by Rula Sinara
“Of course—of course we would, Dad!”
“It’s been ages since we’ve heard you perform,” Finn said. “Plus, it’ll give us a good excuse to get all dolled up and...”
Connor put his mug and bowl into the sink. “And what?”
She stopped herself from saying, “and to see Sam.” What about him anyway? Would he stay home writing up lesson plans or join Connor onstage? She couldn’t voice the question without admitting how much she’d come to care for him, mostly because she hadn’t fully accepted the idea, herself.
“Are you planning to wear jeans and boots?” she asked Connor.
“Yup.”
“Then I’ll give your boots a going-over, too.”
“Don’t know what I ever did in my miserable life to deserve a kid like you, but if I ever figure it out...”
I promise to do it again and again and again, she finished silently.
An hour later, Finn slid the steam iron along his shirtsleeves, trying to remember the first time he’d delivered the now-familiar line. Had she been four? Six? The dreamy-eyed girl she’d been all those years ago wanted to believe every word of his promise, but that girl was long gone. Taking care of herself and Ciara had taught her—
Finn stood the iron on its end, heart pounding and eyes stinging as she remembered something Sam had said last night. “I know you’ve been on your own a long time, and it isn’t easy for you to accept help...but you can count on me.”
Was that why she’d started falling for him? Because he said and did all the right things and made her feel protected...the way Connor should have? Was she so hungry for affection and so desperate to feel safe that she’d gone in search of...of a father figure?
Poor Sam. Poor kind, unsuspecting Sam!
Finn slumped on to the arm of the sofa and held her head in her hands. “You need a shrink, not a—”
“Here y’go, sweetie.” Connor stood the boots beside the couch and draped the jeans over its back cushion. “Thanks again, and if you need me,” he said, kissing her forehead, “I’ll be in my room, practicing.”
His room? An hour after telling Ciara that he felt guilty about her sleeping on the lumpy old couch?
“Some things need to change around here...” Finn murmured.
She caught a distorted glimpse of herself in the iron’s curved, mirrorlike base.
“...starting with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LAST TIME SAM reported to headquarters, the chief’s secretary had issued a courteous apology, then sent him packing with a vague promise to call and reschedule. Since then, Epps’s attendance in class had been spotty. He’d hoped it meant she’d decided against becoming a firefighter.
No such luck, as it turned out.
Now, alone in the chief’s reception area, Sam waited for the command to enter the big guy’s office. Waited, too, for the jitters to attack, the way they had on his last visit here. The calm before the storm?
The big wooden door opened, and the receptionist closed it quietly behind her. “They’re ready for you,” she said, sitting at her L-shaped desk. Carla Buck said the nameplate on its corner.
“They?”
She sent him a sympathetic smile.
“How many?”
“Nine.”
“Whew,” he said, and got to his feet. “Water might come in handy.”
She withdrew a blue bottle from the fridge under her desk and handed it to him. “Good luck in there.”
“Thanks, Ms. Buck. Let’s hope I won’t need it.”
“Please. Call me Carla.” Lowering her voice, she whispered from the corner of her mouth, “We underlings have to stick together.”
He paused with one hand on the doorknob. “What’s the mood in there?”
“If I had any idea how to read their moods, I’d know when to ask for a raise.”
Grinning, he rapped quietly on the door and took a deep breath when a raspy voice on the other side said, “C’mon in, Marshall.”
They weren’t in uniform, and Sam didn’t know what to make of that. One by one, they tabled soft drinks and coffee mugs to shake his hand and introduce themselves—Epps’s older brothers, father, grandfather, uncle and four others in the chain of command—including Sam’s captain.
Chief Carlson gestured toward the only available chair, curiously positioned beside the big mahogany desk. As he sat, Sam empathized with every witness who’d ever faced a jury.
Carlson pointed out a two-tiered serving dish on the credenza behind him and said, “Help yourself to a doughnut, son.”
Sam held up the water bottle. “I’m good, but thanks.”
Epps’s brother, also a lieutenant, spoke first. “I guess you know why we called you in here.”
To accept my walking papers?
“Jasmine has been driving us crazy for the past few weeks. Crying. Pouting. Ranting.”
So she’d told them about their meeting at The Frothy Monkey, had she? He hoped she’d left out the part about her running out of the place in tears.
“We’re at our wit’s end,” her father said. “All she can talk about is you...”
“...and the fact that you’ve flat-out refused to tutor her,” the other brother tacked on.
The chief leaned back in his big leather chair. “To say she’s unhappy with you is an understatement.” He tapped a half-inch thick stack of message slips. “Every one of us has a pile just like this one. And in every case, you are the subject.”
The others grumbled their agreement.
“In the interest of fairness,” her grandfather said, “we want to hear your side of things.”
When they’d scheduled this meeting, Sam had decided he wouldn’t sacrifice his principles, not even to save his job.
“I’m sure you can appreciate where Jasmine is coming from,” he began. “She’s young. Inexperienced. And has some mighty big shoes to fill.” He met her relatives’ eyes, one at a time. “Everyone in this room felt that way to one degree or another when we entered the academy.”
“Spare us the preamble, Marshall,” Jasmine’s uncle said. “She asked for help and you sent her packing. We just want to hear why.”
Her father agreed.
“No need to sugarcoat things, either,” said the brother.
So they wanted the truth, did they?
“Is that my file on your desk?” he asked the chief.
“Yours and Cadet Epps’s.”
“So you know exactly how many of my students—men and women alike—went on to become firefighters. A healthy percentage of them women.”
The man nodded. “It’s an impressive number.”
“And know the total number of graduates versus dropouts.”
Carlson said, “We do.”
“Where are you going with all this, Marshall?”
Sam faced her uncle. “Just establishing my credibility, Captain. I know firefighter material when I see it.”
Her father frowned. “And you don’t see it in my girl.”
“In my opinion, sir, tutoring Jasmine is unfair to the rest of the class, and it’s unfair for her.” He could have pointed out that, based on attendance, attention span and borderline insubordination, he would have been within his rights to dismiss her at the conclusion of the second class. Instead, Sam said, “In my opinion, she’d be a detriment to herself and any man assigned to the same truck.”
“Why?”
A simple question. Too bad he couldn’t give her dad a simple answer.
“First of all, Jasmine doesn’t have the strength or dexterity to pass the physical parts of the exam. Not without dedicating herself to an exercise regimen designed to build muscle and stamina. And I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that she has problems focusin
g enough to memorize necessary material.”
“Meaning she’d fail the written exam, too.”
“Yes, sir, without a serious attitude adjustment, I believe she would.”
Her father didn’t look or sound surprised, and neither did anyone else in the room. He hoped they hadn’t called him in here to suggest he’d dole out passing scores that she hadn’t earned...
“Bottom line,” Sam said, “I don’t think she’s cut out to be a firefighter. At least, not at this stage.” He could have added that she didn’t want to be a firefighter, but why add insult to injury? Besides, she had to face these men at family dinners and backyard barbecues; driving a wedge between her and her family seemed cruel and pointless.
His judge and jury scooted their chairs closer to the chief’s desk, effectively shutting Sam out of their whispered discussion. A moment passed, then two, as they muttered, grunted and nodded. If they intended to fire him for not fudging Jasmine’s test scores, so be it. What excuse would they use to legitimize their decision?
He stood. “If you gentlemen would like me to leave...”
“Sit still, son,” the chief said, waving Sam back into his chair. The others returned to their original positions. “Now it’s your turn to listen.”
He wondered what flimsy charge they’d cook up to justify giving him the ax, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t fight their decision. He’d miss every element of his job, from sizing up recruits to watching them on graduation day, fidgeting during a high school band’s off-key version of “God Bless America,” speeches by the mayor and the chief, the applause of friends and family as finally, they accepted their shiny badges. Without the job, he had time, and options: head home to the ranch. Pitch in more often at The Meetinghouse. Help Finn reopen The Right Note.
Finn...
If she made a stink about Jasmine asking for special favors, what would she do when he told her the girl’s complaints caused his dismissal? He bit back a grin, picturing her defensive tirade.
It meant she cared about him, right?
Epps’s grandfather cleared his throat. “Your honesty may well have saved that stubborn girl’s hide.”
“We tried to talk her out of enrolling,” her father cut in. “But that daughter of mine is spoiled and pampered, obstinate and rebellious.”
“Definitely not firefighter material,” the uncle concurred.
The chief stood, planted both meaty palms flat on his desk. “We appreciate your candor.”
“We’re aware this wasn’t easy for you,” Carlson said, “what with all the rumors about nepotism floating around the department.”
The men got to their feet, each shaking Sam’s hand as they filed from the room. All but Epps’s father and the chief.
“We’ll handle Jasmine from here on out,” the chief said, leading Sam to the door.
Her father added, “Her mother and I hope that being dismissed from the academy will take her down a peg or two, help her grow up a little.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you hardly seems sufficient.”
So. He still had a job with the department. He wasn’t looking forward to taking Epps aside to explain why she’d been discharged, but saving her from an unhappy, disappointing—even dangerous—future would make it easier.
“If it’s all the same to you, I want to break the news to her, give her the option to stay or leave. She’s an adult, after all, so shouldn’t we treat her like one?”
The men exchanged a wary glance.
“All right,” her father said. “And you’ll report her decision to us?”
“I will not. As I said, Jasmine is an adult. What she tells you—if anything—is up to her.”
The chief nodded. “Have it your way, then, Marshall. And just so you know? I half expected things to turn out just this way.”
Sam headed for the elevator, smiling to himself. He couldn’t wait to share the good news with Finn.
* * *
“DOESN’T DAD LOOK—doesn’t Dad look handsome when he smiles that way?”
“Yes, he’s in his element, all right.” Finn squeezed Ciara’s hand.
Since Connor announced he’d passed the audition at the club, Finn had been ambivalent. Should she thank Sam for giving her dad a chance to get back to work? Or take him to task for providing the venue that might break his newfound sobriety?
Time would tell, she decided. For now, Finn did her best to concentrate on the long-awaited reopening of the diner.
Sam and Ciara joined her at The Right Note’s service counter and listened as Connor talked with a reporter. His rough-and-rowdy lifestyle had tinged his collar-length brown hair with bright streaks of silver and etched deep lines on his forehead and beside his mouth. But he still stood straight and tall, and retained the bulging arm muscles that had once constructed a swing set and held on to the seat of her two-wheeler until she’d learned to ride on her own.
“Do you think Finn will apply for a liquor license,” the food critic asked Connor, “so she can add cocktails to her menu? I’m sure she’s aware that would easily double her profits...”
Connor’s smile dissolved into a thin, grim line as he glanced at her. He crossed both arms over his chest and faced the reporter. “My daughter spent her life in the shadow of a drunk,” he said. “That drunk would be me. So as long as I’m in the picture, no, I don’t think she will.” Lifting his chin a notch, he grinned slightly. “The old ‘lead him not into temptation’ rule, y’know?” He caught her eye, and winked.
“That was a brave thing he just did,” Sam whispered. “Real brave.”
And Finn agreed. What did the experts say—the first step in solving a problem was admitting you had one? She closed her eyes and sent a little prayer heavenward. Let it mean he’s on the road to recovery...really on it this time...
“Why so quiet?” Sam asked.
“Just...just nothing to say.” It was the truth.
“You’re not upset with me for bringing this circus into the diner?” Sam nodded toward the reporters and cameramen, jockeying for position near Connor.
“No, it’ll be good for business. Might have been nice, though, if you’d run the idea past me first.”
Sam winced. “You’re right, of course.” He faced her. “But in my defense, I called a couple of times when this opportunity presented itself. When I didn’t hear from you, I decided to take a chance.”
It was Finn’s turn to wince. She’d seen three missed calls from Sam earlier, but had decided to follow up with him later, when Connor was performing at The Meetinghouse.
“Reminds me of something Pete used to say—getting forgiveness is sometimes easier than asking permission.”
The Right Note teemed with diners, and a line of people waited outside for tables to free up. All thanks to Sam’s savvy marketing, from notices in the local papers, to press releases to media outlets, and full-color posters he’d designed, then tacked to every bulletin board and sign post on Broadway. She had no idea how much time and money he’d invested, or how many favors he’d pulled in to get so many reporters to show up for the opening, but as soon as things quieted a bit, she intended to find out. And thank him, of course.
“A good adage,” Sam said. “But you’re right. Sorry I didn’t try harder to run it by you.”
“Don’t be sorry! I’m glad—and grateful for everything you did. Just look at this place!”
It was the right thing to say. His proud little-boy smile proved it—and made her heart beat a tick faster.
“And I’m sure we’ll reap the benefits of everything you did for a long time to come.”
“The joint is jumping now. I hope it lasts!”
“If it does, I’ll need to hire a couple of extra people.”
“Good idea,” Rowdy said, sliding two steaming plates of steak and eggs on
to the counter. “For the kitchen and the floor.”
His not-so-subtle comment reminded her of his response when she’d announced The Right Note’s reopening date. “I’m not gettin’ any younger,” the lifelong bachelor had said.
Finn suspected the request had more to do with the cop who’d interviewed him after the tree fell into the diner. Prior to that night, Rowdy’s visits to Red’s Barber Shop had been spotty, at best. Since then, he shaved daily and sported a stylish razor cut. And unless she was mistaken, he’d dropped a few pounds, too.
“I’ve been interviewing cooks,” she told him. “I’ve whittled the list down to two. They’ll both be here today, one to help with the lunch rush, the other to work the supper shift. I’m leaving it up to you to decide which is most qualified for the job.”
“No kiddin’?”
“Why do you sound so surprised? You’re my right-hand man.”
Bean stepped up to grab the plates. “Hey,” the waitress said, “no fair. I wouldn’t mind putting in fewer hours, either.”
“Don’t worry,” Finn told her. “The new gal should be here any minute now, and I know I can count on you to show her the ropes.”
“Glad to!” she said, hurrying off to deliver the food.
The Right Note crew had become more like family than employees. Their contributions were many and their demands few, and ever since Finn had taken the reins, she’d done her best to keep them just as happy as Pete had.
“I’ve been wondering...” Sam mused. “Is Bean her last name?”
“It says Paula MacAllister on her driver’s license. Pete dubbed her Bean.”
“Because she’s tall and thin, like a string bean.”
“Pete had a special handle for everybody. Angel for Ciara, Houdini for me. Rowdy’s given name is Tyler Holmes, but it’s said that he was quite the wild man in his youth.”
“Wait...Houdini?”
Finn rolled her eyes. “Well, once upon a time, I got locked in the walk-in cooler. After hours. On a night when I was closing up shop, meaning I was here alone. But I got that door open in less than an hour.”
“Didn’t even know that was possible.”