While she’d seen a few of them around the church, and remembered others from years and years ago, Melba felt like she didn’t really know any of the women in that group. Still, her spirit felt instantly lighter. At least for ninety minutes every other week, Melba had somewhere to go, something to do that didn’t involve Dad’s constant care. “It’s marvelous. Thank you so much.”
“It’s what I do. It’s what we all do. Let’s go get you introduced.”
It wasn’t hard to guess which room held the Tuesday Women. She heard the boisterous chatter from halfway down the hall. Just before she turned the corner into the room, the women broke out in uproarious laughter so that Melba walked into a wave of guffaws.
“He didn’t!” an older woman Melba vaguely recognized wheezed as she wiped her tearing eyes.
“I told him to check for those red socks, that sorting is an essential part of laundry, but would he listen? Not a bit. Serves him right.” A woman with curly blond hair was trying to sound serious behind mischievous eyes.
“Abby,” said the older woman, “tell me you bought the boy new ones.”
The woman Melba realized was Abby Reed crossed her arms. “I did not. I told him if he wasn’t going to take my advice, then he could march his own money down to Halverson’s and buy his own undershirts and socks.” Abby’s declaration sent the women into further giggles until Melba was nearly laughing herself.
“Melba,” cut in Pastor Allen, “This is Abby Reed. To her left is Marge Bowers—I think she taught you in Sunday school—then Tina Matthews. And you may remember Violet Sharpton who’s next to her.” He pointed to the older woman who waved cheerfully even though still wiping her eyes. “And whether or not you remember Jeannie Owens, you should make sure you stop by her new candy shop on the way home.”
“Abby’s boy Ben just failed his first laundry lesson,” Violet piped up. “With flying colors.”
“Or should I say running colors,” Abby added. “You’ll know my son by his new wardrobe of pink T-shirts.”
“I think this is exactly where I should leave,” Pastor Allen said. “Ladies, if you don’t know, this is Mort Wingate’s daughter, Melba. You all take good care of her. She’s got a special project for all of you, too.”
Melba tried to place Jeannie Owens and the candy shop in her memory as the woman scooted over on the couch. “There’s a spot for you right here. How’s your dad? I heard you had a bit of an...episode...over the weekend but he’s okay?”
Melba’s embarrassment must have been clear on her face because Marge gave a derisive snort and said, “Yep, everybody knows everything around here. Everybody knows too much, if you ask me.” She reached out and patted Melba’s hand. “I do remember you from Sunday school. You ought to know something like that gets around town faster than floodwaters. Don’t you worry about that, though, we’ll back you up. This here is a formidable group, and you’re one of us now.”
The whole group nodded, squaring their shoulders like they were ready to take on any comers, and Melba felt herself smile. “That fast?”
“That fast.” Violet Sharpton grasped Melba’s hand with a startlingly firm grip. “For us, at least. Some of the other old biddies, they take a while to come around. But us? We know good people when we see them.” Violet’s high cheekbones framed a smile as warm as her hands were strong. “And some of us have lived long enough to know when a gal could use a friend or two. Or five.” She gave Melba’s hand a reassuring shake.
Tina slid a mug across the coffee table until it sat in front of Melba. “Vi’s husband hung on six long years after his stroke. She knows a thing or two about taking care of someone. Barney helped her out in Edward’s final days, too. You’ve got a lot in common. Cream or sugar?”
“Oh,” Melba replied sheepishly, “I’m a tea person myself.”
“Finally!” Violet threw her hands up in the air. “Someone else in this room who grasps the elegance of something besides coffee.” She winked one clear gray eye at Melba. “We’ll get along marvelously.”
Abby laughed. “Violet, I have yet to meet the person you don’t immediately adore.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you, I don’t much care for that new grocery bagger down at Milton’s. Looks at me funny. Like I remind him of some long-lost love or something.”
That made Abby laugh harder. “That one with the brown curly hair? He’s all of seventeen. You’d be more like his long-lost granny.”
Violet straightened and ran a hand through her beautifully cut silver hair. “I was a stunner in my day, I’ll have you know. I still have to fight them off at the senior fish fry.”
This sent the whole circle into a fit of laughter. The joyful sound washed over Melba like a wave of peace. No one here was her age—in fact the women here were a collection of every age but hers—and yet she felt blissfully welcome, instantly at ease. It had been so long since she’d made a new friend that she’d forgotten how delightful it could be.
The six of them chatted for half an hour about small, ordinary topics. Undramatic, ordinary things that helped Melba remember a time would come where every day didn’t hold a new trauma. Tina finally picked up the book each of them had and waved it in their faces. “I see we’re not going to get to chapter three today, so let’s just drop our agenda for the afternoon and take it up next time.”
“I figured we dropped the agenda twenty minutes ago.” Violet gave Melba a knowing glance. “Tina has to declare everything.”
Tina, a hefty woman with a full face framed with thick black hair, fisted her hands on her ample hips. “That’s because someone has to keep you all in line or we’d never get anything accomplished.”
“Speaking of accomplishments,” Abby cut in with a sugary let’s-not-get-into-that voice, “Pastor Allen said something about a project? This group needs a project. I want to hear what you’ve got in mind.”
* * *
Clark hoped that once he was officially fire chief, tasks like arts and crafts would be off his agenda. He’d heard of departments that had women’s auxiliaries, and surely any female would be in a better position than he to be standing in the fabric aisle of Abby Reed’s Creative Pursuits store buying forty 12x12-inch squares of red flannel. What was bric-a-brac, anyway?
In the unavoidable impulse of all firemen, Clark found himself assessing how quickly all the store’s contents—fluffy quilt batting, a million kinds of yarn and far too many acres of scrapbook paper—would go up in flames. How many times had Clark entered a large public space and had his first response not be to enjoy the architecture or decor, but to scan the ceiling and count sprinkler heads? How many times had he watched his father’s head turn towards the exits or tilt up toward the ceilings upon entering any building? Pop was right about one thing: a fireman wasn’t about what you did, it was about who you were. Parts of the role never came off, even when the uniform was long retired.
“You look a little lost. Can I help you find something?”
Clark turned to find a perky young woman in the store’s trademark pink aprons standing next to him. Deciding that the silly-sounding question might get him out of the store faster, he ventured, “What on earth is bric-a-brac and where can I find it?”
She laughed at his obvious disdain. “It’s over here with the ribbons and trimmings.” Spying the crumpled sheet, she nodded toward it. He noticed her name tag said “Libby” in bright pink letters. “Some kind of school project?”
He gladly handed the paper over. “Fireman Friendly Awareness Day is next week.”
Recognition played across her young, round face. About seventeen by Clark’s guess, she looked exactly like someone named Libby ought to look. “Hey, you’re Clark Bradens, aren’t you?” Her smile broadened. “You’re gonna be chief, right? Oh, these are so adorable!” Her voice pitched up in that high-school squeal—how had he found that attr
active ten years ago when it grated like fingernails on a chalkboard now?
“You used to love puzzles, didn’t you, Dad?” came a familiar voice a few aisles away. Deep and velvety, full of warmth but a bit weary. Melba. The contradiction in the voices—and the effect each had on him—startled Clark. He wanted to peer around the aisle and see her, not follow the grinning high school girl heading toward the ribbon aisle.
“Dr. Nichols said puzzles would be good for you.”
“I don’t remember him saying anything of the sort.” Mort sounded like a two-year-old being presented with creamed spinach.
“Well, let’s just see if we can pick one or two that you might like. We can do them together.” Melba’s voice had the kind-hearted parental quality he’d seen her use with her father before. His conscience pricked him hard. When was the last time you showed that much grace to your own father?
Following Libby, Clark slowed at the end of the aisle, looking in the direction of Melba’s voice. She looked up just in time to see him. The reaction on her face was a pleasant, careful surprise—a silent “Hi there!” as she nodded toward her father currently crouched over to peer at puzzle boxes. She managed a small wave, and he felt the flutter of her fingers somewhere deep under his ribs. Melba had the kind of eyes that hardly needed the addition of speech—they were infinitely expressive, saying far more than her words ever did. At least to him. The old expression “windows to the soul” made sense when he looked at her.
“Over here, Chief!” Libby squeaked, now two aisles away.
Chief. It was the first time anyone had called Clark “Chief,” and it jolted him out of his Melba-induced stupor. Chief Bradens. In a few weeks’ time, that wouldn’t mean his father, but him. Swallowing a sigh, Clark had to wonder if God hadn’t just sent the exact thought to shake him back to his senses. No distractions.
Managing a foolish shrug of his shoulders, Clark nodded toward Libby’s call of “Did you get lost, Chief?” and dragged himself over to the ribbons aisle.
“Here’s what you need, right here.” The bubbly clerk hoisted a spool of black squiggly ribbon matching the illustration on his supply sheet. She twisted it so he could see the label. “Bric-a-brac. You know, I don’t know why they call it that.” Her high-pitched giggle made Clark feel a million years old. “Something to look up when I get online tonight, I suppose.”
“Yeah.” Clark lingered at the end of the aisle where, if he leaned just right, he could peer back to the puzzle section.
“How much do you need?”
Melba’s face, that delightful tumble of brown curls falling around it, appeared around the corner. He was unable to stop himself from smiling, even though she pulled quickly back when she realized Clark caught her peeking. He was peeking himself, wasn’t he?
Libby tapped his shoulder with the spool of ribbon. “How much does the paper say you need?”
“Um...”
With an amused sigh, she pulled the paper from Clark’s hand. “Wow. They really sent the wrong guy, didn’t they?”
Boy, do we need a Ladies Auxiliary was Clark’s thought, sure there was no “right” fireman to send for sewing notions. “I suppose so.” He thought he heard a chuckle from the puzzle section. A decidedly female, decidedly familiar laugh that tickled warm down the back of his neck. He used his height to peer over the shelves, catching sight of the top of her hair as she moved away from him. He had the sudden craving to peek again, to catch Melba’s eyes in a quick, secretive glance and feel that jolt in the pit of his stomach one more time.
“‘Two feet per student,’” read Libby. “How many students are you buying for?”
Clark dragged his thoughts back to the task at hand. “Forty kids.”
She scrunched up her pale eyebrows in calculation. “Two feet times forty kids is eighty feet, divided by three for yardage is...”
He waited, thinking it rude to beat her to the number when this was her job. When the pause became unbearable, he piped up, “A little bit over twenty seven yards.”
“Handsome and smart. Maybe they did send the right guy.” She actually winked at him, and Clark did not know what to do with that. “Of course, the whole roll is thirty yards, and you get twenty percent off if you buy the whole roll, so you’re better off doing that. Extra for mistakes and all.” She popped the large spool of black ribbon into Clark’s basket with a flourish of salesmanship pride. “Anything else?”
For a rebellious second, Clark thought about declaring the need for a puzzle. Then he remembered his last encounter with Mort, and came to his senses. “No, that’s everything.”
“Well then, Chief, let’s get you checked out and back to the station.” Libby was obviously having loads of fun with the concept of waiting on the fire chief, even if it made Clark inwardly cringe. There was a time when he would have relished this kind of adoration. Even now he could practically feel his father rolling his eyes in contempt.
The path to the cash register took him past where Melba stood with her father. Although he told himself repeatedly not to do it, he slowed his steps and glanced up toward her. She was looking straight at him, as if she’d been watching for him to pass by. In the seconds they held each other’s gaze, he collected a dozen details. The way her fingers played with the rings on her right hand. The way a spiraling lock of that distracting hair always hung over one eye. How the blue color of her scarf made her eyes stand out even more. The way she opened her mouth to say something until he held a “shh” finger to his lips. The playful “don’t tell” gesture came out of nowhere, from some place inside he couldn’t seem to successfully tamp down around her despite his brain’s shouts of “What are you doing?”
He wished he knew the answer.
Chapter Nine
“See, Mort? You’ll have a grand time doing these. Are you sure you don’t want a third one? Smart guy like you will go through these too fast, if you ask me.” Abby Reed was coddling Dad so enthusiastically that Melba wondered if she’d let too much of her stress show in the women’s group earlier.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Mort said, beaming at the compliment. “That really intricate one looked like it would pose a good challenge.” The pride in his voice made Melba ashamed that she’d steered him away from the difficult puzzle. He was a smart man—was still a smart man in many ways. It was wrong of her to act as if memory loss made him less intelligent.
“Well, mosey on back there and pick it out while I chat with Melba a bit about a project.”
Mort narrowed his eyes. “A project? You and Melba?”
“She’s going to teach our women’s group to knit. Well, some of us. Tina already knows how, and she’ll probably lord it over the rest of us. We’re going to make prayer shawls.”
“What?”
“Prayer shawls, Dad. Like the kind I made back at my church in the city. You knit them, say prayers over them, and give them to people who need comfort. I made you one last year.”
Mort pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. Melba found herself holding her breath, praying for his memory to function for just this tiny fact. She needed to see him remember something. Dad turned and looked at her. “That green thing with the fringe on the end?”
“Yes, that’s it.” She hoped the desperate relief she felt didn’t show in her voice. Abby caught her eye for a split second, recognizing Melba’s stress but not pointing it out to Mort in any way.
“I like that thing. Very comfortable. Warm.” His pronouncement made, he waved them off as he started back toward the puzzle aisle. “Sounds like a good way to keep her busy to me,” he called over his shoulder.
Melba could only chuckle and shake her head while Abby put her hand on her chest and looked at Mort with a sadly sweet smile. “He’s a grand guy, your pop. I’ve known him since I was a teenager. My first job was cleaning rooms at your folks�
�� resort—only back then I was Abby Morris and my hair was...well, let’s just say it wasn’t quite this color.”
“I remember...sort of.”
“I was sorry to see it shut down, but it was too much for your dad to handle alone after your mom passed.” Abby’s eyes shifted back to Melba. “She was a neat lady. I’ve always liked your folks.” She settled herself into a more cheerful expression. “And now I get to like you, too. Although I’m skeptical—you’re not the first person to try to teach me to knit. I’ll warn you previous efforts have not met with success.”
“Let’s just say Dad and I could both use a challenge these days.” It was odd, but Melba could feel herself settling into the community bit by bit. Some conversations—like this one—bloomed a nearly physical sensation in her chest. The slow grounding of renewed connections, a tree spreading roots like children spread their toes in the sand. “Can you pull up my company’s website from here?”
Abby tilted the computer screen so they both could see, and Melba guided her to the portion of the company catalogue that featured soft, plush yarns and the free downloadable patterns for prayer shawls. In no time at all, she and Abby had sent an email to Charlotte telling her how many kits they would need to provide yarn and supplies for the entire group.
“So,” Abby said, her tone changing entirely as she nodded to the other side of the store, “about that over there.”
“About what?”
“Those looks. Clark Bradens peering at you every chance he got.”
Melba coached herself not to look surprised or to show even the slightest hint that she got what Abby was talking about. “Clark said hello.”
Abby leaned over the cash register and lowered her voice. “Sure, he said hello, but that man’s eyes said a whole lot more.”
The Fireman's Homecoming Page 8