Season of Joy

by Virginia Carmichael

  Chapter Eleven

  “There you are,” called Marisol from the other side of the kitchen. She waved cheerily and beckoned Calista to the long metal table that took up most of the far wall. Calista snagged a burgundy apron from the hooks by the door, careful to choose one that didn’t have a name embroidered on it. Before she slipped the halter over her head, she removed her jacket and hung it up. Her short-sleeved silk shirt underneath was a bright red, for the Christmas holiday, just days away. The apron wouldn’t save her clothes if she dropped a pot of chili, but if she was just chopping vegetables it was probably going to be all right. She washed her hands at the sink near the door and headed for the rest of the group.

  She came to stand beside the short Hispanic woman. She noted once more the worn apron, the leathery hands and the familiar smell of chili powder. Her quick glance was paired with a wide smile. Marisol’s quiet joy was visible in everything she did. Calista’s heart rate slowed to a comfortable rate as she took in the pleasant chatter around her. The kitchen was hopping today. Not like the filing room. She was so glad to be out of there she could have skipped down the hallway. Except that Grant had been watching. She felt her cheeks warm at the thought of his fingers tipping her chin, his assurance that she was the only one he was interested in right now. She struggled to refocus on the task ahead.

  “What do you need me to do? I’m ready and willing.”

  “I’m making vegetable beef stew for dinner and the big chopper broke.” She waved a hand toward a large appliance that looked like a mixer, but much more dangerous. Sharp blades showed where a brushed metal hood had been removed. A middle-aged man peered into the innards, a scowl on his face. There was a cart underneath that was half-filled with potato pieces.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” Calista said, then jumped as the man flipped a red switch and the food processor roared to life. The kitchen workers paused collectively to watch, but then turned back to their tasks as the motor coughed and died.

  “It also does French fries, carrot sticks, shreds lettuce, all sorts of things. I sure hope Jim can get it going.” Marisol was chopping furiously while she talked.

  Calista grabbed a large knife and a potato. “Is it very old? It might still be under warranty.”

  “No, is too old for the company to come fix. Maybe we can call a mechanic if he can’t make it work.”

  “How much does it cost to replace?” The knife was making quick work of her small stack of potatoes, and Calista made a mental note to sharpen her own kitchen knives.

  “That one cost about ten thousand, but that was a while ago.”

  She gasped, startled, and her knife narrowly missed her own index finger. “Ten thousand dollars?”

  Marisol nodded, her brown eyes fixed on her work. “Kitchen equipment is very expensive. And costs to run, too. Lots of electricity for the hot water, the stoves, the dishwashers.”

  Calista stared around the kitchen, suddenly seeing it in a whole new light. The enormous side-by-side refrigerators, the pots that looked as though they could hold a whole turkey, the two large stoves, metal cart after metal cart. Grant needed to have major funds just to keep the kitchen going, let alone the rest of the mission. She started to wonder just what kind of budget a homeless shelter needed.

  “I always thought the food was the most expensive part.”

  Marisol chuckled. “No, we get lots of food donations. Two big bakeries downtown give us all their day-old bread. In the summertime, the local growers bring us fruit. Christmas is a big day, lots of people, but we already have the turkeys ready in the freezer. It is the machinery that is so hard to get.” She shook her head, her brow furrowing. “Poor Mr. Monohan. He has too many things to fix.”

  Calista was silent. A place as famous as the Downtown Denver Mission shouldn’t be hurting for support. Times were hard in Denver, just like they were everywhere because of the economy, but people still tended to give at this time of year.

  “Christmas is a good time for donations, right?”

  Marisol reached for another potato and shrugged. “It can be. But Lana says the donations are down this month. Probably because of Mr. Monohan’s father.”

  Calista felt a wave of pure anger sweep through her. They were holding it against him, and Grant had never asked to be recognized as Kurt Daniels’s son. Plus, it was unfair that he had to bow to the pressure and give up his privacy. She couldn’t imagine how it felt to be exposed that way.

  The pile of whole potatoes was almost finished and Calista felt satisfaction at their quick work. Then Marisol reached under the metal table and tugged a fifty-pound sack into the light. Calista peeked under the table and almost groaned. Four more sacks lay side by side. This was going to be a long morning. But it was still better than the little filing room.

  Marisol called a worker to come collect the sack of potatoes for washing.

  “Okay, I am going to get the stew meat. Is all chopped and ready.” Marisol pointed to a large metal door with a long, flat handle. “You can come with me so you see the inside.”

  Putting down her knife, Calista dutifully followed Marisol to the door, then gasped as it swung open to reveal a full-size room. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and buckets were tidily lined up on the lowest areas.

  “This is a refrigerator?” She should have known that the fridges out in the main area couldn’t contain enough food for several hundred people.

  “Yes, and we have two walk-in freezers. Always take your coat in when you go.”

  Calista shivered, partly at the chill and partly at the thought of being stuck in a freezer without coat. As the door eased closed behind them, she resisted the urge to push it back open. The handle on the inside was reassuring, but it was still unnerving to be standing in a steel fridge with only one way out.

  Marisol lifted a long packet of stew meat and handed it to Calista. Then she hefted the other into her arms. “Oh, now, see here.” She nodded her head in the direction of the shelf.

  She was no weakling, but there was at least forty pounds of beef cubes in her arms. Calista leaned over, feeling the strain in her biceps. Light red puddles rested on the floor. Beef blood had dripped from the packages, through the wire shelving and pooled on the concrete.

  “We will bring these out and then I have to clean. I tell the workers to always have a drip pan under the meat but sometimes they do not listen.”

  “Do you want me to clean it? You can keep supervising the stew.” Beef blood was on her list of things to avoid, but Calista shrugged off the thought. She wanted to be useful.

  “No, mija, but thank you.” Marisol beamed at her as they reentered the warm kitchen. “I have to wash down the floor with the hose, then spray it with bleach, then scrub. I have a thick coat so I will not be cold.” She set the tray near the stove and turned to eye Calista’s outfit. “You always look so pretty.”

  For some reason, Marisol’s compliment lightened her heart. Maybe because she was sure it was sincere. At work, compliments flowed freely, but were rarely worth more than the breath they took.

  “Thank you. I’ll keep working on the potatoes, then?”

  Shrugging into a heavy work jacket that was much too big for her short frame, Marisol nodded and headed toward the refrigerator, stopping to grab a hose from where it was neatly coiled on the floor.

  Her table was covered with freshly washed potatoes and Calista wondered if this was what it was like to get kitchen duty in the army. The sound of the power hose washing down the cement floor echoed faintly through the crack left in the closed door. She worked in silence, glancing up every now and then to watch the workers in the kitchen. Marisol pushed the door open and recoiled the bright yellow hose, then twisted the faucet closed with sharp movements. She disappeared back into the refrigerator, this time closing the door with a firm thud.


  Calista shivered at the sight. It looked like a bank vault from the outside.

  At that moment, a large squeal sounded above the stove. She dropped her potato in surprise, then saw the source of the noise. A ceiling fan, several feet square, had decided to stop working. Grant really had to make a list of items that needed to be replaced. She would talk to him about the ideas she’d been working on for fundraising.

  That was the last thing that went through Calista’s mind before she saw the flames. Flickering orange, the fire licked along the edges of grating that covered the fan and grew several feet in just seconds.

  * * *

  “Thank you for your generous support of the mission. As a long-time donor—” Grant’s attempt to connect with one of the many people who had not given their usual Christmastime donation was interrupted by the piercing wail of the fire alarm.

  Just peachy. He gave an internal sigh and hurriedly finished leaving the message.

  But this wasn’t a drill. Lana always let him know when she was going to have a drill and which building it was in. Grant jumped to his feet, feeling a sudden contraction of fear in his chest.

  The hallway was empty but he jogged to the filing room, just in case Calista had come back. His heart was beating so loudly the fire alarm was hardly noticeable. The room was empty. He closed it and hung the All Clear sign that was previously hanging on the inside, then did the same for the other offices. Probably it was nothing. Most likely it was just a false alarm.

  Out in the lobby, Lana was giving directions to the residents who were filing by the decorated fir tree, toward the front doors. She caught his eye and called, “Kitchen fire! The meeting rooms on this side are cleared. We’re heading out the front.”

  “Offices are clear,” he called back.

  Calista. His mind flashed on horrible scenarios of flaming grease or exploding stoves and then he shoved the images away. Marisol would never let her handle anything dangerous without training. And Marisol would make sure everyone was out safely. Every worker was trained in fire exits and procedures. Each supervisor would help clear the building, and herd other workers out. The other buildings would evacuate to the parking lot and the sidewalks. He should be following Lana to the street since he was in the office area but Grant had to look. It was probably just a dish of something going up in flames.

  The cafeteria was empty except for the last of the workers trooping out the back exit. Grant ducked into the kitchen, holding his breath against the thick smoke. Bright flames were all too visible as they shot from the ceiling and licked along the edge where the ceiling met the wall. An industrial-size fire extinguisher lay spent on the floor and Grant felt his heart drop into his shoes. This fire was too big to put out. He peered through the black smoke, crouching low to get a better look. He reassured himself the kitchen was truly empty.

  Everyone was out. The rest was in God’s hands.

  He jogged through the cafeteria, letting out a deep breath he’d been holding in the smoky kitchen. The outside door swung open at his touch and he sucked in the fresh air. The mission’s fire protocol stated kitchen workers would gather on the far side of the courtyard, which was their rendezvous point. The snow reflected the sun and he squinted toward the workers, searching. They huddled together, some with their arms around the shoulders of friends. He scanned the group for Calista’s blond hair, trying to recall her outfit. With the mass of red polos and khaki pants, it only took a second to realize Calista was not there.

  Fear gripped him like steel bands tightening around his ribs. He strode over, determined to be calm. His eyes searched the group for Marisol and what had been fear turned to outright dread.

  “Mr. Monohan!” A young woman rushed up to him, her red hair escaping from the standard-issue hairnet. Her eyes were streaming tears, but whether from the smoke or the shock of the fire, he wasn’t sure.

  “That new girl, she was with us but then she went back!”

  Grant felt his limbs go numb. He wanted to move, wanted to ask her a question, but for several seconds his mind shut down completely. Went back in? But he hadn’t seen anyone, and the offices were clear.

  He spun on his heel, staring at the closed cafeteria door. Was it possible she had made it back to the kitchen by the time he had crouched down in the doorway to make sure it was clear? Could she be in there now?

  “Did she say anything?” He said the words calmly but his voice broke on the last word. “And where is Marisol?”

  The young woman started to sob in earnest. “I don’t know. She wasn’t in the kitchen with us when the fire started. The new girl got the fire extinguisher and tried to put it out, but it was already burning through the ceiling.”

  Grant stared at the roof of what was the kitchen. Smoke billowed from the vents and long red flames appeared in the northwest corner. His heart thudded in his throat. He knew the very worst thing was to go back into a fire, for any reason. Everything could be replaced except for human life.

  Lord, show me what to do!

  In answer to his prayer, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. “Were they working together, before the fire?”

  She coughed, struggling to suppress her sobs. “I think so. They were chopping potatoes at the long prep table.”

  Marisol was in there. And Calista knew where. The wail of the fire trucks sounded in the distance and Grant was already moving toward the cafeteria door. He heard several voices calling him back but he ignored them. Within seconds he reached the door, pulled it open and entered the cafeteria. Only it wasn’t a cafeteria any longer. It was as black as night with acrid smoke and the heat buffeted against him in waves. He crouched down but could see only marginally better.

  “Marisol! Calista!” He called out as loudly as he could, then sucked in a breath. That was a mistake. The coughs that racked his body made it impossible to call out again. He stumbled forward, squinting against the smoke, and ran directly into Marisol’s soft, familiar form. He barely recognized her face, blackened with smoke, eyes wide with fear. Calista supported her on one side and her eyes were streaming. He grabbed hold of Marisol’s other arm and sped her toward the outside door.

  The clear sky above them and the crunch of the snow underfoot were like heaven as they burst out of the cafeteria. Grant supported Marisol and was relieved to notice that she was uninjured, as much as he could ascertain in the few seconds before they reached the kitchen workers huddled in the far corner. She was enveloped by the group and hugged over and over. Calista stood still, panting slightly, streaks of soot on her face. Grant looked over at her, a question on his lips, his fear finally ebbing at the sight of them. He wanted to ask, but before he did he simply held out his arms.

  Calista walked into them as naturally as if she had been born to rest there against his chest. He could feel her trembling, her arms locked around his waist. Squeezing his eyes shut, he spoke a prayer of thanks into her hair.

  He could have stayed that way for hours, feeling the beat of his heart slowly return to normal.

  The sound of water being sprayed at full force onto the roof brought him back to reality. The fire trucks had unrolled the long ladders and were directing water to the hole in the kitchen where flames were still emerging.

  “She was in the fridge,” Calista choked out. Her green eyes were bloodshot and soot was smeared along one cheek.

  Grant stepped back, struggling to make sense of her words. “The walk-in refrigerator?”

  Calista nodded, swallowing hard. One arm was still around his waist, under his jacket, and he could feel her shaking. “I panicked when the fan caught on fire. I tried to put it out but then I just ran out with everybody else.” Her face collapsed with the weight of her tears and she pressed a fist against her mouth.

  “You did what you were supposed to do,” he said, pulling her against him again.

  “I forgot s
he was there, trapped in that place,” she said and began to sob.

  Grant could feel the hysteria rising in her and lifted her face to his. Her tears were hot under his fingers. “Calista, you saved her life. There’s a light that flashes in the fridge when the alarm goes off. She should have seen it. You did the right thing, and more.”

  “When I opened the door, she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. She didn’t see it flashing.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out from under her lids. “It felt just like last time.”

  Grant frowned and moved his hands from her face to her shoulders. “Last time?”

  “My mother died when our house caught fire. She was in the basement. Doing laundry.” Her eyes were still closed, face tight with fear and pain.

  He felt the blood rushing to his head. He couldn’t fathom that she had gone back inside, in the face of all her fears.

  “Grant, can I sit down?” She opened her eyes and swayed a little as she spoke.

  He cursed himself for letting her talk when she needed to be wrapped in a blanket and checked out for burns. He slipped out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Marisol was still cocooned in several pairs of arms, her heavy coat hardly visible. Grant gently led them away from the group, his arm around Marisol’s shoulders, Calista’s hand firmly in his, and the three of them made their way down the sidewalk. Marisol mumbled a few words and Grant wondered if she was in shock.

  The ambulance crew gave them both a thorough examination, thankful there were only two victims of the smoke. Grant hovered, his heart torn between watching the progress on the fire and making sure they were okay.

  Savannah ran toward him from across the parking lot, her pink sunglasses slipping down her nose. Her mother trailed behind, a hand to her mouth in shock.

  “Mr. Monohan! There was a fire and everything burnded! Even the pretty Christmas tree!”

  He stooped down and caught Savannah’s small figure in his arms. There were rules about hugging the residents, especially children. An arm across the shoulders was fine, a handshake was better. But today, he didn’t feel like following the recommendations. The little girl was frightened and a hug was really all he had to give. That, and his assurance that everything was going to be okay.