Having exhausted his current list of questions, he begged off. “I’ll just head up to shower and change. Then I thought I might take a walk around town. Seeing as I don’t start until Monday.”
“Getting the lay of the land would be a good place to start. Butterfly Diner serves a great breakfast. Casual. Flutterby Dreams won’t be open until eight, but they’re your go-to if you want something a bit fancier.”
“Got a favorite breakfast?”
Her eyebrow arched in a way that told him she knew what he was doing; small talk was the best way to break through the ice of any situation. Or fledgling relationship. “At which place?”
“Either. Both.” Given he’d finished up his trail mix and protein bars for dinner last night, pretty much the only thing he’d eaten in the last week, he was ready for some actual food.
“Jason makes amazing lemon ricotta pancakes up at the Flutterby.”
“And the diner?”
“Good old-fashioned bacon and eggs. Home fries. Side of pancakes. And if you’re splurging, go with the handmade sourdough bread or a scone. Holly’s got a touch with those.”
“Sounds like I’ll be needing another workout after breakfast.” When Frankie didn’t respond, Roman headed for the door. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Great.”
Was it his imagination or had she picked up speed? Maybe pretending she could run him over on her elliptical?
“Frankie?”
“Uh-huh?” She was panting now, but she flicked him a glance.
“I’m sorry you lost out on the job.”
She flinched but didn’t break stride. Even from across the room, he saw her jaw tense. “Thanks.”
What else could he say? He supposed it could have gone worse. Before he took a wrong verbal turn, he grabbed his now-cold coffee and headed upstairs.
* * *
HER HOME AWAY from home had been invaded.
Frankie had known, even before she parked Dwayne, the oversize, fully supplied SUV, in front of the engine house, she’d find that her new boss had taken up residence in one of the mini apartments on the second floor.
Didn’t mean she had to like it.
The gossip mill, even for Butterfly Harbor, had spun into overdrive once word got out about their new fire chief. Only in a smalltown would people bring food over for the loss of a promotion. She’d spent a good chunk of her evening portioning out freezer meals, then packaging up containers to bring to the firehouse, where it was clear they wouldn’t have to cook for at least a week.
She knew what any rational person in her situation would do after losing out on the job they’d been counting on: they’d leave. Look for another job, a better job. There had to be other towns, some not too far away, in need of an experienced firefighter. It wouldn’t be a chief’s position, obviously, but she could start to make her way up the ladder again. Start over. And she might consider it if not for one thing.
None of those places would be Butterfly Harbor.
She turned off the TV and, using the remote she’d swiped on her way in, turned on the speakers and soon had classic rock booming through the entire first floor.
Frankie continued pumping away on the elliptical for another forty minutes, listening to the whining pipes and plodding footsteps overhead. When she heard Chief Salazar head back downstairs, she cranked up the volume, part of her hoping he would come in to complain so she’d have an excuse to snarl at him. No such luck. He left without another word.
Feeling suitably energized, Frankie brought the elliptical to a stop and, after turning the music down, changed to the calming tones of classical, the gentle sound of flutes and strings seeping into her warm bones. She ducked into the unisex bathroom just off the workout room, where she showered and changed, and was dragging her hair into its trademark ponytail when she heard the front door open again.
“Hey, Frankie!” Her brother Monty’s relaxed voice drifted above the music just before the aroma of fresh-baked doughnuts hit her nose. She found him in the kitchen, prying open the large pink bakery box and examining the selection with more attention than was due.
“You keep looking at those doughnuts that way and I’m going to call the sheriff.” Frankie slipped her phone into one of the thigh pockets of her black cargo pants on her way to the coffee machine. “You want a cup?”
“Is the sky blue?” Monty grinned before stuffing a cruller into his mouth. Frankie leaned over to look out the kitchen window.
“It’s more an overcast gray, but sure.” Able to load the coffee machine in her sleep, she did so quickly and efficiently. She hated those pod machines—such a waste given she went through coffee like water. She couldn’t abide the drip, drip, drip of a solitary cup. “Lucky for you I did an extra twenty minutes this morning.” Ah, he’d gotten apple fritters. “Gran’s favorite.” Every Monday morning without fail, their grandmother would walk the three blocks to Chrysalis Bakery and load up on apple fritters, chocolate old-fashioneds and maple bars. Biting into the sweet, sticky treat filled with chunky apples and swirls of cinnamon made Frankie miss both the bakery and her grandmother.
“Your favorite, too.” Monty turned his eyes to the sputtering coffee machine. “You couldn’t have turned that on sooner?”
“Could have,” she mumbled around a bite of fritter. “Got distracted. How was your scouting trip?”
“Meh.” Monty shrugged. “Haven’t found the right boat yet. I will, though. I’ve got a lead on one out of the Seattle area. Owner’s thinking of putting it up for sale sometime next year. He said he’d call me when he decided for sure and give me first shot.”
“Just how many boats does a chartering service need?” And what was it with the Bettencourt twins with the abnormal collections? Her with her exercise equipment and Monty with his boats.
“The more services I offer, the more boats I need. Three’s working out pretty well right now, especially that catamaran I got hold of last year. It’s perfect for whale watching, snorkeling and diving. And the occasional fishing trip.”
Frankie shivered. Just the idea of snorkeling in Butterfly Harbor Bay froze her from head to toe, which was why water rescues were by far her least favorite calls. On the water, so much could go wrong in such a short time. It wasn’t like they were the tropics in central California, and this time of year especially, one had to be pretty reckless to head out into the bay and dive in the water. But people did just that, which was why Monty’s charter company WindWalkers was, after six years of struggling, finally in the black.
“I’ve got two charters this afternoon. One burial at sea and another client just wanting to head up to San Francisco. He paid double for me to stay and bring him back Sunday, so I’ll miss out on Saturday Mexican Train.”
“Saving yourself the humiliation of losing?” Frankie heard the insistent gurgle of sputtering coffee and went to fill their mugs. “I can never understand how a smart guy like you constantly loses at dominoes.”
“It’s not my fault,” Monty insisted, shrugging out of his jacket and reaching for another doughnut. “Oscar cheats.”
“Give me a break.” Frankie rolled her eyes. “How can someone cheat at dominoes?”
“He has help. Myra lurks, and I think they have a code. I swear.” He held up a sticky hand and gave his Boy Scout salute. “You watch them. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you that new coffeemaker you’ve had your eye on.”
“Deal.” Never one to pass up a bet with Monty, she grinned. Her brother might be one of the most decent, honest guys around, but one thing he was not was good at winning bets. If anything, his bets only assured her winning, which always improved her day. “Harvey can order one at the hardware store and probably give you a break.”
“Don’t count your coffee beans just yet. So.” He looked down at the steaming cup of coffee, then up at Frankie as she sat across from him, cur
ling one leg under her butt. “You didn’t get the job.”
Frankie decided to scald her tongue on her coffee rather than let loose with the colorful commentary she was storing up about her new boss. She knew it was petty. Childish, even. But maintaining a good mad at him was safer than aiming her anger at the right target: Gil Hamilton. That attitude, the Goody Two-shoes angel on her shoulder sang in her head, was no doubt what put her in this sorry situation in the first place. “Nope.”
“I’m sorry, Frankie.”
Frankie’s heart went all gooey at the sympathy she saw on her brother’s face. A face that was more prone to smiling than hers. She might be three minutes older, but there were times he excelled at the big-brother role. This was one of those times. Francesca Roxanne Bettencourt didn’t take sympathy or pity from anyone, except her exceptional twin. “It is what it is.” But not what it had to be. She had options. She must. She just needed to explore them.
“Word is Gil’s responsible.”
“Uh-huh. It’s not the first time he’s messed things up for me.” She pinched her lips together so hard they went numb. Then, throwing caution and calories to the wind, she reached for a second doughnut, this one a plain cake with just a modicum of vanilla frosting and fall-colored sprinkles. “Could be the last time, though.”
Monty set his own doughnut down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know.” Seemed like an appropriate moment to test the waters concerning a new job somewhere else. “I’m just feeling—restless, you know? Hearing they’d hired this Salazar guy out of the blue just took everything out of me. Like when we were kids and I used to go around popping all the party balloons? One minute everything is perfectly fine, and the next bang!”
“You made your little brother hide under the bed,” Monty grumbled. “Fun times.”
Frankie chuckled. “I’d forgotten about that.” The laugh bubbled up from where the pain of failure and disappointment had settled yesterday. “How long did it take you to regain the courage to crawl out?”
“I’m still working on it. It’s normal, Frankie. To feel restless. Not to hide under the bed.”
She couldn’t help it. She kept laughing. Mainly because she was afraid that if she didn’t, she might start crying. This place, this job—it was her life. It had been for as long as she could remember. It had never, not once, crossed her mind that she wouldn’t be named chief. And it hurt. Far more than she could bring herself to admit. And, as things stood, she had two people to blame for that: Gil Hamilton and Roman Salazar. “Maybe I need to take this as a sign.”
“Not getting the job?” Monty shook his head, his sun-kissed brown hair falling over one eye. “Or needing to rid the town of Gil Hamilton?”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “That’s an odd thing to say.” Her brother seemed suddenly interested in everything in the room other than Frankie’s assessing gaze. “And it’s not the first time I’ve heard it. What do you know?”
“Not a lot. People have been ticked off with him for a while. That’s no secret.”
“Not ticked enough that anyone ran against him in the election. Guy just skated to a second four-year term.” There had been talk of a challenger, of course, but given the power Gil Hamilton wielded in this town, and how any business owner or resident with plans to make significant changes to their homes needed the council’s approval...yeah. No one had stepped up.
“I feel confident when I say that should the need for another election arise, I think there’s someone willing to run against him.”
“Who?” Suddenly her lack of professional advancement didn’t seem so important.
“That I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” And hadn’t she and Holly had this same discussion with Ursula yesterday at the diner?
“Just let it unfold, Frankie, and stay out of it. Don’t go pushing any buttons yourself. You not getting the chief’s position is already a recognized strike against him.”
As much as the idea of Gil Hamilton being brought to his political knees appealed, once again she found herself reluctant to be the named cause. “I’m sure he had his reasons for not picking me.”
“I’d be interested to hear what they are. Everyone knows you’ve been in line for the job ever since Bud announced his plans to retire last year. Bud recommended you. Most of the council approved you. The two who didn’t had to abstain because they consider you family. The town loves you.”
And she loved the town, but apparently that hadn’t been enough. “Maybe everyone just needs to let this go.” Everyone including herself. Maybe she should be thinking about moving on. She chewed on her lower lip. Maybe.
“Is that what you’re going to do? Or will you let this goad you into a decision you wouldn’t normally be making?”
The doughnut turned to glue in her mouth. “What makes you think—?”
“We spent nine months wrapped together in our mother’s stomach, Frankie. I know how you think. You’re thinking about leaving, aren’t you?”
Frankie sipped her coffee, swallowed the bitterness in her throat. “Actually, I don’t know what I’m thinking.” Remembering the promise they’d made when they were kids never to lie to one another, she held up her hand, knowing he was poised to challenge her. “Okay, okay. It’s crossed my mind. I do want to be chief. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since I stole Dad’s dress uniform hat and pranced around the house with it for days. It can’t hurt to consider my options, right?”
“Consider? No.” Monty cringed. “It would hurt if you left, though. A lot. Not that I’d blame you. I would guess exploring outside options is more appealing than tracking Gil down and finding out why he didn’t give you the promotion.”
Not to mention easier. Which was part of what really irked her. She never took the easy way; it was so much less fun. Right now, Frankie wasn’t sure if she could even be near the good mayor without wanting to do him bodily harm. The idea of leaving Butterfly Harbor left a sick feeling in her stomach. And leaving Monty? Monty wasn’t just her twin, he was her best friend. Starting over in another town would be as if she’d jumped overboard off one of his boats with nothing more than a deflated life preserver.
“Don’t get ahead of this,” she said when it was clear Monty was waiting for a response. “At this point I don’t care why Gil didn’t give me the promotion. It’s probably best if I avoid him altogether. Roman Salazar is already here. He’s qualified, if a bit naive. Life moves on. That being said, if I happen to run into Gil...”
“If you can give me some advance warning and let me sell tickets, I can buy a whole new fleet of boats.”
Frankie managed another laugh, this one a little strained, and finished her coffee. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks for the doughnuts. And the talk. Both helped.”
“I hope so. Ah-ah-ah!” He reached over and slapped at her wrist. “Get your hands off that lemon-filled one. It’s mine.”
CHAPTER FOUR
ROMAN HOPED HIS stroll down to Monarch Lane, the main thoroughfare of Butterfly Harbor, would clear his mind of the image of Frankie Bettencourt slogging away on that elliptical machine of hers.
Walking out of the station, he realized it had been a long while since a woman had captured his attention so completely. Every time he turned around he seemed to discover something new about her. For instance, the drum and bass music vibrating through the firehouse so loud that he thought he could hear the walls whine.
Protests and demands had hovered on his tightly pressed lips but were kept quiet by the reminder that he’d thrown what had to be some high expectations for herself into the unknown. He knew what it was like to be blindsided; he didn’t like it and it was clear his captain didn’t like it, either. Far be it from him to rob her of her catharsis.
The notion she might be trying to irritate him on purpose was proven when, only seconds after
he closed the door behind him, the classic rock gave way to one of his favorite sonatas. He’d stood there, looking at the run-down station house, taking in the music. Even the weathered wooden sign seemed to sag with exhaustion.
The SUV parked out front hadn’t been there last night, which told Roman this was the famous Dwayne, the vehicle Frankie had arrived in. Bright red, with Emergency Services painted in neon-yellow letters and LED lights poised on top of the roof, the SUV gained his immediate approval, even if he wasn’t convinced it should be used as a private vehicle. Clearly Frankie was used to doing things her way, but it was going to be up to Roman to decide if that was the right way or not. She knew this town; he didn’t. But what he did know was how to run a firehouse; he’d learned from the best. But...
That had been with a full department. Plus, the job wasn’t officially his until Monday. Before then, he’d make notes about what he’d need to explore in depth and what he’d need to pass on. Like the exercise room. She already had him on board with that facility and plan. She was smart, determined and dedicated to this town. He needed her if he was going to succeed. And he needed to succeed here if he ever had a shot at that federal inspector’s job.
A charming, decrepit saltbox home stood just across the dead-end road, with the windows boarded shut and the front yard overgrown to the point of being a fire hazard. Chances were the coming winter season might take some of the edge off, but it made Roman wonder how many other properties in the area—either abandoned or occupied—had similar issues. Not that a coastal town like this was a tinder box, certainly not like areas farther north had been recently, but it couldn’t hurt to be safe.
Head ducked, he pulled out his phone and tapped open his notes app, making notations about weed control as he headed down the hill into town. He’d lost track of how many times—yesterday included—he’d been advised on local customs and traditions. Maybe this would be one of those circumstances he could do a bit of exploring while earning some goodwill among the town folk.
The Firefighter's Thanksgiving Wish Page 4