And now I was changing again.
Brian.
How did he end up back in my life like this, walking into view from the haze of smoke wafting up from the smoldering ruins of my marriage? There's got to be some holy or divine reasoning behind this.
Maybe I should start calling him Saint Brian. Seems he's been brought back to me to help save me from myself, so it's totally appropriate.
I stare at the ceiling until the faint sound of the fire whistle pulls me from my thoughts. I’m already awake, so I might as well make the best of it and go to work.
Pulling on the jeans I left lying in the armchair in the corner of the bedroom, I check my phone out of habit for messages. Seeing none, I toss it on the bed, pull a tank over my head, layer on a thermal shirt and pull my unruly hair up into a band I keep on my wrist whenever it’s not holding my locks out of the way.
Phone, check; wallet and ID, check; keys, check. In less than ten minutes, I’m out the door, my camera bag slung across my shoulders. If it’s a good one, I’ll have some nice shots of the fire for the web. If it’s not, I’ll find something to photograph even if it ends up in my private collection of unused art.
Stepping out the front door, I hear sirens. Still. And they’re piercing the chilled night air, breaking it apart into a thousand shards that stab straight through me. Sirens lasting this long can’t be a good sign, and I jog to my beat up Chevy pick-up truck, tossing a heavy flannel jacket into the passenger seat as I jump in and start the engine in one swift, practiced motion. The door is hardly closed before I’m backing out of the driveway.
Twenty minutes later I’m pulling down a dirt road following a volunteer firefighter in a personal vehicle.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter to the dashboard as though the midnight radio personality can hear me at his end of the station.
This isn’t just a fire. It’s an inferno.
I spend the next several hours photographing from a safe distance, texting Caryn and writing down any details I can garner from the firefighters taking a break from the blaze that’s quickly eating the timbers of an old farmhouse nestled along the edge of the Erie Canal.
I grew up walking the paths near here to get to the canal and now this small piece of local history will forever be gone.
The devastation is weighty because it was part of my hometown and as the sun begins to rise, burning the frost off a nearby cornfield, the wreckage is enough to make it hard to breathe. And I snap another photo of the sodden remains as smoke billows up from embers that slowly die away.
And I snap another photo.
“You could be doing so much more with your life, Stell! Why won’t you at least call and see what they think of your portfolio?” Keith argues with me.
It’s the same fight every time another big paper becomes his new obsession. A fight I refuse to have.
“This is home, Keith. This is where I grew up. This is where I’m comfortable.”
“But what about the money? This little paper is never going to pay you what you’re worth. Just send your resume. There’s got to be at least one larger news outlet that would let you name your price.” It always comes down to money with him. He means well, but I’m not a journalist for the money.
He’s never going to understand that.
“It’s not the money. I’m here for the community, Keith. I do this job for our friends and our neighbors and to keep people informed. Please. Stop.”
And I snap another photo. A firefighter in bunker pants, suspenders holding down what once was a white V-neck T-shirt, now tinged grey with soot and sweat. A helmet sitting on the rear bumper of a tanker truck. Three men on a line, spraying down more hot embers as they continue to control an element that can destroy in an instant. This ... this will be a full spread. This is community journalism and why I hate to bitch about what isn’t in my paycheck.
I sigh deeply, reflectively, as a newer looking Chevy Tahoe creeps down the narrow country road and comes to rest a few car lengths behind the last truck.
“Who’s that?” fire Chief Chad Thursten says using a bottle of water to point up the road as he walks toward me, his swagger slightly exaggerated from the exhaustion of beating down a fire for hours.
The words “not sure” almost leave my lips when I see a takeout tray pop out of the driver’s door, followed by a strong tanned forearm, then a waffle-weave clad bicep, and a grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.
I lift my camera and snap another photo. This one is for me.
“Reinforcements, Chief.” I look at his face and though he’s less than a decade older than me, Chad’s looking at me like a father would a daughter, a look that says he hopes I know what I’m doing, and it makes me smile even wider. “I’m going to go help him. If I know Brian, there are more coffee cups in the back of that truck.”
Two trips later from Brian’s Tahoe to the back of the chief’s car, and a majority of the volunteer fire department is getting their first dose of caffeine since the alarms sounded more than seven hours ago.
“Chad, I’ll stop down to the station later for details,” I say shaking the chief’s hand before he pulls me into a hug. It’s a small town.
“You be careful, kid. Thanks for coming and keeping us company. Tell your mom and dad I said hi.”
I wave to a few more guys, mostly men I went to school with or fathers of boys I went to school with, and head down the path to my truck.
“You make it a habit to spend all night at large structure fires?” His voice is thick with something I can’t place and even though he’s behind me, I can feel his eyes as they sweep across my body. “How long have you been out here, Stell?”
I turn slowly, propping my arm against the tailgate of my truck and brush the hair off my forehead, giving me a chance to peek at the watch on my right wrist.
“A long time. I got out here shortly after the alarms sounded in town. So ... almost eight hours?” God, it’s really been an entire work day right here and now I have to go put in real hours at the office and meetings even though I was planning to have today off. “It’s all part of the job.”
Not really. I could have left after I got a few good photos, still gotten a full night of sleep and called Chad later this morning for all the details. But I despise missing things. I like being places when news is happening, so whenever I can I make sure I’m there with my notepad and camera.
“Are you okay to drive back into town?” He asks quietly, searching my eyes for something.
“Yeah.” Pause. Deep breath. Shake away the cobwebs. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I just need to get home and grab a shower and some coffee and I’ll be fine.”
He was supposed to meet with Caryn this morning. Why is he here?
Brian grabs the tailgate with his left hand, standing to face me less than an arm’s length away, and it’s like he reads my mind when he says, “Caryn came in for her interview right when we opened this morning and mentioned you were out here. I wanted to do something to help but couldn’t until we’d finished the interview.” I take in the smoke billowing up like clouds, the sun breaking through and shining down on my friends still working to put out pockets of hot embers as they dig through the remains of what used to be someone’s home. I feel thankful the house was empty when the fire started, but it’s a detail I’ll need to check on when I talk to the investigator. He breaks into my thoughts saying, “It looks like I missed all the excitement.”
“Just a little,” I laugh. “I got some really nice shots of the fire, though. I’ll recreate it for you once I get the smell of soot and smoke out of my hair.”
He takes in the sight of me — my disheveled hair, the flannel/thermal shirt combo I’m rocking, jeans with a hole in the knee — a slow movement of his head as his eyes rake back up my body and there’s something primal in the way he seems to claim every inch of me and commit me to memory just as I am.
“Dinner?” I say tentatively. “You and Britt, come to my house tomorrow night for lasagna?
”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Brian says, his voice gone husky. I close my eyes as the scent of his cologne hits my nose. I breathe him in and feel a feather light touch as he brushes the hair off my forehead and kisses me softly there. “Stop by the shop on your way to the office. I’ll have your regular with a double shot ready so you don’t have to wait.”
I nod, my eyes still closed as I silently bask in the waves of heat working their way through my body, a feeling I don’t even recognize because it’s so new, and I suddenly wish I’d asked if he’d find a babysitter for Britt tomorrow night.
Before I can catch my breath and open my eyes, I hear his truck start and the crunch of stone as he turns the Tahoe around to head back to town.
Brian
Chapter Thirteen
Her eyes are still closed, a wistful look crossing her face when I pull my lips and hand from her smooth skin, the soft edges of a smile playing at the corner of her delicate mouth. I take the easy way out while she stands there and quietly retreat to my truck, walking backward in case she opens her eyes.
Please, God, don’t let her open her eyes. If those eyes open, I’m done for. There’d be no going home for Stella to shower and get ready for the day. She’d have to call it a day right now. What hides behind those closed lids are bedroom eyes and all it would take for me to take her home — take her and show her how much I’ve never forgotten her — is one hooded glance in my direction.
I climb into the truck, watching her still form across the narrow gravel topped road, and bring the engine to life. One three-point turn and she’s in my rearview mirror, looking exhausted and content.
The rest of the day goes by quickly once I get back to town and I’m so immersed in getting things done in the back of the building I don’t even realize Stella’s come and gone.
“Your girl ... she’s looking better today,” Greg says, leaning against the doorframe to the office hidden just off the kitchen and away from the rest of the coffeehouse. “I mean, on Friday she looked like someone killed her dog. Saturday, she was in here with the other girls and Britt and looked like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Today? Man. You must have magical powers.”
I rhythmically tap the pen in my hand against my computer keyboard, contemplating what to tell him.
“She invited me and Britton over for dinner tomorrow night,” I say. “I can’t believe I missed her. She looked okay?”
Greg shoots me a confused look. “She had on eyeliner, a knee length black skirt and boots ... boots that came up to here,” he says, indicating a spot just below his knee. “Yeah, I’d say she looked ‘okay.’”
Shooting me a smug look, Greg turns on his heel and heads back out toward the coffeehouse.
“Like I said, Bri, you worked magic on that woman,” he calls back over the top of the swinging café doors before I hear him greet a customer.
I lean forward in my chair, hands clasped together and elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. I run my right hand up over my head, mussing up my hair. I need to get out of here.
***
The sawdust flies up and scatters across my forearms, leaving the tan skin coated in pine scented flakes. I don’t know what I’m making, but I needed to do something with my hands and pray it helps clear my head at least a little bit. I can’t do cloudy brain right now, not with the business and Britt depending on me.
It’s the very end of September, only a few more days until October hits and apple everything isn’t the most coveted thing on the menu. Pumpkin spice will be on everyone’s mind. I have to get the rest of my orders in for the coming week and yet, I really don’t give a shit.
My brain feels like the synapses are set to “rapid fire” and someone else is holding the control. I take a deep breath and flip the switch, cutting the electricity. I listen as the motor on the saw dies slowly.
I stand staring at the blade as it slowly comes to a stop and the fog clouding my thoughts starts to clear.
She was at a fire all morning and hadn’t slept. Stella looked like she’d been dragged through the flames herself, but was so content to be there. She was in her element.
When Caryn came in to do her interview this morning — and finally put two and two together that I was the owner of the Jumping Bean — she mentioned Stella had been out covering a fire most of the night, but I hadn’t realized just what “most of the night” meant until I got out of my truck at the scene and walked toward her with a tray of coffee cups.
I didn’t realize seeing her so close to something so volatile and dangerous would have the blood rushing to my ears and adrenaline pumping through my system. No matter how deeply I feel for Stella because of our time together as kids, I never would have thought the primal urge to protect her would surge through me like a force strong enough to stop my heart from beating in my chest until I was close enough to see she wasn’t hurt in any way.
The aftermath of that feeling, it’s almost more than I can handle right now.
I know she’s in no position to give me her heart.
It doesn’t change the fact that after just a handful of days having her back in my life, I never want to lose her again.
It’s getting more and more difficult to resist touching her, even just in some small way, when she’s close by. It doesn’t seem like we’ve spent a lot of time together since I sat down across from her last week, but it feels like she’s invaded every part of me. I smell her on the blanket on the back of my couch, I hear her laugh in the café. Seeing her cold and tired this morning gave me even more reason to want to protect her, hold her, get lost in her. I don’t know if it was because she’s Stella or if it’s because Stella was in need and trying not to let on that she wanted someone to comfort her.
I’m getting really good at comforting her. I guess it’s only fair. Before I stole her scone, the last time we saw one another it was her comforting me on that rusty swing set. We were comforting each other and hanging on for dear life.
I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear the school bus pull up out front and Britt’s voice boom through the crisp air as he yells goodbye to his new friends. He’s a social butterfly; everywhere he goes, people flock to him and soak up his amazing energy and enthusiasm for life.
I doubt he would be like this if his mother had stuck around and I catch myself wondering is Stella ever plans to have children.
“Dad! I don’t have any workbook work to do tonight. Can we play catch?” Britt says as he bounds up the driveway to meet me in front of the barn where I’m waiting for him.
We won’t have too many days left to toss the ball around before snow hits, so I grab the mitts off the pegs by the woodshop door and a ball from the rack underneath and spend the next hour catching up with my favorite guy.
“I saw Stella this morning.” I toss the worn baseball to him. “She invited us for lasagna tomorrow night.”
“She really likes coffee, Dad. Almost as much as you do! Can we take my crayons with us? She’s a really good colorer,” Britt says, lobbing the ball somewhere sort of in my direction. “And her sister is super pretty, but has no idea T-rexes aren’t purple.”
“But they could be,” I counter. “Have you ever seen a real, live T-rex? Has anyone?”
He stops mid throw and gapes at me. “No ... but if they were purple they’d have no camouflage in the wild.”
I can’t stop myself from laughing at his logic, because it’s pretty sound — especially for a five-year-old kid.
“So, dinner with Stella tomorrow? Would you like to go, then? Was the crayon question a yes?” I toss the ball gently to him again and he makes another solid attempt to catch it, almost getting it in his glove this time.
“It’s a yes. As long as she has garlic bread.”
“Deal.”
I mentally take note that I need to make fresh bread tomorrow and let Stella know I have that part of dinner covered.
Britt and I head toward the house to put his backpack away before w
alking the short distance back to the café to help Greg with the afternoon rush. It seems like one of the busiest times of the day for us are those hours right after the public school closes down for the day and the college is prepping for evening classes.
“Hey little man! How was school today? Find yourself a girlfriend yet?” Greg teases when he sees Britton following behind me through the low-slung café doors on the way to the office. I dump my fleece and messenger bag in the chair, and when I’m turning to head back to the kitchen a piece of paper propped up in front of my computer monitor catches my eye.
In bold script, my name is scrawled across the front and in the second before I open the single-folded leaflet, I can smell her — the soft lilac scent that her mother always wore when we were kids, the same scent I noticed Stella wearing when she stumbled her way into my home last Friday night.
Brian,
Thank you ... for the coffee, for the company, and for finding me. Time after time, you’ve never not found me.
See you tomorrow night.
Stell
I head back out to man the counter while Greg takes a break, the smile never leaving my face. Suddenly, I feel like my entire world is falling together, and the force holding it in one piece is named Stella Barbieri.
Stella
Chapter Fourteen
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fucking shit.” Stephanie sits at the island in the middle of my kitchen laughing as I let another string of profanity fly. “It hurts, Steph. Shut it!”
I burned myself. Again. I love to cook, but lately most of my appliances don’t love me in return. This is only the third time in the last week I’ve burned myself on the stove and this time I haven’t even put anything in it yet. I can’t even fathom how I’ve kept myself alive this long.
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