Where There's Smoke...

by Barbara Mccauley

  Sandra kissed Emily’s cheek, sighed, then stood. “Don’t think this means I’m not worried about you, or that I won’t fuss over you at least a little. You might as well tell the sun not to rise or Mrs. Carmichael not to walk her Pekinese through my front flower beds. It will simply fall on deaf ears. Now, I’ll leave you to eat your soup. At least be polite and make an attempt at the sandwich. If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve raised my children with manners.”

  Her back straight, Sandra walked back through the patio French doors. Because she wanted to please her, Emily picked up the sandwich, then nibbled at it while she watched a sparrow splash in the fountain, then shake its feathers and fly away.

  Why don’t you just listen to your heart?

  And what did her heart tell her?

  To take action. Not to sit around. To do something.

  What?

  The answer came to her easily, and quite loudly.

  Cookies.

  Smiling, she quickly gathered up her things, then headed for the kitchen.

  “For God’s sake, Shane, when the hell are you gonna learn how to cook?”

  Shane turned the large firehouse oven to 425©, then tossed a box of frozen pepperoni pizza to Matt. “I am cooking,” he said, and grabbed another box. “And at least it’s recognizable. We’ve still got bets going whether that meat you served last week was beef or chicken.”

  “Very funny.” Offended, Matt ripped open the box of pizza. “You know damn well it was fish.”

  “Fish? Damn, I just lost five bucks.”

  “That recipe dates back to my great-grandmother,” Matt said with a scowl. “She prepared that dish every spring to ensure a bountiful harvest.”

  “Well, see, that’s where I think you’ve got it wrong,” Shane said cheerfully. “You weren’t supposed to eat it, you were supposed to bury it.”

  “Watch it, Cummings.” Matt gathered up the empty pizza boxes. “Don’t you be messing with family tradition.”

  He couldn’t very well mess with something he didn’t know anything about, Shane thought. With both his parents gone, there’d been no traditions to carry on. Unless he counted his uncle’s yearly St. Patrick’s Day Festival. You weren’t allowed in the pub unless you wore green, ate green and drank green. It was loud and rowdy, and for a day, everyone, no matter what their heritage, was Irish.

  And that was the extent of Shane’s family and their traditions.

  “And you better come up with something other than that packaged pudding you served yesterday,” Matt said on his way out the kitchen door, “or we’ll all bury you.”

  “It was chocolate last night,” Shane called after Matt. “Tonight’s vanilla.”

  “I’m gonna go get my shovel,” Matt yelled back.

  So he couldn’t cook, Shane thought with a frown. Big deal. He got by just fine on frozen and fast food. But there had been a great deal of complaining lately about his meals. Maybe, just to shut everyone up, he should try to make more of an effort. At least with the dessert. He went to the pantry and looked inside. Maybe he could just disguise the pudding somehow. Make it less recognizable. He scanned the shelves. Pasta. Peas. Tuna. Corn oil. Olives. Nothing he’d ever eaten in a dessert.

  I’m a dead man, he thought.

  That was when he spotted the box of graham crackers. Bingo. Slap a few crackers on the bottom of a pan, dump the packaged pudding on top, then…what? Meringue. That was eggs, right? he asked himself. Whip up some eggs, just the whites, he thought, then dump that on top of the pudding and— Wait, didn’t meringue have to be cooked? Or maybe—

  “Shane?”

  He turned at the sound of the quiet, feminine voice.

  Emily.

  His pulse tripped at the sight of her standing in the doorway holding a square white box. She wore a lavender blouse and black slacks, and looked slightly flustered.

  Damn if he didn’t feel a little flustered himself.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said awkwardly.

  Dammit, why did she have to show up now, looking so pretty and so lost? He’d managed to keep away from her this past week, though he hadn’t managed to keep her out of his thoughts. He’d nearly caved half a dozen times and gone to see her, then came to his senses.

  He watched her worry at her lower lip and felt his heart lurch.

  “You’re not bothering me.” Actually, he was very bothered, though not the same kind of bothered she was referring to.

  “I just wanted to stop by and…say thank you again. For saving my life.” She glanced down at the box in her hands. “I made some cookies. And some brownies, too, with chocolate frosting.”

  “Homemade cookies and brownies?” His mouth was already watering, though not just for the treats. “Bless you, woman. Now you’ve saved my life.”

  When she looked at him curiously, he grinned. “It’s my night to cook. Let’s just say it’s not what I do best. The guys will forgive the frozen pizza if I share a few cookies with them.”

  Clearly, a week’s rest had been good for her. Her high cheeks had a lovely bloom of rose on them, her whiskey-colored eyes sparkled with clarity. Soft, wispy bangs covered the fading bruise on her right temple and hid any sign of a scar she might have from the stitches she’d received.

  An air of vulnerability still shimmered around her, Shane thought. A look of wide-eyed innocence that invoked a need to protect, to defend. A need that made him feel strangely, and ridiculously, possessive.

  He moved close to her, caught the faint floral scent of her perfume. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” she said, her tone light, her smile brave. “Except for the little detail that, despite my family’s best efforts to remind me, I still don’t know who I am.”

  Is that really why she’d come here? he asked himself. Not so much to say thank you, but to get away from her family?

  And did he care?

  She was here, that was all that really mattered.

  His fingers itched to touch her. But this was hardly the time, and definitely not the place. By now, everyone in the station was aware of the fact that a beautiful woman was in the kitchen with him. There’d be comments, he knew, and while normally he would just laugh it off, the idea of anyone making lewd remarks about Emily set his teeth on edge.

  “Well, I…I’ve got to go.” She hesitated, then held the box out toward him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Thank you.” How polite they both were, Shane thought irritably, though the lust churning inside him at the moment was anything but polite. He set the box on the long kitchen table. “Stay for a while.”

  “No, really. I should be going.”

  “Emily.” With a sigh, he took her shoulders in his hands and leveled his gaze with hers. “I want you to stay.”

  This time the smile made it to her eyes. “Okay.”

  Dammit, but he wanted to kiss her. He felt the need to pull her close, knew it would be a very foolish thing to do. Yet, still he did not release her.

  Emily knew she should step away from Shane’s touch. Knew she should say something light or casual, anything to break the sudden spell she found herself under. At the very least, she told herself, she should look away from the blue-green gaze he had locked on her.

  But she couldn’t move. Could barely breathe, for that matter. It felt so right to be here with him, for his hands to be on her. The anticipation that he might kiss her made her pulse begin to race.

  “Emily,” he said softly. “I need to—”

  He paused, lowered his gaze to her mouth.

  “What?” She let her head tip back, felt her lips open ever so slightly….

  His hands tightened, then dropped away. “Check my pizza.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  She was still holding her breath, she realized, and slowly released it when he turned away. She felt utterly ridiculous, and was glad his back was to her while she struggled to regain her composure. When he opened the oven, the aroma of Italian spices and
melting cheese wafted out. The scents were familiar to her and she found them comforting as she wandered around the neat, spacious kitchen.

  On the wall beside the refrigerator, snapshots and various announcements were pinned to a large cork bulletin board. Emily smiled at the picture of a baby girl named Martha on a birth announcement, then read the flyer beside it for an upcoming fireman’s bachelor auction at the Boston Marriott on the Long Wharf.

  “I’ll give you a tour after we eat.” Shane shifted the pizzas around in the oven, then closed the door again. “Should be ready in about ten minutes.”

  “I’m not staying to eat.” Just the thought of sitting around this big table with a crew of firefighters made her heart jump. “I really couldn’t. I just—”

  “You think you can remember how to make a salad?”

  “I— Of course I do.”

  “Then you’re staying. Lettuce and tomatoes are in the fridge drawer, and whatever else you can find. Personally, I could do without it, but some of the guys are convinced it’s necessary.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out an armload of plates. “Unless you’d rather set the table.”

  “The salad is fine.” After a week of sitting around being waited on, Emily felt almost giddy with something to make herself feel useful.

  She found everything she needed, including a large bowl, and began to chop tomatoes, green peppers and mushrooms. She and Shane worked in amiable silence for a few minutes, and though she thought it odd that none of the other men had come into the kitchen, she suspected they were keeping their distance until dinnertime because of her.

  She was grateful to all these men. Every one of them risked his life every time he went out on a call. In spite of the fact she’d lost her memory, she still knew that she was one of the lucky ones, that without them she wouldn’t be standing here at all.

  She’d wanted to personally thank all the firemen for fighting the fire, and though the cookies had been an inspiration, she knew she’d especially wanted to see Shane. She’d even called the station before she came down to make sure he was working.

  “Has the cause of the fire been determined yet?” she asked while she sliced a tomato.

  “Nothing definite yet,” he said. “It’s still under investigation.”

  She glanced over at him, watched him move back and forth to the cupboards and drawers as he set the table. The instant butterflies in her stomach made her feel like an infatuated teenager. She knew that she shouldn’t be here, but after a week in her parents’ house, she’d needed desperately to get out, if only for a little while.

  “One of the nurses mentioned you own a boat.” She reached for a bell pepper. The nurses had mentioned other things about Shane, as well. That he was single and had never been married, that he’d dated a few of the nurses from the hospital, and that any woman who wanted to become Mrs. Shane Cummings had better take a number and wait in line.

  And according to the nurses, it looked as if it would be a long wait.

  “I’ve got a sloop at Boston Harbor Marina.” He moved beside her and reached for a pitcher in an overhead cupboard. “Ever been on a sailboat?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He set the pitcher on the counter, then took her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward. “Maybe that’s the fun of losing your memory,” he said with a smile. “Everything’s a new experience.”

  “I hadn’t quite looked at it that way.” She smiled back. “But it’s certainly true.”

  “You’ll remember, Emily,” he said softly.

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then you don’t.” He traced her jaw with his thumb. “You just move forward, one day at a time, and build new memories. My shift ends tomorrow. I’ll take you sailing.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I don’t have to. I want to.” He lifted a brow. “Is there someone who’d rather I didn’t?”

  She furrowed her brow in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “If I’m going to make a boyfriend jealous, I’d at least like to know ahead of time.”

  “Oh.” Emily had learned from her sister that she’d dated someone named Jeffrey for a few months, but they’d broken up several months before the fire. “No. There’s no one.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up in the early afternoon.”

  “I’d like that.” Heavens. She wasn’t even trying to be coy. She was practically throwing herself at Shane. And she didn’t care.

  Had she been this brazen before? she wondered. It was difficult to imagine, but certainly anything was possible.

  As his hand lingered on her chin, the awareness shimmered between them again, just as it had only a few minutes ago. It frightened her how much she wanted this man to hold her, to kiss her. To tell her everything would be all right.

  The oven buzzer sounded, but Shane ignored it.

  “There is one thing I’ll bet you’ve never done before,” he murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  “Had dinner surrounded by twelve burly firemen.”

  She laughed softly. “I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “Prepare yourself, Miss Barone.” He dropped his hand away. “You are about to have what will most definitely be a memorable experience.”

  Four

  The two-story brick house sat back from a shady, maple-lined street. The lawn was manicured, the flower beds as colorful as they were meticulous. The neighborhood of stately homes was dignified and definitely upscale.

  When he was seventeen, Shane had dated a girl who lived in this neighborhood. Megan Worthington. He’d been working at the South Shore Yacht Club, scrubbing boat decks and running errands for the members, plus waiting tables in the private restaurant and helping out in the kitchen. Megan had been blond and bubbly and two years older than he. Shane had thought he’d loved Megan, and that she loved him, until her parents offered her a brand-new Porsche if she dissolved the relationship. One week later, while Megan was enjoying her new car, Shane was out a girlfriend and a job.

  Such are the lessons of life, he thought with a shrug.

  Shaking his head at the memory, Shane pulled his Mustang convertible into the driveway of Sandra and Paul Barone’s house and parked. He still wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He’d told himself a dozen times it would serve no purpose for Emily or himself to see each other again, then suddenly he’d asked her to go sailing with him.

  She’d just looked as if she could use some fresh air and sunshine, he thought. A few hours out on the ocean, away from everything. Who knows, he thought as he climbed out of his car. Maybe if she relaxed, her memory would come back. When it did, of course, she’d go back to her own world, he was certain of that. But what the hell. The truth was he wanted to be with her.

  He wouldn’t get involved with Emily. That would be stupid. But he could enjoy her company for an afternoon, couldn’t he? And she seemed to want to be with him, too, although he suspected more than anything else she was just feeling grateful toward him.

  Whatever it was she felt toward him, or he felt toward her, it didn’t really matter. He’d take her sailing, and that would be that.

  Shane rang the doorbell of the Barone residence, noticed a lace curtain flutter from a front room window, then a moment later the door opened.

  The woman smiling at him wore a blue silk blouse and black tailored pants. Her eyes were the same color as her blouse, and her wavy blond hair was tucked neatly back from her elegant face with a tortoiseshell headband.

  “Mr. Cummings.” The woman held out her hand. “Sandra Barone. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally meet you. Please, come in.”

  The house inside was as refined as its mistress, Shane thought as he took in the sweeping staircase, glossy wood floors, high ceilings, carved moldings and leaded glass windows. Through a pair of French doors leading to a patio, Shane noticed three women sitting at a table.

  “I haven’t yet properly thanked you for saving my daughter�
�s life,” Sandra said. “There are no words to express my gratitude.”

  Shane shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not necessary. I was doing my job.”

  “I was told you carried her out only moments before an explosion. If you hadn’t found her, she would have—” Her voice broke and moisture filled her eyes.

  “I did find her, Mrs. Barone,” Shane said quietly. “And she’s fine. In time, I’m sure her memory will come back, too.”

  Sandra nodded, then drew in a slow breath and smiled. “Could I persuade you to join my bridge club for tea and sandwiches before you and Emily run off? They’d love to hear all about Emily’s rescue first-hand.”

  Tea and sandwiches with the bridge club? He glanced at the small china cups and plates of finger sandwiches on the table. He’d rather jump off a fifty-foot pier into shark-infested waters. “Ah, thank you, but we should really—”

  “Shane.”

  He turned as Emily appeared at the top of the stairway. She wore white capris and a soft green T-shirt, and carried a canvas bag over her shoulder.

  Just the sight of her made his throat go dry. He felt suddenly anxious, like a teenager picking up his first date.

  “Hi.” She kept her gaze on his as she moved down the stairs. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”

  “I just got here.”

  Emily stepped toward her mother and kissed her cheek. “I’ll call you later.”

  “All right.” But there was worry in Sandra’s eyes as she glanced at her daughter. “Have fun, dear. If you need me, you can call my cell phone, or you can reach your father at the office, or—”

  “I’m fine,” Emily said firmly. “Stop worrying.”

  “It’s my job,” Sandra said with a sigh, then turned at the sound of her name being called from outside. “Well, all right, then. I’ll see you later.”

  Sandra hurried off and Emily turned toward Shane. “I forgot my jacket. I’ll be right back.”

  He stared after her as she walked back up the stairs, couldn’t help but notice the sway of her hips and the snug fit of her capris across her backside. Her legs were long and curved and he wondered what they’d feel like wrapped around his waist while he—