“I’ll just be glad when this whole mess is over.” He pulled a brittle leaf from a branch overhead.
“Have you gone back to work? You teach, right?”
He nodded. “Fifth grade. But no . . . I haven’t gone back. I’m supposed to Monday. You?”
She swallowed hard. “I have a part-time job at the library. I’ll go back next week probably. But I was working at the shelter, too. Volunteering anyway. We were trying to live on Adam’s paycheck. I wanted to stay home with our kids.”
Confusion clouded Garrett’s eyes, and he looked down at her belly. “Are you . . . ?”
“Oh, no . . .” She quickly corrected his assumption. “We were trying, though.”
“I’m sorry.” He kicked at a pile of twigs.
She shook her head. “I’m thankful I’m not . . . now. That would have made this so much harder.” It was true, yet the disappointment that she wasn’t pregnant—may never be now—washed over her again.
He nodded, sympathy thick in his gaze, then peered past her through the trees. “Hey, I think I see the trail.”
He forged ahead and Bryn tromped after him to what had obviously been a maintained path at one time. The trail led them deeper into the woods. Time had cluttered the edges with roots and vines, but standing in the middle of the lane, she could see a walkway where trees had been cleared for a path. They followed it a block or two past the apartment buildings until they found themselves behind a gated development that backed up to the woods. There was little chance of those reporters tracking them to here. She felt her shoulders relax.
She reached out a hand for the leash. “Do you want me to take him for a while?”
“I don’t mind. Unless you want to practice.”
She looked up at him, trying to decide whether he was teasing. But he looked serious, and she decided it wasn’t a bad idea, while she had him here to rescue her if Sparky took off again.
Garrett turned the lead over to her, then knelt beside the dog and took its eager face in his broad hands. “Listen, boy. You mind this lady. You hear me? I’m talking to you.” He roughed up the dog’s head with the manner of someone who’d been around dogs and had great affection for them. Sparky sensed it, too, if the wild wagging of his tail—and his entire hind quarters—was any indication.
She jerked on the leash and tried to mimic Garrett’s tone. “Come on, Sparky. Let’s go, boy.”
The dog tugged at the leash, testing her, but at Garrett’s low command, Sparky quieted and trotted ahead. Bryn kept the rope taut. “Good boy,” she said under her breath.
“Thanks.” Garrett grinned down at her, sporting an ornery grin.
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I was talking to the dog.”
“How come I did all the work and he gets all the credit?”
“I’m sure you’re a good boy, too.” Once the words were out, she wanted them back. They felt flirtatious, and too flippant in light of everything that had happened.
But if Garrett noticed, he didn’t let on. Instead he pointed ahead, changing the subject. “I think the trail comes out at the street up there. On Portmeyer, if I remember right. We can go around the block and back the long way to your street. They won’t be looking for us there.”
“Sounds good to me.”
It felt good to get back in the sunlight. They let Sparky set the pace and walked briskly through Hanover Falls’ older residential district. Beside her, Garrett was quiet, and Bryn took in the ivy-covered porches and the wide, leaf-strewn lawns and let herself imagine what it might be like to raise a family in one of the stately homes Adam had loved so much.
When they reached the development where her building stood, she wished for some excuse to keep from having to go inside the dim, quiet apartment.
Garrett seemed to sense her hesitation. “It felt kind of good to get out, huh?”
“It really did. Except for having to ditch the paparazzi. I’d sure hate to be a movie star.”
“You got that right.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Well . . . I guess I’d better get back myself.”
“Sure. Thanks again for rescuing me. I’d probably be in the lake about now if you hadn’t come along.”
He laughed. “I doubt that.” He stretched out a hand and let Sparky nuzzle it. “Just use a firm voice and a firm hand. He’ll learn to respect that.”
“Got it. Thanks again.” She fished her keychain from the pocket of her hoodie and searched for the right key.
Garrett scuffed the toe of his tennis shoe on the sidewalk. “Well . . . I’ll see you . . .” He waved and took off down the sidewalk at a jog.
As the front door swung open, Bryn remembered she still had his scarf. “Garrett!” she called after him, but apparently he didn’t hear her.
She whipped the scarf from around her neck. She didn’t want him to think she’d kept it on purpose. She calculated the distance between him and the front door and thought about running to catch up with him, but it had been awkward enough to say good-bye the first time, and Sparky was champing to get to his water bowl.
She went inside and unclipped the dog’s leash and filled his bowl. Garrett surely had other scarves. She’d get it back to him another time.
She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on a peg in the entryway. Reaching to loop Garrett’s scarf over her coat, she first brought the soft fabric to her nose and inhaled the masculine scent it carried. Adam. The house echoed with his absence, hollow without him. She wasn’t sure how she could spend another night here alone.
She buried her face in the scarf and gave in to the tears.
Garrett Edmonds leaned
against the frame of the
archway between the kitchen
and great room. He threw a
smile her way . . .
8
Monday, November 26
Bryn parked behind a white pickup on the gravel drive at Susan Marlowe’s home a mile outside Hanover Falls’ city limits. A minivan and another car occupied the space in front of the double garage, and she didn’t recognize either. She got out and closed the car door, sighing. She wasn’t sure what Susan had planned for the evening, but she hadn’t expected a crowd. Whatever this was, though, it beat sitting home another lonely night.
The Marlowes’ home was an older farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch. The exterior was dressed up like one of the colorful “painted ladies” row houses Bryn and Adam admired when they’d vacationed in San Francisco last summer. The white clapboard siding was trimmed in shades of deep rose, moss green, and brown. If anyone had described the paint scheme to Bryn, she would have thought it sounded garish. But nestled in the wooded acreage, surrounded by evergreen bushes and rock gardens, the house fit the landscape as if it were another pretty shrub.
Tonight the windows of the old farmhouse glowed with warmth, and the porch still wore Thanksgiving decorations with hay bales serving as tabletops for a colorful arrangement of pumpkins and gourds. Thanksgiving had passed almost without her noticing, thanks to Dad’s offering of roast turkey from the deli. But Thanksgiving was essentially a one-day holiday. Now Christmas loomed before her—an entire season. She would have given anything to skip the whole next year on the calendar.
Sighing, Bryn climbed the porch steps and reached for the doorbell, but Susan opened the door before she could press the button.
“Bryn. So good to see you.”
“Hi, Susan.”
The rich aroma of coffee greeted her as Susan ushered her inside. Dressed in slim black pants and silk tunic, Susan wore a festive apron over the outfit, like something Bryn remembered her grandmother wearing at holiday dinners, but somehow Susan managed to pull off the look with panache. “Come in, come in . . .”
Hearing laughter float from the kitchen at the back of the house, Bryn allowed the knot in her stomach to loosen a bit. She’d been a little afraid she would be the only one to show up tonight. And more afraid of what they would talk about if there was a crowd. She knew
the Falls well enough to know that the fire was still a hot topic around town, and this would be her first “public appearance” since the funeral.
She wondered if Jenna would be here. She hadn’t talked to her friend since that day she’d stopped by the house. She’d tried to call a couple of times since that day but hadn’t made it past voice mail. Jenna hadn’t returned her calls, and her two-line replies to Bryn’s emails later felt like brush-offs. Bryn missed her friend, but she could take a hint. She wasn’t going to play the pushy, smothering girlfriend.
“May I take your jacket?”
“Oh . . . thanks, but I think I’ll keep it with me. I’m kind of cold-blooded.” And it would be easier to slip out early if she didn’t have to search for her jacket in some back bedroom.
“Well, come on back to the kitchen. What can I get you to drink?”
“The coffee smells wonderful.” She’d been in Susan’s home on several occasions. The shelter director loved to entertain and always seemed to be hosting some kind of event in her home—whether it was a home sales party or a Christmas open house or just a small dinner party to thank the shelter volunteers.
Like the exterior, the inside of the house looked like something from the pages of a magazine. Open, yet cozy with Susan’s artistic touches everywhere. It had always struck Bryn as odd that a woman who ran a homeless shelter would care so much about the decor of her own home. But maybe it made perfect sense. Susan no doubt enjoyed and appreciated her house more than most because she knew intimately what it was like to be without a place to call home. This place looked like the very definition of home.
She followed Susan through the foyer past a wide, open staircase and into the kitchen–great room combination.
“Bryn’s here, everybody.”
“Hi, Bryn.” The group greeted her in unison.
She raised a hand in greeting and looked around the warm space. Garrett Edmonds leaned against the frame of the archway between the kitchen and great room. He threw a smile her way, then looked down, swirling the ice in his glass.
Lucas Vermontez, Manny’s son who’d been injured in the fire, sat in a wheelchair near the kitchen table. Bryn hadn’t seen him since that fateful night. He bore no visible wounds, but his handsome face was thin and wan. Emily, his mother, stood behind his chair and worried over him, smoothing his collar, refilling his Coke.
“We’re just waiting for Jenna now,” Susan said. “But why don’t you bring your drinks, and we’ll move to the living room? I’m sure she’ll be here any minute, and then we can get started.”
It appeared that Susan had gathered the survivors of the fallen firefighters of the Grove Street fire. What was she up to?
Bryn caught Garrett’s eye, and he gave a subtle shrug. He didn’t know why they were here either.
Susan poured Bryn coffee from a French press, and the group filtered into the front room. Candles were aglow on the coffee table, filling the house with a cinnamon spice scent—and taking Bryn’s mind where it didn’t want to go. She hadn’t lit a candle since the night of the fire.
She chose an overstuffed chair near the fireplace and sat on the edge of the plump cushion, her back straight.
After ten minutes of uneasy small talk, Susan rose and went to stand in front of the hearth. “I’m not sure what happened to Jenna, but I think we’ll go ahead and get started.”
Bryn had never seen Susan look anything but poised and collected, but there was a slight tremor in her voice as she addressed them now.
“Thank you for coming. It’s been a very difficult month for all of you . . . all of us. You have each been in my prayers over these last few weeks. When we become part of the rescue family, we know that we might be asked to make a sacrifice like we’ve each made. We come in hoping we’re prepared, but when our worst fears come true . . .” She sniffed, her eyes brimming. “Well, it’s not easy. I’ll keep you in my prayers for a long time to come.”
A murmur of uneasy agreement went up.
Garrett’s gaze encompassed the room. “Has anyone heard anything new on the investigation?”
“I spoke with Chief Brennan yesterday,” Susan said.
Peter Brennan had been the fire chief as long as Adam had been with the department. He was well respected in the community.
“Peter—” Susan hesitated, as if she’d slipped in referring to him with such familiarity. “Chief Brennan says they may never know for sure how the fire started, but they’re working with several possibilities.”
“Like what?” Garrett’s tone held a challenge.
“Well, they seem to think Zeke Downing’s disappearance leaves arson as a strong likelihood. But it could just as easily have been a coincidence—or was unintentional. Bryn can tell you that there were always clients trying to sneak a cigarette or mess with the thermostat or cook with a contraband hot plate. It could have been any number of things.”
Bryn shifted uncomfortably in her chair. For a while she’d lived in dread of having to answer more questions. She’d only recently begun to breathe easier as the investigation appeared to be winding down.
“The newspapers keep talking about Zeke as if it’s a foregone conclusion that he set the fire.” Emily Vermontez spoke in her quiet, steady voice that carried a trace of a Spanish accent. “Why aren’t they doing more to catch him?”
Garrett leaned forward. “Yes. Why else would the guy just disappear?” His tone was bitter, but he held his arms out in a way that was more imploring than combative.
“Oh, Garrett . . .” Susan sighed softly. “There are a million reasons any one of our clients wouldn’t have wanted to stick around that night. It’s not like they were going to collect insurance money or something. These people, if they’re not dealing with mental illness or addictions, are there because they’re in trouble with the law, or because they’ve had a falling out with family. There was no reason for any of them to stick around that night. The only thing they were thinking about was where they were going to sleep the next night, where their next meal was coming from—and it obviously wasn’t going to be our shelter.” She nodded in Bryn’s direction. “Bryn knows how skittish Zeke was about giving us his documents in the first place. People like that have a lot to hide, even if it’s only in their own imaginations. The last thing Zeke would have wanted was to talk to the police or some newspaper reporter.”
Susan brushed her hands together as if to dismiss the subject. She inhaled and her voice brightened. “Well . . . we should probably get started. You might have guessed why I invited you here tonight . . .”
Bryn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She and Garrett exchanged looks again. She didn’t know why Susan had called them together, and she was glad she wasn’t the only one in the dark. Maybe if she hadn’t quit watching the news, she wouldn’t be so clueless.
“You’re probably aware,” Susan continued, “that the city has expressed a desire to fund some sort of memorial for our husbands—and Molly, of course.” She offered Garrett a sad smile. “For all of the fallen heroes. And that’s what they are. Heroes. And because our loved ones were truly heroic, I hope you’ll agree that they would be far more honored by a memorial that goes beyond a bronze statue or a plaque on some courthouse wall. What I have in mind is a living memorial of sorts.”
“I know some of you have already given your efforts to the shelter.” She looked pointedly at Bryn. “How’s it going with Sparky, by the way? Bryn took in one of our client’s dogs,” she explained to the others.
Bryn laughed. “He’s a little . . . feisty. But we’re managing okay.”
Garrett caught her eye and gave her a knowing wink.
“I know Charlie really appreciates what you’re doing,” Susan said.
Bryn managed an embarrassed shrug. “I’m glad to do it.” It was true. Sparky had provided a much-needed diversion—in spite of the fact that he could be trouble with a capital T.
“Anyway,” Susan continued. “I’m hoping you all agree that
getting the shelter back up and running again should be a priority.”
Lucas shifted in his wheelchair, and his mother leaned over him, whispering something in his ear.
Susan seemed not to notice. “If you do agree, I’d like to ask the city to put the funds they would spend on some useless memorial into an account to fund the new shelter.”
“New shelter?” Garrett’s brow wrinkled. “Have you found a place to reopen the facility?”
Susan shook her head. “Not yet, I’m afraid. But only because we have no funds. The old building was minimally insured, and we won’t have those funds anyway . . . at least not until the fire investigators finish their report. But thanks to the local churches and volunteers, we ran the first shelter on almost no budget. Once we have the building—and some beds . . . the bare necessities—we can go back to the way we were, with volunteers providing staff and meals.”
Emily Vermontez straightened in her chair beside Lucas. “I’m not sure I understand what it is you are asking of us.”
Susan’s smile was smug as she rose and went to a large oak desk in an alcove created by the room’s bay window. She picked up a folder and began distributing its contents around the room.
Bryn skimmed the two-page document. It was a petition of sorts, stating what Susan had just reported and verifying that the signee was in favor of a living memorial for the fallen firefighters.
Susan cleared her throat. “The shelter simply won’t happen without some funding, and I know the city will consider the request much more strongly if all of us—the survivors—are on board. I’m not asking you to sign anything or make any commitments tonight. If you’d please just take this home and read through it, and then either get the petitions back to me or deliver them yourself to the city offices. Does anyone have questions?”
“Not to go back to a closed subject,” Garrett said, “and I admit I haven’t kept up with the news the last couple of weeks . . . but has anyone said when they think the fire investigators will have anything conclusive?”
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