Rescue and Redemption: Park City Firefighter Romance

by Daniel Banner

  “Over there,” pointed JFK, then he started winding his way toward a table at the far corner of the room. As he went he fist-bumped a few people and made sneering comments at others. Mercy was left to follow him through the maze as the people he greeted looked her up and down. Some nodded greeting, others made comments under their breath to their dates. If Mercy had just stood there, he would have made it all the way to the table without realizing she wasn’t behind him.

  The table had two empty chairs, both with their backs to the podium. Mercy noticed a few of the faces including Uncle Dom, Emily, the big buff guy from the kitchen and his tall, gorgeous wife. Oh, and Poppy, her contact point at the Homecooked event.

  JFK took a seat, and said, “I hardly recognize you people when you’re not wearing blue.”

  For a second, Mercy stood there and considered making a scene again until he got up and at least made a gesture of getting her chair for her. Was he even worth the effort? Maybe not, but she was. He’d disrespected her enough for one night and she was not a doormat. Two years and three days ago maybe. Probably. But it was time to be true to herself.

  Everyone at the table looked up at Mercy. No one spoke. Even JFK looked up at her with that same clueless look from the truck. It was ignorance, not purposeful slight, but as she’d told him, manners were important for her.

  Uncle Dom was the first to act. From the far side of the table he got up and practically ran around the table. The other two guys stood respectfully, and JFK just kept looking around like there was an inside joke going on that he wasn’t part of. Uncle Dom smoothly slid her chair out and Mercy finally took her seat as he helped slide it in.

  “Thank you, Uncle D,” whispered Mercy.

  The other two men sat and Dom made his way back around to his seat.

  JFK was looking back and forth between Mercy and Uncle Dom. “Are you, like, disabled? Or did I screw it up again?”

  Ouch. Mercy was too close to tears to answer. She couldn’t believe it; it was almost like she was being set up or pranked. Could that be it? It seemed extremely unlikely. Once again, she reminded herself that he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

  The big guy said, “You screwed it up. Bad.”

  Emily told Mercy, “You’ll have to excuse JFK. He wasn’t raised in a barn, he was raised in the outhouse back behind the barn. We’ll work on him, I promise.” She looked over at Uncle Dom. “Right?”

  Uncle Dom was giving JFK a serious stink eye. The only thing he looked like he’d help JFK with was finding his way out the door if he kept treating his niece like that. Mercy knew Uncle Dom good enough to know that he’d defend any woman like that. As she scanned the table, she noticed the other three women there wore corsages.

  The other guy at the table, a handsome lean guy, told Mercy, “I’ve known him for over a year, and I’m still baffled by his complete lack of couth.”

  “Couth?” countered JFK. “Now you’re just making up words.”

  How soon would this be over? It’d been some time since she’d gone on a first date, and even longer since she’d gone on one she was this excited about. It had been bad enough when it was just the two of them, but now there were plenty of witnesses, including people she knew.

  Yep, she thought, this officially sucks.

  Chapter

  Things were not going well. In fact, JFK couldn’t remember doing so poorly at anything in a very long time as he was doing on this date tonight.

  Not that it was a real date and he had any sort of chance with Mercy, but even on a friend-zone level, he was the worst ever. The guys always gave each other a hard time at the station, but now even their wives—Dom included—were mad-dogging him. Just because he didn’t help Mercy sit down? Was it really that big of a deal? How hard was it to sit down?

  JFK stole a glance at his gorgeous date. Man, he could look at her all night and all day.

  Yeah, it was a big deal to help her sit down. She’d told him so. But JFK didn’t know how to do any of that chivalry crap, so why even try? He’d just end up making a fool of himself. Of course, could that be worse than feeling like a steaming pile of crap?

  He hated feeling like this. He needed something to make fun of. Dom was always a good target. “You decided to let Emily wear the dress, Dom?”

  Emily was wearing a fancy red dress and Dom was wearing his pilot uniform. They actually blended pretty well with the rest of the group. The other female firefighters in the room had opted for dresses as well, but all of their husbands just wore regular suits, making them blend in more with the day workers, secretaries, and IT people.

  Dom was not amused. They both knew JFK was not good enough for Mercy, and Dom wasn’t about to just let the chair thing go. “How about some introductions?” said Dom.

  Oh. Yeah, he probably should have thought of that. “Pointing at each person around the table, he said, “Quad C, Sage, Emily, Dom, Powers, and Poppy. Everyone, this is Mercy.”

  He dug in, ready for the barrage of insults about them being an odd couple. How’d you get her to feel sorry enough for you to go out with you? What are you holding over her head? It’s like the supermodel agreeing to go to the prom with the nerd.

  Poppy, sitting next to Mercy, said, “It’s so great to formally meet you. What do you do?”

  “I just graduated,” said Mercy, and some of her earlier excitement came back.

  A round of congratulations came from the table and Sage asked, “What did you study?”

  “Business Management with an emphasis on Non-profits.”

  “Really?” asked Poppy. Her smile was big and brilliant. “I run a non-profit. Two Heart Rescue, it’s a no-kill all animal shelter.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing,” said Mercy. “You know anyone who’s hiring?”

  “Hm. Not off the top of my head, but I’ll put feelers out.”

  Powers spoke up. “What about that new position you guys are adding?”

  “It’s only part time,” said Poppy. “Barely pays more than minimum wage.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Mercy excitedly.

  “Really?” asked Poppy. “I was going to post it tomorrow, but if you’re interested come by tomorrow and we can chat.”

  “What time?” asked Mercy hungrily.

  “Noon?”

  “I’ll be there with my muck boots on.”

  Poppy wasn’t the only non-profit connection at the table. JFK said, “Powers, what about your nerdy grant business?” Mercy was finally into the evening and he wanted to have at least a small part in that.

  “I was going to mention that,” Powers said. “I’ve been thinking about hiring an assistant, but it’s not a done deal yet. If you need help writing up a résumé or researching non-profits, I’ll be glad to help.”

  “Yes!” said Mercy. “Wow, you guys are great.”

  “You thought the Jewell family was close,” said Dom. “These guys really step up for each other.”

  Quad C added, “When we’re not too busy stepping on each other anyway.”

  A server approached the table and asked if she could get everyone something to drink.

  “I’ll have a beer,” said JFK, pointing to the bottle in front of Dom.

  “Actually,” said Dom, “if you wouldn’t mind taking this, I’ll go with water.”

  Oh crap. Mercy’s sobriety. “Uh, me too,” said JFK. To Mercy he muttered, “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Water for me too,” she told the server.

  When the server left, carrying Dom’s half-full bottle, Mercy told them both, “You don’t have to baby me.” To the rest of the table she explained, “I’m in recovery. Got my two-year coin two days ago.” She pinched her coin pendant.

  A small round of applause and more congratulations came from the group.

  Mercy told Poppy, “If that changes things with the job interview, I get it.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Poppy. “I respect your strength.”

  JFK had stepped in it again, and, once
again, Dom and his perfect manners had stepped right over it and to the rescue. Was there any way to keep up with him? Maybe he’d give JFK some pointers. Or more like a ten-week, intensive class on manners. JFK didn’t have anything against chivalry, he just didn’t know how to do it. The only girl he’d spent time around over the last couple of years was Emily, and she was as likely to burp at the dinner table as any of them. And it was fine. That was life in the fire station. No one wanted her to be a girl or a woman, just to be one of the guys and do a d—dangerously good job.

  Anything JFK did tonight was likely to be wrong. He just wanted the night to be over. It was bad enough squeezing into a suit that fit him seven years ago, and was now seven sizes too small, but to fail so badly with his hot date was torture. He was about to say something about the girly flower on Quad C’s lapel when the fire chief stepped up to the podium and announced that dinner would be first, then they’d get into the year-in-review video and awards.

  It was going to be a long night, and he didn’t even have a drink to take the edge off.

  Chapter

  Conversation over dinner was relatively bland and safe, and JFK made it through without embarrassing himself any further. Mostly he just stayed quiet. Once the program started, it was easier because everyone turned their focus to the podium. They showed a year-in-review video with short clips of firefighters talking about how heroic firefighters are, some video of training fires, and pictures of various crews on calls set to music.

  The fire chief gave a rah-rah speech and then the awards started. Emily got the Medal of Action for showing up on a scene where a cyclist had gone through the windshield of a car. She had stabilized the scene and worked out an extrication plan before the first unit had even arrived, all while making sure the patient’s C-spine stayed inline to prevent further injury.

  When she got back to the table, she pointed at JFK and said, “This one will be yours next year for your amazing Heimlich.”

  JFK couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not so he erred on the side of mockery. “Funny. You saved a guy from becoming a quadriplegic and ran a scene of like twenty firefighters. I protected a woman from ham.”

  “I’m serious,” said Emily. “Your story got way more news coverage than mine did.”

  “No,” said JFK, “I’m not the kind of guy who gets awards. Those are for the rest of you who look good with metal hanging on your uniform.”

  “What’s that one for?” asked Mercy, pointing at the small red and white bar above his badge.

  “My partner,” JFK sneered at Powers, “got himself trapped underneath a semi-truck and a ladder truck. So we all got awards.”

  “You guys rescued him though?”

  “Not really,” said JFK in all honesty. “The heavy rescue team did most of the work. This whole award ceremony is a lottery—the crew who happens to get the right call gets the award. The rest of us just come for beer and free food. I mean free food.”

  Chief Thomkins, a battalion chief was at the podium, ready to present another award. It went to Engine 4, C Platoon for a fire they put out in a cabin.

  As the engine crew walked back toward their table, which was right next to JFK’s crew’s table, Suarez, one of the Engine 4 C firefighters paused in front of JFK and held up his medal which matched JFK’s. “Out with the old, in with the new, sucker.”

  JFK and Suarez had never really gotten along. “Oh, you did your job. Congratulations. You pulled a hose and sprayed water.”

  “Like you guys did last year on the Powers call?” countered Suarez.

  “Exactly. You did what any one of us would do in that situation.”

  “What anyone would do a situation?” asked Suarez, his voice a little slurred. “Like pulling out a chair for your date?”

  Oh great.

  “Yeah, everyone in here saw that.”

  “Shut up, Suarez. Mind your own business.” JFK turned back toward his table.

  “Don’t cry about it, you big baby.”

  That was too much. JFK shot out of his chair and came face to face with Suarez. Just like everyone had seen him leave Mercy hanging, half the room had seen Suarez try to establish dominance over JFK, and he couldn’t take that. He was mad enough to fight, and with so many people around it wouldn’t get far enough for anyone to get hurt too bad.

  A hand wrapped around JFK’s and he looked down to see Mercy holding his hand and looking up at him. Had he done something else wrong? Shamed his date somehow simply by standing up for himself? She obviously didn’t want him to fight, but she didn’t give him any indication of what she did want him to do.

  The entire evening had been a fail, ever since they left Mercy’s house.

  JFK said quietly to her, “Is it alright if we leave?” A couple of awards still needed to be handed out, but JFK didn’t want to be there any longer.

  “Sure,” said Mercy. She smiled at everyone around the table.

  Dom started to stand but JFK didn’t want to be shown up any more so he awkwardly pulled Mercy’s chair out for her and somehow managed not to knock her over in the process. Instead of weaving through the tables, they went wide along the edges of the room and out into the reception lobby.

  Walking out was bad enough, but walking out with a woman who was so far out of his league made it worse. Everyone in the room knew they were mismatched and he wouldn’t hear the end of it for years to come.

  “Sorry about that,” said JFK slowing down so Mercy could catch up with him. He’d considered apologizing for everything specifically he’d done wrong all night, but he wasn’t even sure what that was. His first date with a super-attractive woman and he’d blown it in spectacular fashion.

  Mercy just shrugged and they walked to the door in silence. He opened it and held it for her and she followed him out. At his truck this time he opened the door for her and she thanked him and climbed up. As he walked around to his side he realized he hadn’t helped her up or offered her a hand. Why did it have to be so complicated?

  They started driving toward her place and she said, “Wasn’t Uncle Dom on a date with Emily when that bicyclist went through the window?”

  “Yeah,” said JFK. “He probably should have gotten an award too, but we’re all about patting ourselves on the back. We’re the heroes. No one else.”

  “Are you really going to get that award next year?”

  “I don’t know. If I’m with the same crew, Quad C will probably nominate me, but if I have a different captain at the time, it can probably be kept quiet.”

  She was watching him curiously and as streetlamps passed he caught glimpses of her and still couldn’t believe she’d gone out on an actual date with him. The fact that he’d messed everything up didn’t surprise him, but the fact that she was there with him at all was inconceivable. The woman of his dreams was sitting in his passenger seat, at least for the next five minutes or so.

  “You really don’t care about that award do you? Or being on the news or any sort of recognition?”

  JFK shrugged and tried to think of a reason why he would care. “What good is it?”

  Mercy shrugged back at him. “Some people are motivated by that. Driven even.”

  “Not me,” said JFK. “I don’t need a trophy room or a wall of plaques.” Any awards he got were lies anyway. JFK didn’t have any delusions of not being worthless. He hadn’t put the pin from the award last year on his uniform until Quad C had ordered him to.

  Mercy asked, “So what does motivate you to be the hero and master chef that you are.”

  “The chef part is easy,” he replied automatically, trying to keep the conversation from getting too serious. “I’m a fat kid, and I like to eat good food.” It was true that he did like to eat good food, but it wasn’t what drove him as a chef. He liked for other people to eat high quality food; it made them happy almost without fail.

  “You’re pretty thoughtful over there,” said Mercy. “That’s not all of it, is it?”

  JFK wasn’t going to
open up and start telling her all of his cheesy feelings. He’d already looked like a big enough idiot in front of her.

  But she was staring at him, and when he glanced over and caught a glimpse of her perfect face with that dark lipstick and the pointy little makeup on the edges of her eyes, and the tattoos that said she didn’t care what other people thought of her, he was powerless. He was a tape player and she’d just pushed Play.

  “There’s a camaraderie around the fire station. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, or maybe you saw a little bit of it tonight. We put our lives in each other’s hands.” Where was he going with this? He should just shut up now. But his mouth opened and words just kept coming out. “That doesn’t happen naturally. It builds up through a thousand small experiences. I know they appreciate a quality meal that all six of us can gather around and spend family time together. On any given day, any one of us could phone-in dinner and throw a frozen lasagna in the oven, or dump a can of spaghetti sauce on top of overcooked noodles. I not only take the time, but I have the skill to give them a four-star experience even though we’re a bunch of dumb blue-collar guys. That means something.”

  So much for not opening up. So much for trying to retain a shred of manliness. Sheesh.

  “That’s not a lot different when it comes to sponsors in AA,” said Mercy. “Just because you exchange phone numbers doesn’t mean they can rely on you. It’s answering the daily phone call every single day. It’s remembering important sobriety benchmarks. It’s just listening and wishing you knew what to say. It’s praying for each them. All of that adds up. Throw some food in the mix and you augment the power of those thousand interactions.”

  “It’s in our genes,” said JFK. “When I started culinary school we did a whole section on how food and providing food dates back to cavemen coming out of their caves.” That was really obvious and stupid. He was horrible at this deep conversation crap. And yet, his mouth just wouldn’t stop. “I just can’t bring myself to throw a can of chili in some generic mac and cheese and serve it to people I like. Not in the fire station. Not for the few surviving members of the Greatest Generation.”