by Shirley Jump
“I had no idea this many people would show up,” Harris said.
Jack grinned. “That’s the kind of town Stone Gap is. Ernie’s Hardware is donating a bunch of supplies so we can get started right away. My mom said you were talking about holding a fund-raiser to drum up the rest of the money we need to finish the project. She said she’s on board for whatever you want to do.”
“That’s fabulous. Truly.”
Jack looked at the gray, crumbling wreckage that had once been a three-bedroom house. “Such a shame. When folks heard the Kingstons didn’t have insurance, they wanted to help as much as they could.”
That was small-town community at its finest, and something Harris had seen so rarely in his life, he’d given up on believing a world like that existed. Those years working for his father had left a jaded edge on most of Harris’s thoughts.
Harris clapped Jack on the shoulder. Like his brothers, he was a good guy, a cornerstone in this town. “I know the family appreciates it all.”
Jack shrugged. “Least we can do. One of these days, it could be you or me.”
“Amen. Thanks again.” Harris saw a white van pulling into the driveway, a television station logo emblazoned on the side. Great. Media. The last thing anyone needed. Harris cursed. “I’ll get rid of them.”
Jack put a hand on his arm. “Before you run off the TV crew, I know the Kingstons want to keep this private, but honestly, if we’re going to raise the funds we need to, a little publicity can’t hurt.”
A little publicity Harris could live with, and something he’d talked to John and Catherine about when he set up the trust fund at the bank. Inevitably, reporters would ask. Overwhelmed by what they had been through, the Kingstons had asked him to handle the media.
Harris was good with a mention in the local paper about donations. But a prying reporter who asked too many questions, he didn’t want. The only way to be sure it was the former and not the latter was to handle the interview himself. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to make the link between Phillip McCarthy and the shuttering of John Kingston’s business.
Harris approached the news van just as a slim brunette woman climbed out of the passenger’s seat. Another man slid open the side door and settled a camera on his shoulder. The big, dark eye swiveled around the scene before them—the crew readying themselves with gloves and hard hats to begin the demolition, the order of lumber being stacked on one side of the yard and the eager people listening to Jack’s directions.
The brunette turned to the cameraman. “Ready, Ed? Let’s start with the family. See if we can—”
“Excuse me. Are you here to do a story on the Kingston family?” Harris asked.
“Yes, yes we are. Do you know them?” The brunette looked past him, her gaze still scanning the crowd. The breeze lifted the collar of her shirt but didn’t move her hair-sprayed hair a single millimeter. “Could you point out Mr. or Mrs. Kingston?”
“I’m the family spokesperson,” Harris said. “They are, understandably, traumatized by what happened and would prefer not to talk about it with the media just yet.”
The brunette’s attention swiveled toward him, a laser beam of bright eyes and a new smile. “And you are?”
“A concerned friend.”
“I’m Barbara Gold, from TV 13.” She glanced over her shoulder at Ed, who handed her a microphone, then nodded. Ed shuffled closer, and before Harris could protest, Barbara thrust the microphone under her chin. “You’re a friend of the Kingston family, who lost everything they owned in a terrible fire last Tuesday. Can you tell us about what happened that night?”
“There was a fire. I don’t have any more details than that, I’m sorry.” He was lying, but this brunette with her lacquered hair didn’t need to know the truth. Nor did he intend to give her any kind of interview, Jack’s advice be damned. “I need to get back to the demolition project.”
Barbara put a hand on his arm, then withdrew it just as quickly. “I heard there was a stranger who ran into the house and rescued the family from certain death. Do you know who that was?”
“No, I don’t.” The eye of the camera seemed to loom over him, threatening to expose him as a liar. You’re the whole reason they were penniless. The reason John was drunk and depressed. You didn’t save them. You practically handed John a match. “I really have to help with the demolition project. I know the family would appreciate it if you would respect their privacy right now and give them some time before they do an interview.”
He was holding out a carrot he never intended to give the reporter. But if it was enough to get her to climb back in that van and leave, then he’d say almost anything.
The reporter considered his words for a long moment, her gaze flicking between Harris and the people starting work on the charred remains of the house. Finally, she looked over her shoulder at her cameraman. “Just grab some B-roll and then we can head over to that five-car pileup on I-95.”
Harris held his sigh of relief until the TV crew left a few minutes later. He wouldn’t be able to hold the media off forever. But with any luck, some other story would grab their attention. By the time they did a follow-up, Harris would be back in Connecticut and the Kingstons would be happily ensconced in their new home.
Harris turned back toward the job site, then stopped. In the midst of the crew, he saw a familiar figure. She was smiling and talking to Della, and something in Harris’s chest clenched.
Mellie.
She peeled off from Della a moment later, heading for a stack of shovels leaning against Jack’s truck. A pale blue V-neck T-shirt drew his attention away from her face, then down the curves outlined by dark-wash jeans. He crossed to her, grabbing a shovel of his own as he went. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping.” She held up the shovel in her gloved hands and gave him a grin. She looked too beautiful to be shoveling chunks of burned wood, with a bare minimum of makeup and her dark hair back in a ponytail, which made her look younger, sweeter.
Harder to resist.
“Well, that’s good,” he said, though he knew she would be a distraction he didn’t need. He’d already vowed after last night’s walk on the beach that he wasn’t going to get too close to her. He’d held her to his chest, kissed her forehead, and just like that, he’d been eighteen and head over heels again.
When he’d leaned in to kiss her, she’d jerked away, claiming she needed to sleep, and had asked him to drive her back to the inn. They’d exchanged a handful of small talk on the ride, then peeled off in separate directions once they were inside the bed-and-breakfast. He’d tossed and turned all night, painfully aware she lay in a bed just down the hall. And that she had brushed him off.
Mellie had made it clear the date was platonic. The rational side of him remembered they lived in two different states, and his time in Stone Gap was limited. That didn’t stop the irrational side from wishing he’d done a lot more than hold her on the beach.
“I’m not really handy,” Mellie said, drawing his attention back to the present. “But I can shovel or tear down stuff. Get some stress worked out.” She hoisted the shovel and flexed her arm. “I ate my spinach this morning and everything.”
He laughed. Okay, so maybe having her around would be nice. Really nice. “We could use all the help we can get.”
They walked toward the remains of the house. Several people greeted Harris as he passed, and he nodded a friendly hello in return. “Does everyone in this town know you?”
“When I built that house down the road, I spent a lot of time in town. People got used to seeing me around.”
“So you’ve grown up into a dependable adult?”
The words had the lilt of a joke, but he heard something else shading the undertones. He shot Mellie a glance, but sunglasses hid her eyes. “I’d like to think so.”
“I did, too.” The last she said in a whispe
r, then she stopped walking and let out a gasp. “God, this is horrible.”
He stood beside her, taking in the scene as she did. A crumbling, blackened skeleton of a home lay in the center of a ring of oak and maple trees. The front door had oddly survived, even as the jamb around it had been lost to the fire. The red entryway lay on the ground, facedown, defeated and sad among the rest of the gray. Odd shapes buried under ash and fallen timbers revealed the life that had once been here—a coffee table, a sofa, a kitchen table, a set of three twin beds, two at an L-angle together in the first bedroom, the other sunken into the ground beside a dresser that seemed to be covered with one large black handprint.
Mellie shook her head. “It’s a wonder anyone survived. They owe that to you, Harris.”
“It was a bad fire, but it started in the living room, which gave us enough time to get everyone out of the house. Anyone would have done the same.” He could still smell the smoke, feel the heat of the flames. Standing here, beside the very door he had flung open just a few days ago, his heart began to pound, his throat constricting. One minute later, and there’d be more than just the remains of furniture in this space. For the thousandth time, he thanked God he’d been in the right place at the right time.
And in the next breath, he remembered no one would have been in this situation if not for him. He could run into a hundred fires and it wouldn’t be enough.
Catherine Kingston climbed over the fallen timbers and crossed to Harris. She drew him into a tight hug, then pulled back. She was a small woman, short and painfully thin, but when she smiled, she lit up a room. She had a fierce love for her children and husband, and from what he knew of her, she had weathered some massive storms in her life. Her face was lined with worry and stress, her eyes shadowed by nights without sleep, but her smile held gratitude and relief. “Harris. I can’t thank you enough for organizing this and for...earlier.” She nodded toward the departing television van.
“I didn’t do much, Catherine. Put a bug in Jack Barlow’s ear, and he and his family ran with it.”
Catherine waved his words off, then turned to Mellie. “Don’t let this man pretend he isn’t some kind of amazing, incredible person. Not only did he save all of us from that fire, dragging us out of our beds in the middle of the night, but he set this whole thing up and is running a fund-raiser and everything. He’s got the housing plans nearly approved by the town council and has already started delivering the supplies. We didn’t have insurance, and I have no idea where we’d be without Harris.”
“You give me too much credit, Catherine,” he said. He didn’t deserve the way she looked at him, as if he was part superhero and part Norse god. He didn’t deserve the kudos for something that was really a town-wide effort. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve to be thanked when he was the one who’d bankrupted John Kingston.
“I’ve known Harris a long time,” Mellie said. “I’m not surprised to hear he did all that. Most of the time, he’s the kind of guy you rely on in a crisis.”
Most of the time. That curious tone underlaid her words again.
“I’d say all the time,” Catherine said. “He’s one hell of a great guy. John can’t stop telling everyone what a blessing Harris has been to our family.”
They were talking about him like he wasn’t even here. He thought of walking away, but he knew Catherine, and knew she’d gush about him to Mellie for a solid half hour. The majority of it would surely be misconceptions that Melanie didn’t need to hear. “Catherine, why don’t we start seeing what we can salvage?”
“It’s all so...overwhelming.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “The kids...they lost so much. I’m afraid there’s nothing worth saving.”
“There’s always something worth saving,” Mellie said softly. “Let me help, too.”
That hadn’t been his plan. He’d figured Mellie would go help the others doing demolition, not tag along and make him think about her altogether too much. Or wonder what message lay beneath what she’d said this morning. The way she’d pulled away last night, the chill that existed between them.
“Thank you,” Catherine said. She laid a hand on Mellie’s arm. “I hope Harris knows how lucky he is to have you.”
“Oh, we’re not—I mean—” Mellie blushed. “We’re just friends.”
Just friends. Ouch. The reality slap hit him hard. And reminded him that maybe that was for the best.
He’d seen her with someone else, getting touched, kissed. Just when he’d been about to tell her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Granted, they’d been kids, young and immature, but the moment never quite left the recesses of his mind. He’d be a fool to fall for her again.
So he focused on the burned house and the people who needed his help.
Ahead of him, Catherine climbed over the thick beam that had once been the spine of the house, dodged a crumbling armchair. Harris and Mellie followed. He tried to ignore the stench of burned plastic.
Catherine stopped in the first bedroom, standing among the skeletal two-by-fours that had framed the closet. “I hope it’s still here,” she whispered. “If I can find that, maybe the kids will...”
“What?” Harris asked.
“Please let it be here.” She bent down and began to move the burned clothing, charred toys, crumbling boxes. Harris started to help, pushing things aside even as they crumbled in his hands. Ash flew into the air around them like a gray snowstorm.
Catherine dug, her movements more frantic as each second passed, then she turned over a metal bin and let out a gasp. “Oh, thank goodness.” She turned and rose, and in her arms was a stuffed black bear, well worn and loved, with a missing patch on his forehead and frayed edges on his paws. Catherine’s eyes welled. “It’s her bear.”
In that moment, the love Catherine had for her children was as real and tangible as the stuffed bear. He’d never known a love like that, at least not from his own parents. His father too exacting and cruel, and his mother too afraid to rock the boat. She had died afraid and alone, and that was another moment Harris had yet to forgive himself for.
“Let’s get it cleaned off,” Harris said. He brushed the bear’s fur, and it gradually changed from ash gray to black. “At the end of the day, I can take it to get cleaned. I’m sure the dry cleaner can do something to make it like new again.”
“Thank you, Harris,” Catherine said, clutching the bear to her chest, heedless of the tears sliding down her cheeks. “Thank you.”
He glanced at Mellie and saw her eyes were misty, too. The three of them stood there in the wreckage for a moment, two of them moved to tears over the discovery of a treasure, and one feeling as if he was somewhere he didn’t belong.
* * *
Melanie watched Catherine hand the stuffed bear to her daughter, a girl around Jake’s age. The joy on the little blonde’s face lit the dark space like sunshine. It was a beautiful moment, the kind that could be a Hallmark card, although there was no occasion to hand over a greeting that said, here’s what we rescued from the fire. Sorry you lost everything else.
This could have been her sister’s house. Her sister’s children losing everything. It could have been Abby digging through the rubble, searching for answers, hope, new beginnings.
Or worse, it could have been her own family. For just a second, Melanie stood there, closed her eyes and imagined a little girl with Harris’s smile and her eyes. A little girl who was never going to exist. She knew that, she’d accepted it, but still there were days—
Days when she wished for a different ending than the one she’d been dealt at eighteen. It had been the happiest moment of her life, quickly ruined by the most devastating moment of her life. And Harris hadn’t been there, hadn’t listened.
Catherine Kingston waved to Harris and brought him over with her and the children. He bent down and started talking to two of them, a boy of about seven and a gir
l about five. And something in Melanie’s heart began to ache.
Would he have been a good father? One that loved his children, hugged them when they skinned a knee, held them tight when they were scared and let them go when they wanted to spread their wings?
No. She couldn’t let her mind go back there. Losing that baby had been a blessing in disguise. She’d been so overjoyed when she found out she was pregnant, even though she was young. But then she’d lost the baby, and told herself that she’d been too young to be a single mother anyway. Plus Harris had disappeared from her life, never knowing the truth. He’d believed the lie instead of giving her a chance. That wasn’t the kind of man who should be the father of her child.
Melanie should be taking some notes, asking Catherine some questions, pursuing the story instead of dwelling on what-ifs that never got to be. Instead, she watched the family moment a little while longer, then turned back to start shoveling the debris into a wheelbarrow. Her eyes burned from the ashes she kicked up and the lingering acrid scent of smoke.
Della Barlow came by and handed Melanie an icy water bottle. Dozens of volunteers swarmed around the site like bees in a field of daisies. A low hum of conversation, peppered with the occasional joke, kept the mood productive but light. “It’s wonderful that you’re helping, and on your vacation, no less.”
“I just felt so bad about what happened.” And with that, she felt bad about lying. Again. What would it be like to just be honest with everyone? Abby? Her mother? Della?
Harris?
Okay, that was insanity talking. Maybe the fumes were getting to her brain. She set the water down and scooped up some more charred wood.
Della surveyed the house and shook her head. “It is terrible. But the family is safe and together, and that’s what matters. Things can be replaced—people can’t.”