The Fireman Finds a Wife

by Felicia Mason

“I came out here to think,” she said. “That City Council meeting gave me a headache, and I could barely concentrate at work today. I just took off and came out here. I was taking a nap when I heard you drive up.”

  “Were those surveyors’ flags I saw on the drive to the house?”

  “Yes,” Spring said, anger tingeing her voice. “I told Mayor Howell that trespassing laws still exist.”

  Summer took a sip of the tea. “What’d she say?”

  “‘Spring, dear, no laws were broken.’” Spring said in an exact mimic of the mayor. She then harrumphed, a very un-Spring-like sound. “I’ve been trying to have an open mind about this whole thing, but what I heard at the council meeting did not sit well with me.”

  “Or with Mrs. Lundsford. Did you see what she said in the paper?”

  Spring nodded as she reached for her glass and sipped the refreshing lemonade.

  “I don’t want us to lose this house,” Summer said.

  “Neither do I,” Spring said as the sisters quietly took in the pastoral view of green from the porch. Several tall magnolia trees lined the driveway and a riot of perennials bloomed in untended beds in the front yard.

  “Mom is worried about you,” Spring said after a while.

  “I’m worried about me, too,” Summer said.

  Spring moved her glass out of the way, got up and went to sit next to her sister on the swing. She pushed off with one foot to get them swinging.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Summer bit her lip. “Cameron and I just had a fight. I think. He can be so infuriating. He acts like having money is some sort of curse. His ex-wife left him and went back to her uber-wealthy parents.”

  “His ex-wife?”

  Summer’s lip curled. “Melanie. Every time I think we’re making some progress, establishing a connection that could turn into something more, he says something to push me away. It’s like Melanie is sitting on his shoulder poking him. Then he makes these little jabs at me. It’s...it’s infuriating.”

  Spring smiled. “Yeah, I got that. Are you in love with him?”

  The gentle question startled Summer who fingered her rings and shook her head.

  “In love?” Summer parroted. “Now isn’t the time to talk about love. What I am is in confusion. I like him, but...”

  “But your head and heart are still with Garrett?”

  Summer turned stricken eyes toward her sister even as she rubbed the rings again. Spring noticed the gesture, and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders.

  “He’d want you to be happy, Summer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he loved you.”

  The Darling sisters sat in silence for a long time, enjoying the quiet company of each other in the warm sun. Summer knew that Spring understood her need for silence, for a contemplation of the day.

  After a while, Spring got up and went in the house. She returned with the pitcher of lemonade, topped off their glasses and then quietly asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Summer tucked one bare foot under her and reached for one of the throw pillows on the other side of the swing. Clutching it to her, she gave her sister a wan smile.

  “A little shaky,” she confessed. “Part of me can’t believe it’s been two years already. I miss him at odd times. Like when I took the car in to be serviced. Garrett always used to tell me, ‘Don’t let them cheat you.’ As if I knew anything about cars. That was his thing.”

  She gave a little shrug and plucked at the fringe on the pillow’s edging.

  “And sometimes,” she added, “I feel guilty because days or weeks go by and I haven’t thought about him.”

  She held out the rings before dropping the chain. “I think that’s why, even after seeing Cameron this morning, I came home and reached for...comfort. Part of me feels like seeing Cam means I’m forgetting Garrett.”

  “No, it’s called moving on,” Spring said reaching for and clasping her sister’s hand. “There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about. As a matter of fact, I think Garrett would like the new Summer.”

  Summer raised a brow at that. “The new Summer?”

  Spring nodded. “The one who laughs and smiles, goes out and embraces life.”

  Chewing on that thought, Summer remained silent for a few moments.

  “I took the car in for servicing this week—oil change, a tune-up, tire rotation, detailing...”

  “They must love to see you coming.”

  That crack earned a small smile.

  “...because I wanted to be ready in case I decide to go to Georgia.”

  “Georgia? For what?”

  “I was thinking about going to the cemetery to see him. On the anniversary. To leave flowers or...I don’t know.”

  After a moment, Spring said, “Summer, it’s a six-hour drive to Macon.”

  Summer frowned at her sister in irritation.

  “I tell you I’m about to hop in the car and go see my dead husband’s grave and your only response is that it takes six hours to get there?” Temper laced her words.

  Spring flashed a bright smile that was gone as quickly as it appeared.

  “Actually,” she said, “that was my fourth response. I edited the first three and verbalized the fourth.”

  Summer shook her head, the anger gone as quickly as it had come. “She of moderation and diplomacy.”

  “Two underrated virtues.”

  “Tell that to Autumn...or better yet, tell Winter,” Summer said. “So, I want to know, what were those three unspoken first responses?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Summer nodded.

  “Well, first up was...” Spring said, ticking off with a lifted finger, “‘Have you lost your mind?’ Since I didn’t think that was quite appropriate, it was quickly followed by, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’”

  “And the third?” Summer prompted her.

  “Third,” Spring said, “was ‘Garrett is gone, honey. A trip to his grave site might make you feel better, but are you going there to say goodbye again, or are you running away from what’s facing you right here, namely Chief Cameron Jackson?’”

  Summer made a face. “Okay, I see why you decided on option number four.”

  “And?” Spring said.

  “And what?”

  “And what’s the answer to that question?”

  Summer tossed the pillow aside, took a sip from her lemonade and placed the glass back in the cup holder built into the arm of the wooden swing.

  “Did you give up on pediatrics and switch to psychiatry?”

  Spring didn’t respond. She sat quietly, waiting for Summer to own up to her feelings. Summer knew the ploy well. Spring had used it before and it was as effective now as it was then.

  She sighed. “Sometimes I hate when you do that.”

  “Do what?” Spring asked, the picture of innocence. “I’m just sitting here enjoying the afternoon and a glass of lemonade with my sister.”

  “Exactly,” Summer said, exasperation making the word sound like a prosecutor nailing a trial witness on a key point. “You’re messing with my head.” She turned toward Spring then and softly added, “But thank you.”

  “For?”

  “For voicing the very question I’ve been reluctant to answer myself.”

  She cast distressed eyes at her older sister. “I like him,” she said. “I like him a lot, Spring. That it’s been two years since Garrett died seems...” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it seems like I shouldn’t be happy.”

  “‘I come that you might have life and have it more abundantly.’”

  Summer smiled. “John 10:10. That was one of Garrett’s favorite Scriptures.” She let out an unladylike snort. “T
he one he used to justify his little hobby that got him killed. He said he was just living an abundant life.”

  “And what about you, Summer. Are you living an abundant life?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cameron wished he had a date planned for the evening. But Summer wasn’t answering his calls or text messages. It was Wednesday and he’d taken to spending a few hours at Manna at Common Ground. Yes, he did the volunteer work because Summer Spencer was there. But in the weeks that they’d been seeing each other he found he enjoyed the time spent interacting with the people who came to Manna for sustenance.

  Specifically people like the homeless man known only as Sweet Willie.

  Summer never called him that—she called him Brother Willie—but everyone else had taken to the nickname that the man said he’d been called his entire life.

  Although Cameron wasn’t sure if Summer would welcome his presence at Manna tonight, he wasn’t going to leave the volunteers shorthanded because he’d had a disagreement with her.

  “Been seeing a lot of you here these days,” Sweet Willie told Cameron. After placing a fresh basket of rolls in the center of the table, Cameron took the empty seat at the end of the table near the elderly black man.

  Elderly, Cameron realized, may not have actually been correct. The man was stoop-shouldered but tall, a fact that was evident even while sitting. His brown skin didn’t have the wear of time, and his eyes were sharp. Like he was constantly on watch, taking in everything around him.

  Most of the older men who ate meals at Manna before shuffling off to the shelter had rheumy eyes or the gloss of cataracts.

  “I like giving back to the community,” Cameron said.

  Sweet Willie chuckled. “I think you like Miz Spencer, too.”

  Cameron gave a little chuckle.

  “That, I do,” he admitted. He might not admit it to Mickey or even to himself, but the truth always came out when he talked to this man.

  “She’s a good woman. And a fine cook. Ain’t bad to look at, neither.”

  That earned an outright laugh from Cameron. “You’re right about that, Sweet Willie. Where are you from?” he asked. “Originally, I mean?”

  The older man shrugged. “Oh, here and there. Spent some time in Virginia and up in New York. Had to get outta there, though. Them people crazy.” Sweet Willie reached for his coffee mug and glanced at Cameron. “I been noticing a few things around town,” he said.

  “A few things like what?”

  A squabble one table over drew Cameron’s attention for a moment. The dispute, between two men over a salt shaker, was resolved when Summer appeared and handed each man a pair of salt and pepper shakers. He smiled.

  When Cameron turned his full attention back to Sweet Willie, he found the man regarding him with what seemed to be unwarranted intensity. The gut instinct that Cameron relied on kicked into overdrive. He sat up a little straighter and repeated the question. “A few things around town like what, Willie?”

  The man pursed his lips. Cameron waited.

  “I’m telling you this,” Sweet Willie said, “’cause I been watching you. You’re a straight shooter, Chief Cam, and that can’t be said ’bout everybody. You need to keep your eyes open.”

  “Am I looking for something in particular?”

  The man looked to his left and then his right as if spies might be eavesdropping on their conversation. Cameron began to wonder if maybe Willie was delusional. He didn’t know anything about the man or his background. Just that he showed up for the occasional meal at the soup kitchen.

  Cameron knew the statistics on mental illness among the homeless. Maybe Sweet Willie was one of them. Paranoia and delusional thoughts were common.

  His next words dispelled the notion that mental illness was factoring in to the man’s actions.

  “Things ain’t what they seem over on Elmhurst,” Sweet Willie murmured.

  Hackles rose on Cameron’s arms. That was one of three addresses in Cedar Springs that he and the police chief suspected had been targeted by an organized criminal gang from Raleigh. They had no proof and no probable cause, so for now they were, as Sweet Willie said, keeping an eye out.

  “What do you know about that street?” he asked the man, his voice as low as Sweet Willie’s.

  “Not a lot,” the old man said. “Just enough to know things ain’t right.”

  Whether the ramblings of a delusional homeless man or the astute observation of someone who spent most of his time on the streets, Cameron could appreciate and respect the man’s desire to alert the authorities to something he considered amiss.

  Cameron patted the man on the shoulder. “Okay, Willie. I’ll take that advice. Will you do me a favor?” he asked, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a business card. He scribbled a number on the back. “Here’s my card,” he told the homeless man. “And on the back is my cell number. Twenty-four/seven,” he said. “You see any trouble while you’re out and about, you call me. Anytime. Any day. Okay?”

  The man nodded, accepted the proffered card and tucked it into a pocket on the patched-over jacket he wore despite the warm summer temperature.

  “You a good man, Chief Cam. You a good man.”

  “You be careful out there, Willie.”

  The old man smiled and Cameron was struck at how much younger Sweet Willie looked when he did so. “Always do.”

  * * *

  “Hmm,” Summer said shortly before they would bid good-night to the final guests. The dining room was almost cleared out and volunteers would soon be in to clean and prepare the tables for the next meal.

  “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” Cameron asked.

  “So it is.”

  “I’m sorry for the other day,” he said. “I have some lingering issues I need to work out.”

  The simple apology was the best he had to offer.

  She smiled at him. “Accepted. Just remember, Cameron. I’m not your ex-wife.”

  “Noted.”

  “If you’re not busy, I’d love for you to come to second Sunday dinner at my mom’s.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d be honored.”

  “And,” she said, “that was a connecting-the-dots ‘hmm’ from me.”

  “What dots need to be connected?”

  “Vanessa Gerard, one of our longtime volunteers.”

  “Yes, I know her,” Cameron said.

  “I saw you talking to Brother Willie earlier, and it reminded me.”

  “Of?” Cameron prompted.

  “She told me she thought Sweet Willie was following her the other night.”

  Cameron glanced over at the table where he’d been sitting and talking to the man earlier. He was gone now, had probably shuffled off to either the restroom, the homeless shelter or wherever he sought shelter at night.

  “Following her where? He has a car?”

  “A car? I don’t know. Not following her like outside, but watching her. Here at Manna. She said it was kind of intense. Like he wanted to talk to her or warn her about something. But that’s crazy,” Summer added. “She doesn’t even know him except to see him here.”

  That made Cameron wonder about his own odd encounter with the man.

  “I think I know what the problem is,” Summer said.

  Cameron raised an eyebrow in question.

  “He’s lonely,” Summer said. “We provide physical sustenance here at Manna. But for many, their time here eating a meal might be the only social interaction they have with other people.”

  “I think I’m witnessing the birth and development of a new Manna at Common Ground outreach program.”

  Summer gave him a playful jab. “Maybe not just here at M
anna, but across the Common Ground spectrum. Think about it,” she said. “Here at Manna we offer food, Bible study, warmth in the winter, air conditioning in the summer, but that’s it. The shelter provides a clean bed and a place to shower, but beyond that, it’s somewhat isolated, in terms of social interaction.”

  She was staring over his shoulder and Cameron knew that ideas and scenarios were running through her head: how it could work, what they might need and the like.

  “You know what?” Summer said. “I’m going to chat with Mrs. Davidson about this and see what we can legally do.”

  “Don’t you mean with Ilsa Keller?”

  She cut her eyes at him.

  He held up his hands as if surrendering, then sidestepped that land mine.

  “All because you think Sweet Willie is lonely?”

  Summer shook her head. “No. Because I think he’s probably not the only one of our guests who could use a friend.”

  Cameron continued serving the remaining Manna guests and praying with two of them, the men who had been arguing over the salt shaker.

  While Summer was conjuring up a new outreach ministry for Common Ground, Cameron was wondering if the city needed to find a way to use the observations of people like Sweet Willie—who were out on the streets all the time—to assist in law enforcement and emergency management.

  There was a resource not being tapped. He hoped he’d hear from Willie.

  * * *

  Two days later, Mickey Flynn died of pancreatic cancer at Duke University Medical Center in Durham.

  Cameron got the call during the weekly division chiefs’ meeting. He bowed his head and remained quiet for several moments. Then he shared the news with his command staff, some of whom had trained under Mickey.

  “I’m sorry, Chief,” Dave Marsh, his second-in-command, said. “I know the two of you were close.”

  Cameron let Summer know via a text message, then went to take care of what needed to be done up in Durham.

  When he returned to Cedar Springs that night, the silver Mercedes-Benz he knew to be Summer’s was parked at the curb in front of his house. Summer was sound asleep in the front seat.

  He tapped on the window and she startled awake.