him to back out.”
“‘No wake’ means just that,” his father quoted the buoy marker limiting motorboats to low speeds for that section of the river. He knew Clark well enough to guess “gently opening up the throttle” meant putting on more than a little speed.
And he was right. “Okay, so I was going a bit fast. There wasn’t another boat in sight and I didn’t see anyone on the bank. It’s April, for goodness’ sake.” His dad raised a dubious red-silver eyebrow. “Maybe I should have slowed down, only it wasn’t about that. Pop, Mort was yelling at me for scaring away the ducks. Ducks? I could have scared away ducks in a canoe. And even if I did, it hardly rated him wading into the water making a scene like he did. It was...” He stopped short of using the word “crazy.” That felt like a low blow to someone battling Alzheimer’s.
“You came up on shore.” The bank where Mort stood wasn’t a legal boat landing. Clark had broken a rule. Or two.
“I came over to help. The guy was three feet into forty-degree water. Melba was frantic trying to pull him out before he fell in all the way.” Clark took a swig of the creamy soda. Remembering the wild look in Mort’s eyes sent a chill down his back. “It looked like he was coming straight for me, Dad. I figured the best thing to do was to be on land so he came toward dry ground. Melba couldn’t control him.” It felt lousy to chronicle an old man’s weakness, but Clark had to make his dad see the mayhem of the episode. “I didn’t have a lot of time to ponder sensible alternatives.”
Pop leaned back in his chair, running two fingers along the outside of the root beer bottle. “I could debate whether what happened was your fault—you shouldn’t have been going that fast and I don’t see why you needed to have that boat right now—but I’ll let that go for now. Still, you expect me to believe you had no sensible alternatives to dinner?”
Now we’re getting into it, Clark thought sourly. “You’re monitoring my dinner companions now?”
“People talk. That’s not news to you.”
Clark could have shot down his father’s words if his dinner with Melba had been a strictly platonic affair. The truth that his imagination had already wandered too far in regard to Melba—and that he’d only barely managed to rein it back—weakened his defense. How was it Pop managed to make him feel guilty when he hadn’t done anything wrong? “I can have dinner with anyone I choose.” Clark hated how petulant it sounded.
“Can you?”
Oh, that tone. Pop was a master of the mean-everything-and-say-nothing tone. Nothing got under Clark’s skin faster. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Do you need me to spell it out for you, son?”
Clark pushed up off his chair to pace the kitchen. “Sure. Spell it out for me, Pop. I’m only twenty-eight, surely I can’t know what I’m doing here.”
“You did not leave Gordon Falls with the best reputation. Small towns have long memories for stuff like that.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I believe,” his father shot back sharply, “that you are capable of stepping in here. I’d never have recommended you for the chief position if I thought you weren’t. But it’s not all downhill from here and you know it.”
“I’m going to have to prove myself.” Clark was so sick of hearing that sentence from his father.
“More than prove yourself.”
“Because you cast such a long shadow. And everybody loves George Bradens. Nobody can do the job like George does. You know, I’m tired of going over this. And over it and over it.” Clark squared off at his father, his temper ignited by Pop’s judgmental glare. “I’m not you. And as far as the position of fire chief is concerned? I don’t want to be. I’m going to give my all to this job but it is not going to eat me alive and become my life. If that’s what you or the people in this town expect, then you’re all in for a disappointment.”
There was a long, prickly silence. “So that�
��s what you think of my dedication, is it?” His father had a long fuse, but there was a massive powder keg at its end.
“No.” Yes. Maybe. “You know something, Dad? Would you believe I actually put the brakes on things going beyond friendship between Melba and me tonight? Would it even occur to you that I might have told her I needed to keep my focus on the department right now? Or don’t you believe I’m capable of that?”
“You were certainly leaning in close enough to have the conversation.”
Clark threw his hands up in disgust. “Does no one in Gordon Falls have anything better to do with their time than spy on me? For crying out loud, I can’t even seem to do the right thing when I’m doing the right thing.”
“The right thing here is to steer clear of Melba Wingate. And Mort, for that matter.”
“Were you even listening to what I just said?”
Pop jabbed a finger at him. “And I’m saying that no good can come from you cozying up to the Wingates.” He shook his head, readjusting his hat in an angry fluster.
Clark balked. “What is this, the Hatfields and McCoys or something?” There was a look in his father’s eye. A flash of something deeper than anger over public perception. “What have you got against the Wingates, anyway?”
“Leave it, Clark.”
There was something there, Clark just wasn’t sure what it was. “Pop...”
With a practiced aim, Dad shot the empty bottle into the barrel in the corner of the kitchen. “Leave it.” His words left no doubt there wasn’t even an inch of fuse left before the powder keg blew.
Clark knew enough to leave it. For now.
* * *
Melba pulled the door shut on her father’s bedroom and exhaled. Her mind shot back to all the times during her childhood when he’d whispered, “Goodnight, Melbadoll,” and closed her door. Now she was the one checking on him. Life had gone so topsy-turvy.
Padding down the hall, Melba hit the speed-dial key for Charlotte on her cell phone.
“Hey, I was hoping you’d call.” The rhythmic hitch in Charlotte’s voice let Melba know she was on the treadmill. The realization made her fall back onto her bed and moan. “How on earth do you have enough energy to be on a treadmill?”
“It’s an hour’s train ride back to Chicago. That’s a lot of sitting for the amount of pie you and I put down during my visit. Besides—” Melba heard her switch off the device “—I didn’t spend the afternoon fishing my father out of the Gordon River.”
“No, you helped me fish my father out of the river.” Melba had a hard time even believing the world had handed her reasons to say something so absurd.
“I sent up prayers for you the whole ride home,” Charlotte said. “How are things?”
“It’s crazy, Charlotte. Barney came and made Dad dinner and he acted like nothing had happened. We all sat in the kitchen while the dryer dried his clothes and pretended the whole episode didn’t exist. I feel like I’m in something from Alice in Wonderland.”
“Does he remember what he did?”
“Who knows?” That was the most frustrating part of all. “He won’t discuss it. How am I supposed to go around pretending things are normal when they’re absolutely not?”
Charlotte gave a sympathetic sigh. “One of Grandpa’s doctors said something to me that stuck. It helped.”
“I’ll take anything that helps at this point.” Melba pulled off a still-damp sock. In all her rush to help Dad, she’d neglected to see to her own soggy feet.
“He said, ‘He can’t meet you where you are. You have to meet him where he is.’ Your Dad’s world has become different than the one we all live in. You have to go visit him there. It’s sad, I know, but it makes a kind of sense, doesn’t it?”
The truth only seemed to chronicle Dad’s now-constant slip from her life. “A sad sense.” Charlotte was right; this was a one-way trip. “Oh, Char, every moment feels like it’s slipping away forever. I don’t know if I can stand by and watch this.” She stood up and tossed her socks resolutely into the hamper, determined to have at least one conversation with Charlotte that didn’t end with crying.
“Don’t stand by. Participate. Go visit him in his world for as long as you can instead of dragging him into yours. It’s all you can do, Melba. It’s all any of us can do.” She heard Charlotte’s voice catch at the end, and an even stronger sense came to her of the loss that waited for her at the end of this journey. “Besides—” Charlotte’s voice brightened, and Melba could see the blonde shake off her tears as easily as if Charlotte were in the room with her “—you’ve got handsome Mr. Fireman to offer some distraction. Wow. I don’t usually go for gingers but he could change my mind. Are there more like him at the firehouse?”
“Clark Bradens has made it clear he’s not on the market.”
“Could have fooled me,” Charlotte cooed. “The way he was looking at you? Definitely interested.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Oh, yes, you are. And if you’re not, you should be. I heard him say he goes to your church. All that heroic rescue vibe and church? What red-blooded American female wouldn’t be interested? Come on, what happened at dinner? I waited a whole ten minutes before asking.”
Melba leaned back against the wall, the strength of Clark’s gaze heating her memory. “Worst of both worlds. He was really nice and downright charming until...”
Charlotte practically squeaked “Until what?”
“Until he explained that he needs to keep his mind on his job for a while.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No, that’s good. I don’t need that kind of complication right now.”
If a dramatically flung arm had a sound, it was Charlotte’s “You’re wrong. That’s exactly the kind of complication you need.”
“Charlotte...”
“So what’s next?”
“Dad has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”
“No, I meant with Clark.”
Melba put her hand to her forehead. “Weren’t you listening? The whole ‘his focus is elsewhere’ concept? I told you he had a bad reputation when he was younger. Bad boy, troublemaker, womanizer...take your pick. Not everyone’s ready to admit he’s changed. He’s about to take over as fire chief and lots of people aren’t happy about it. Proving himself in that role is his focus for now. And that’s good.”
“Well, Clark or no Clark, you’ve still got to make new friends. I can’t come out there and save you every time—you need local backup. Someone a little younger than Grandma Barney. When does that women’s group meet at the church?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good. I’ll expect an email Wednesday morning with a list of all your new small-town friends. Tell me how many are in the group and I’ll scour up all those extra prayer-shawl kits from last quarter’s catalogue promotion.”
“I have no idea if any of them knit, Charlotte.”
“Who cares if none of them do...yet? You can teach them. What better way to make friends?”
Melba stared at her knitting bag, letting the warm memory of sitting in the living room stitching with Charlotte remind her how much it soothed her. How she’d never have made it through the hours of doctor and hospital visits without yarn and needles. How lovely it would be to have something in her world that didn’t revolve around Dad and medicine. “I hate it when you’re right all the time.”
Charlotte laughed. “Nonsense. It’s why you love me.”
“I do, you know. You’ve been great. Thanks for coming out...and for everything.” Melba felt her voice catch again, suddenly exhausted from the long, dramatic day.
“I’m praying for you. Every day. I know you can make it. And you know what will happen if I don’t have an email in my box by noon on Wednesday.”
Melba hung up
the phone with a sigh. She did need some new friends. Only trouble was, the best candidate for the job made her think about a lot more than friendship. Clark was warm and supportive, but he was also handsome and wildly charismatic—way too much for her tender heart to handle right now. Charlotte was right; the women’s group was exactly where she needed to be. Just one good woman friend nearby, Lord. That’s all I need.
Chapter Eight
“I’d be happy to come visit with Mort to free you up for the women’s group.”
Melba stared at Pastor Allen. “You’d do that for me?”
A wry smile curled the edges of his mouth in the friendliest of ways. “Who says I’m doing it for you? I like spending time with your dad.”
“Really?” Melba’s reaction pinched her own heart. When had spending time with Dad become more obligation than pleasure? It stung to know some part of her thought it a chore to be around him now. “Of course,” she shot back with too much enthusiasm. “Dad’s a nice guy to be around.” She didn’t think she covered her gaffe well.
“Even nice guys are hard to take nonstop.” So he had noticed. Melba felt shame flush her cheeks. “And Barney tells me your dad can be a bit of a handful these days.”
She fished for the right response, but came up empty. All of her brave endurance eluded her this morning. When Barney pushed Melba into Pastor Allen’s office and then took Dad down the hall to the church parlor for a cup of coffee, she’d felt like she was begging for scraps of help she didn’t want to admit she needed. Allen put a hand on her shoulder, and the ever-present lump in her throat tightened its grip again.
“The women’s group loves new members, especially ones who come with such great new ideas. I’d never even heard of a prayer shawl ministry until Barney mentioned it. I’d love for you to get one going here. Abby Reed is in the group, and she owns the local craft shop. She’ll be all over this in a heartbeat. I’m eager to get you connected into the community.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I think you’ll need it.” Allen gestured toward the hallway. “Barney will take today, and I’ll be Mort’s buddy for the rest of the meetings. Consider me his standing coffee date for every other Tuesday afternoon. Is that all right with you?”
The Fireman's Homecoming Page 7