Rescue and Redemption: Park City Firefighter Romance

by Daniel Banner

  JFK wasn’t going to let that offer pass. “Well you already said you’re out for Pineapple’s and you don’t want to try my excellent home brew.”

  “Wow, you’re a barrel of monkeys for a sober girl to be around.”

  “Barrel of monkeys?” asked JFK. “What’s that even mean?”

  “Sorry,” said Mercy. “Great Granny Jewell used to say that. I think it means lots of fun.”

  “Looks like the only option is our annual firefighter awards banquet. Day after tomorrow.”

  “Formal?”

  “Yeah, full Class A uniforms for us guys and formal dresses for the ladies.” Such a fancy event wasn’t really the place for a first date was it? Then again, it wasn’t a real date. A woman like Mercy and a guy like him didn’t go out on real dates.

  “Sounds fun,” said Mercy. “As long as we can make fun of the guys who take their big formal hats too seriously.”

  “Oh, we’ll be making fun of everything all night. The awards are all arbitrary and made up just so day workers and chiefs can pat each other on the back. Oh, and the jokes on you because you won’t find a bigger group of drunks in Park City than at a firefighter party.”

  Mercy’s eyebrows dipped in the middle and she leaned back. “I try not to be all holier-than-thou, but I’m serious about sobriety.”

  Dang it, JFK, why don’t you just hold her down and pour liquor into her mouth? “Bad joke,” said JFK. “I … don’t have a filter between my brain and my mouth. The good news is, this is Utah. The teetotaler delegation is strong, even among firemen.”

  Mercy smiled again. “There are different diagnoses that the lack of a filter plays into.”

  “So you understand that I’m going to offend you and those you love once in a while?” He didn’t think he ever cared that he might offend people before, but for the first time in his life, he was actually a little worried about it now.

  “When my life gets too perfect, I get bored,” admitted Mercy. “You’ll never beat me in a contest of who’s more screwed up.”

  JFK seriously doubted that. But the brownie corps was out of brownies. “You’re on,” he told her, “but for now I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Unless you have at least five years of ice cream scooping experience.”

  “Nope,” said Mercy, putting her hands up. “But I do have an army of volunteers I need to check up on.”

  “Good, because it’s ice cream time and I can’t have you distracting me during such a critical juncture in the day’s events.”

  “I’ll catch you before we go and give you my number.” She left with a smile, and with JFK’s eyes trailing after her.

  Oh, Mercy. I am in love.

  JFK didn’t know if that was just talking to himself, or a prayer, or her name running around his head in vain. What he did know was it would hurt when she finally let him down.

  Oh, Mercy.

  Chapter

  The day after the Homecooked Holidays event, Mercy got a text from an unknown number.

  Hey it’s JFK. We still on for tmw?

  Perfect. She’d been kicking herself in the butt for not getting his name after asking like ten times. She replied, idk anyone named JFK. Then before he could even try it, she sent another text. Or Chef.

  There was no response for about ten minutes. Then, it’s the guy you agreed to go on a date with

  Name?

  You won’t believe me

  Try me.

  100% honest, my mom let the sperm donor, I mean biological father, name me Sue.

  That was just too farfetched. Wasn’t it? Like the Johnny Cash song?

  Exactly. And you are the only living person who knows that. I’ll show you my old birth certificate if you need proof. I dropped the first name when I turned 18

  There was no way. You’re yanking my chain.

  I swear it on my chef hat. And I’m not just trying to win the who’s more screwed up contest.

  So have you always gone by JFK?

  Again it took him a while to reply. He simply said, No.

  I’ll call you whatever you want me to, but I just want to know your real name.

  It couldn’t be worse than Sue.

  Call me JFK. My name’s Amos. I wish I would have changed it when I dropped Sue.

  Amos? That wasn’t too bad. But it was obviously hard for him to tell her. She replied, Very biblical.

  Yeah, until you change it to Anus. Which every single one of my stepdads/mom’s boyfriends did.

  His stepdads? All of them? How many did he have? And what man in his right mind would call a boy that and how did his mom find multiple men who would mentally abuse a child like that?

  Before she could arrange her thoughts into a response, he texted again.

  So, hey, it’s JFK. We still on for tmw?

  You bet. What time?

  Pick you up at 6:30. They’re serving dinner.

  She sent a thumbs up emoji and didn’t hear anything back. He didn’t seem like the same playful guy from the day before and she wondered if it had been a fluke. His kitchen demeanor or something. Most likely he didn’t like talking about the name thing. She felt bad for pushing him, and also surprised that he’d told her that much. Somehow she knew he’d been telling the truth.

  Mercy spent the next day as she spent most of her time since graduating three weeks before—looking for jobs and filling out résumés. Every minute dragged on and it seemed like it would never be time to put on her formal dress and go out. Between catching up on failed classes from her dark days and putting more into her internships than required, Mercy hadn’t had much time for a social life. She could count the dates she’d been on in the last two years on one hand. One finger, actually. Over the two years before that, life had been a constant stream of parties and dates, most of which she couldn’t even remember and probably didn’t want to.

  With her makeup she went a little easy—dark red, almost black lipstick, mascara, and winged eyeliner that came off both sides in sharp points. That and a little bit of pale foundation. The only good lighting in the small, basement apartment was on her makeup mirror, but what she saw in the full-sized mirror hanging on the back of her door seemed like it would do.

  Six-thirty arrived. Finally. No sign of JFK. She double-checked the address she’d sent him. It was correct and she’d even been very clear about the stairway on the side of the house that led to her tiny, downstairs apartment. She resisted the urge to ask him where the heck he was.

  At six-forty she finally saw lights play at the top of her narrow stairwell. Showing up late for their first date without even calling to warn her, he might as well just pull up and honk. A lot of the things her family had always done growing up seemed pointless and puritanical, but manners had been bred deep into the Jewell extended family. If JFK wanted more than a casual date here and there, he’d have to figure that out, and quick.

  The doorbell rang and Mercy remained hidden for a count of ten before reaching for the door. No need to let him know she’d been staring out the window for the last half an hour.

  There he stood looking incredibly handsome in his dark, fancy suit, shiny buttons, silver cords around the wrists, and badge over his heart. First a chef, now a fireman. She almost felt like he was just indulging her fantasies. The suit fit tightly. He’d definitely grown into it since first buying it. And while he could stand to lose a few pounds, she could practically feel the raw strength pouring off of him. The big, burly, Tarzan before hibernation look.

  JFK spoke first. “You look … amazing. That dress …. Wow.”

  She looked down at her dress, black with some shimmery blue woven into the bodice. It was sleeveless and form fitting up top, with a thick high belt, then frilly and bunched from the waist on. It was hi-lo hem, short in the front almost to her knees, but nearly touching the floor in the back.

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Mercy. “It’s the only formal I own. Great Granny would call it my Sunday go to meetin’ dress. Then she’d drape a shawl over my
shoulders.”

  “I love how it shows off your tats.”

  Mercy held out her arm and displayed the 360 of her sleeve tattoo. It was a bit of a patchwork jumble, rather than a coordinated theme, but she’d accepted the fact that she herself was a bit of a patchwork jumble.

  “Which shoes should I wear?” asked Mercy, holding up one black platform heel and one combat boot

  “You’re asking my opinion on shoes?” He looked authentically surprised. “Sorry, but I’m going to need my man card later tonight. You’re on your own.”

  “You won’t be embarrassed if I wear combat boots?”

  “Embarrassed? I’m the ugly dorky kid showing up to the ball with the school hottie. I don’t even understand the question.”

  “Boots it is. Come in.” Was it suddenly hot in her place?

  Sitting in a chair that faced away from where he stood at the door, she asked, “Where are your white gloves and goofy hat?”

  “No gloves,” said JFK. “That’s for the honor guard guys. And I left my hat in the car. After what you said yesterday I decided to put it on after we arrive. That way you can’t change your mind.”

  Mercy stood and even with the boots she was still inches shorter than JFK.

  “Thanks for not making me fly solo tonight,” he told her.

  It seemed like a strange thing to say. She thought they were on a date, together, as in mutually beneficial, not doing him some sort of favor. Did he think she owed him something and was coming out of pity?

  Wait, men were strange animals, and the guys she was attracted to tended to be even further out there than the norm.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Let’s do this,” said JFK and walked out the door. Apparently he wasn’t going to offer her an arm because he was already halfway up the stairs. And apparently he didn’t plan on opening her door because he went right to his side of the big pickup and climbed in before Mercy had even made it to the passenger side door.

  Mercy stood there, glancing around for a hidden camera or waiting for him to start laughing and say he’d been joking. The truck started up and diesel fumes filled her parking spot at the edge of the driveway. After what felt like minutes of shivering in the freezing January air, but had to be a fraction of that, the passenger-side window opened.

  “Everything okay?” asked JFK.

  She studied his face. There was no sign of joking or mockery.

  Mercy considered calling the whole thing off and going back inside, but she believed in second chances and people changing for the better.

  Calmly, but loud enough to be heard over the engine, she said, “You realize you’re supposed to open the door for me, right?”

  “Is the handle broken?”

  They stared at each other for a bit, then he leaned across and opened the truck door from the inside.

  Mercy shook her head and rolled her eyes behind closed lids. “Not like that. Like a gentleman.”

  The word didn’t seem to register.

  “Manners?” she added and pushed the door closed.

  “Oh.” He suddenly seemed nervous as he popped his seatbelt and scrambled out of the truck.

  He seriously hadn’t known that. Like, for real, how did a man reach mid-20s and not know that? If it had been a simple lapse in memory or even nerves that would be one thing, but he really didn’t know. Was that even possible?

  “Sorry,” he said as he reached for the handle and pulled the door open. No hand offered, no arm to help her climb up into the tall cab, but Mercy made it slowly on her own and pulled the gown out of the way of the door.

  “Do I close it or do you?” he asked, again with no mocking in his voice.

  “You do,” she said. “After you make sure I’m clear.”

  JFK checked her feet, hands, and dress, then double checked before closing the door. Through the open window she heard him swear under his breath before going around to his own side.

  That was weird, and Mercy had to remind herself she’d only seen this guy once, and only talked to him for maybe fifteen minutes and that he bordered on rude and uncaring at times and she had no idea if it was all an act. And what kind of guy didn’t jump at a chance to be on the news after saving a life?

  Emily and Uncle Dom would have warned her if she was making a huge mistake, right? Of course, they probably didn’t know she was his date tonight, but they should be at the event. So she just had to make it to the ball or ceremony or whatever he’d called it without getting murdered and buried in the snow. Wait, was there really an awards ceremony? Or was that completely fabricated?

  “Where’s the event?” she asked after JFK had climbed in and started backing out.

  “The Hilton, downtown.”

  He turned the right direction, and she’d know within about ten minutes whether her life was in danger. JFK was a lot bigger and stronger than her, but Mercy had more fight in her than a lot of people gave her credit for. She wasn’t wearing anything that could be used as a weapon, like stiletto heels or a long sharp hair pin. Glancing around the cab of the truck, she didn’t see anything she could defend herself with. Had he planned that?

  Calm down, girl. That was good advice. Just because he didn’t know he was supposed to open a door on a formal date didn’t make him a murderous sociopath. Sociopath maybe, but murderous was taking it too far.

  They talked about the New Year’s event and asked each other if they planned on being involved with Homecooked Holidays in the future, but neither of them had really decided yet. When the conversation dipped, he turned on some quiet music. It was Jack White, one of Mercy’s all-time favorites, but the connection had seriously faltered, and she didn’t say anything about the music.

  JFK drove straight to the Hilton, parked and climbed out of the truck and Mercy breathed a small sigh of relief. When he headed toward the building instead of coming around to her side of the truck, she slapped her forehead with a hand. Was he unable to learn one simple manners maneuver?

  It didn’t take him as long to notice she wasn’t coming and he came to her door and pulled it open. “Am I supposed to open it for you here too?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “and offer me a hand to so I can get out of here without flashing my goods to all of creation.”

  “Oh.” He held out a hand, but didn’t seem certain where to look so his eyes went to her face, then to their joined hands, then her knees, which jolted him back up to her eyes.

  “Can I ask you a serious question?” she said when she was firmly on the ground.

  He’d dropped her hand as soon as she didn’t need his support any longer. “Sure.”

  “How do you not know that it’s good manners to open a lady’s door?

  Automatically JFK shrugged. His mouth moved and she could hear sounds from the back of his throat as if he was about to start speaking. It seemed as if he had a lot to say but ended up saying nothing.

  “JFK, manners are important to me.” She stopped them before they reached the building. “I’m not extreme, I mean I don’t expect you to order my meals at restaurants, and I won’t throw a salt-shaker at your forehead if you put an elbow on the table, but it’s important.”

  All he said was, “Okay.”

  They started forward again, approaching the hotel from a smaller side entrance and not the main entrance with automatic doors.

  JFK sped up to take a small lead over her, and she thought he’d figured out at least this small part. But instead of pulling the door and holding it for her, he walked through the open door, then held it from the inside.

  He really didn’t know, but he was trying. That would be enough, for a while.

  “Wanna hear something funny?” she asked, taking his arm because he obviously wasn’t going to offer. “In the truck I was wondering if you were going to take me to a remote area and chop me up into little pieces.”

  JFK grunted. “I’m not good at being nice. I told you I’d offend you and your ancestors and your offspring. So far I’ve never
chopped any dates up into bite-sized pieces, though. So far.”

  “Who said anything about bite-sized?” asked Mercy. “I said little pieces.”

  “Why would I chop you into tiny pieces if I didn’t intend to eat you?” asked JFK with a smirk.

  “Well if you ever want to have the chance to do so, start opening doors for girls. It’ll give them a false sense of security.” Maybe a playful attitude was the way to convince him.

  Signs directed them to a reception lobby full of men in fancy uniforms with women in formals at their side. A large Park City Fire Department logo hung on the wall in front of which couples were taking pictures. Some hors d’oeuvre tables were stacked high with chips and dips but mostly people seemed intent on talking. Based on the smiles on faces and the number of people laughing, everyone seemed to know each other and sincerely enjoy each other’s company.

  Another firefighter came up behind JFK and slapped him on the butt. “You’re really making that suit work tonight, man.” The blonde woman at his side smiled at Mercy.

  “At least I can lose weight,” replied JFK. “There’s no cure for ugly.”

  “Too bad you got that going on too.”

  “What can I say? I’m an overachiever.”

  The couple wandered off toward the photo op area.

  “Who was that?” asked Mercy.

  “JJ. We went through training together.”

  “You, uh …” Mercy considered how much she should try to instill manners. Weren’t introductions as basic as opening doors? If it hadn’t been for the door incidents, she would think he was embarrassed of her or something. The night had become a big drag, and what made it worse was she’d been so excited for it. What girl didn’t want to dig out her formal dress she hadn’t worn for years, and go out with a good looking guy, and try out a new promising relationship?

  “That’s just normal fireman banter,” explained JFK.

  “Oh,” said Mercy. Forget it. She was a date, not an etiquette coach.

  As a group, the people milling in the lobby moved toward the banquet room. JFK and Mercy followed. About 100 people were settling in around tables. At the front of the room a podium was set up.