The Fireman I Loved to Hate

by Jenna Gunn

  “That’s Monroe,” I tell her. “He’s a troublemaker.”

  She chuckles. “Yes, I certainly can tell. Well!” she says loudly to someone in her hallway. “Finally comin’ out of that office of yours?”

  An old man emerges. He’s tall and lanky, wearing khaki slacks, a brown belt, and a long-sleeve flannel shirt. “I was researching rosebushes,” he says defensively, his eyes scanning the room, passing over me as though I were just another plant.

  “You’ve been takin’ care of those roses for forty years,” Lindy says playfully. “What more do you need to research?”

  He shrugs and heads for the kitchen; I see him open up the white fridge and grab a giant pitcher of what must be sweet tea.

  “That’s Jimmy, my husband,” Lynn tells me. “He was probably back there lookin’ up naked women on the Internet.”

  I open my mouth, shocked into silence.

  “Don’t scare the poor girl,” Jimmy calls gruffly from the kitchen; Lynn chuckles.

  “Um, how long ago did you call the fire department?” I ask weakly.

  “Just before you got here. And sorry for the teasin’, hon, it’s just my nature.” Lynn sets her glass down. “Ain’t had a young’un to tease since our son up and went into the Army.”

  “Damn proud,” Jimmy says, walking into the living room. “Damn good soldier, our boy.”

  “He’s deployed at the moment,” Lynn says.

  “That your cat up on our chimney?” Jimmy asks. He bypasses the furniture altogether and goes to stand at the front window, bracing a hand on his back.

  “Uh, yes, sir, Mr…” I try to remember their last name; I passed their mailbox earlier, and I remember it saying the Logans. “Mr. Logan,” I finish.

  He snorts. “Dear, Mr. Logan was my daddy. Just call me Jimmy, all right?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “You want some pie, honey?” Lynn asks me, patting my hand. “Or some dinner? I got a casserole in the oven.”

  “Well, once the fire department gets Monroe down - ”

  “He can have some, too,” Lynn says, waving her hand as though to wipe away any excuse I might have come up with. “Have dinner with some old fogeys, will ya?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Okay, yeah. Sure. What kind of casserole?”

  “Chicken and broccoli. It’s Jimmy’s favorite.”

  “Fireman’s here,” Jimmy grunts.

  Please don’t be the rude one, I think hopelessly.

  Chapter 5

  I grit my teeth as I turn down Marina Road, squinting at the house numbers. I’m so sick of doing these cat rescue calls. What do they do on my days off? Do cats just not get in trouble if I’m not on duty?

  I sigh as I realize I’m nearing Raina Groves’ house; I park on the side of the road between her house and her neighbor’s, squinting up at the roof. Sure enough, the little three-legged thing is atop the chimney, screaming its head off.

  I lean my head back on the headrest for a moment. I’m not going to be able to keep my cool today if she keeps shouting things up to me while I’m on the roof.

  I run a hand over my face, take a deep breath, and open the door of the truck; as soon as I snap it shut behind me, the house’s front door opens.

  An older lady in her 60s comes sauntering out holding a tall glass of iced tea with a pink bendy-straw. “Well hey there!” she calls across the yard.

  “Hello, ma’am.” I pull open the tailgate and grab the ladder in the bed of the truck. “Is that your cat?”

  “Nah, it’s the neighbor’s, but I made the call.” She smiles at me as I trek across her yard with the ladder. “Loud son of a gun, ain’t he?” she adds after the cat lets out an ear-splitting yowl.

  “Sure is, ma’am.” I grin at her. The front door opens again and Raina Groves comes out of the house. It takes everything I have not to sigh.

  She looks different today; her hair looks a little more tamed, and she’s wearing makeup. She looks dressed up in her patterned blouse. I glance down at her feet. They’re bare; that hasn’t changed.

  I nod at Raina; immediately, she comes walking toward me, which is absolutely the last thing I want. I shouldn’t have acknowledged her at all, I suppose.

  I don’t stop heading for the side of the house where it would be easiest to use the ladder, despite Raina following. She doesn’t speak, however, so I have that to be thankful for.

  Or at least, not at first.

  I’m setting up the ladder when she asks, “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

  “He’ll be fine.” I start to climb up.

  “Be careful,” she says earnestly. “And make sure you’re careful with him, too.”

  I grit my teeth without answering. The climb isn’t long; it’s a ranch style home, so it sits close to the ground. The orange cat stares at me with its giant yellow eyes as I pull myself over the edge of the roof.

  “C’mere, kitty kitty,” I say to it. The cat doesn’t blink. Its tail swishes, and it lets out a loud yowl, straight into my face. “Yeah, I’m right here, just come here,” I snarl, reaching for it.

  The cat dances out of the way of my hand for a moment, still yelling like it’s being tortured; I go to grab it by the scruff of its neck, but it hisses and swipes at me. I preferred this damn thing when it was in the tree. It was a lot nicer then.

  “Be careful!” Raina cries; I glance over my shoulder to see that she’s standing in the front yard so she can see what I’m doing, wringing her hands, a desperate look in her eyes.

  I roll my eyes and don’t answer her. “Come here, stupid,” I hiss; this time I get a good hold on the cat’s neck, pinching the scruff and yanking him toward me. The thing goes rigid, and I go back to the ladder and carefully climb down.

  Raina comes rushing over, arms outstretched, before I’m even halfway down the ladder. I have to adjust my grip on the cat; the minute my hand loosens on its scruff, it yowls loudly and launches itself away from me, messing with my balance. I teeter helplessly for a moment while the cat lands in Raina’s arms and she pulls it in for a snuggle.

  “Dammit!” I cry out, trying to right myself; finally, I regain my balance and freeze for a moment, breathing hard. “This is why I hate cats,” I snap to no one in particular, inching myself down the rest of the ladder. I could have fallen and snapped my neck on the gravel driveway because of that damn thing.

  I grab the ladder to take it back to the truck; when I turn to head down the driveway, Raina is staring absolute daggers at me. Our eyes meet. She’s angry, that’s for sure, but...there’s something strangely beautiful about it. Her almost-invisible brows furrowed over almond-shaped green eyes, which shine brightly in the direct sunlight. A breeze ruffles her hair, sending a few curly tendrils across her face, over her pouty lips. She doesn’t have a cupid’s bow, I realize.

  She purses her lips, hugs her cat tightly to her, and turns away from me. She keeps her back to me as I walk past her and to my truck.

  “Well thank you, sir,” the old woman says, startling me as I walk past.

  “It’s no problem at all,” I tell her.

  She follows me to my truck. “You need anything, honey? Sweet tea? I got some water bottles in the fridge, I could grab ya one.”

  “No thanks, ma’am; I’m headed back to the station. I can get something there.” I shoot her a smile before loading the ladder back into the bed of the truck.

  “Well, you take care, now,” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am. You too.”

  She turns to start walking back across her yard, and I lift my eyes to find Raina. She’s facing the house now, her back fully toward me. She’s absolutely nuts. But her petite frame, the way her shirt cinches in at the waist, the way her hair stirs in the breeze, the absolute anger and rage written across her entire face and now every line of her body...she’s gorgeous. Crazy, sure, but gorgeous. Feisty, I think, is the word for it.

  I get into my truck and start it, throwing it into gear. Before I pull off, I chance one las
t look at Raina.

  It’ll never work, a voice chimes in my head.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t try, does it?

  Chapter 6

  I think I’m very fortunate to have met Mr. and Mrs. Logan.

  Mrs. Logan continually insists I call her Lynn, and Mr. Logan won’t even answer to anything but Jimmy. They were interested in my novels when I told them; Lynn expressed concern that I often forget to eat, so she’s taken to bringing me casseroles every single Wednesday.

  I gather up Monroe and put him under my arm like a football. He chirps in protest but doesn’t try to get away. “It’s Sunday dinner time,” I tell him, grabbing his bag of snackies. I don’t know why I still bring them; Lynn feeds Monroe table scraps.

  I head next door in my bare feet. Jimmy’s outside in his khakis and flannel, staring intently at the rosebushes.

  “Hi there, Mr. Jimmy,” I call out.

  He glances at me, amusement in his eyes. “Miss Raina,” he replies. “Door’s open; go on in.”

  I go up the porch steps and let myself in the front door, blinking as the clashing patterns bombard my eyes again. “Ms. Lynn?” I call, letting Monroe jump from my arms. He stalks around the living room.

  “In the kitchen, hon!”

  I head into the kitchen; Lynn is still in her church outfit, a long-sleeved blouse and calf-length skirt, complete with pantyhose. Her black pumps lay discarded just outside the kitchen archway. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows while she struggles with a big bowl of something.

  “Come help me for a sec,” she says, and I readily step up next to her. She shoves the bowl at me; it’s potatoes. “Ain’t as strong as I used to be, and I gotta check on the chicken. Get to mashin’,” she adds as she opens the oven.

  “We’re not doing fried today?” I ask, grabbing the potato masher and getting to work.

  “Nah, I’m tryin’ to watch Jimmy’s cholesterol.”

  “...how much butter are you putting in these potatoes, then?”

  “Well, you can’t have taters without butter, now, can ya?” she replies airily, shutting the oven and reaching for a cabinet. “Oh - you have to hear what Debbie Harris said during announcements this morning.”

  “What is it?” I ask eagerly. I’m not a church person, but Ms. Lynn’s stories about the drama are fascinating.

  “Well you know how she’s on the committee for the children’s fund. She got up in front of God and everybody - holdin’ her brand new designer handbag, no less - and said that they’ll be doin’ a fundraiser soon, and that she, personally, is donating five thousand dollars, and asked what we would be willing to give.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “Y’all talkin’ about that damned Debbie Harris?” Mr. Jimmy’s voice calls from the living room.

  “She just started going through the congregation, asking people how much they’d be willing to pledge, til Pastor Greg told her to sit down.” Lynn shakes her head.

  “It was just plain showing off,” Jimmy snaps. “If it weren’t for the children, I wouldn’t be giving any money at all.”

  I nod along with them, brain whirring, still mashing the potatoes forcefully. I wish I’d brought some sticky notes or a notebook.

  Dinner - or lunch, rather, since it’s just after noon - gets finished quickly, and the three of us sit down at the Logans’ solid wood dining table to eat. Monroe comes meowing and begging when he hears the plates hit the table; immediately, Ms. Lynn feeds him a bite of chicken.

  “Lindy, where’s the ironing board?” Mr. Jimmy asks as we sit. “Went looking for it today. Couldn’t find it.”

  “I moved it to the laundry room,” Ms. Lynn replies. “Why?”

  “Got a tour this week, and I wanna iron my pants.”

  I shovel a bite of potatoes into my mouth, eyes on Mr. Jimmy. “He does historical tours every now and then.”

  “So you know a lot of history?”

  The Logans glance at each other over the table. They both chuckle, and Mr. Jimmy leans back in his chair. “I know a few things,” he says, eyes twinkling. Turns out he’s a huge history buff.

  “Um, I’m just about done with this book,” I tell him. “And I may be looking for some new historical stuff for my next book.”

  They share another glance, grinning this time.

  “And I was gonna base some characters off you two. If that’s okay,” I add quickly.

  “Oh, I would be honored,” Ms. Lynn says happily, reaching over to seize my hand.

  Mr. Jimmy says, leaning back over his plate. “I certainly can help you with that, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that very much.” I smile at him before digging back into my food.

  We continue eating for a while, with Mr. Jimmy going up for seconds. Just when I think I might need to be heading home, Ms. Lynn glances around the floor near her chair. “Honey, have you seen Monroe?”

  My stomach drops. I haven’t seen or heard him for a while now. “I’ll look around the living room; he likes to get in between the plants.”

  Mr. Jimmy stands up. “Well, I’m gonna look outside.”

  I nod and head for the living room, abandoning the scraps left on my plate. Mr. Jimmy slips out the front door as I get down and peek underneath the couch.

  Almost as soon as he leaves, Mr. Jimmy comes back inside and heads directly for the phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Ms. Lynn asks, concern in her voice.

  “Fire department,” Mr. Jimmy sighs. “He’s on the chimney again. I think he climbed up the fireplace; he’s damn near covered in soot.”

  I bury my face in my hands. At this point, is it stupid to hope for anyone who isn’t the rude fireman?

  Ms. Lynn is with me in the yard when the exact fireman I’ve been dreading pulls up. I groan. “Not him again.”

  “How many times has this been that he’s saved Monroe?” she asks me.

  “Three.”

  “You ought to invite him over for lemonade or something.”

  “What? Why?” I snap, looking over at her. “He doesn’t even care about Monroe; he hates cats. He said it himself last time.”

  “Well, if he does, he’s got a funny way of showing it, don’t you think?”

  I fold my arms. “I don’t like him.”

  “Nevertheless, if Monroe keeps getting in trouble, you’ll have to interact with this man a lot. Plus, it’s been three times. It’s time to thank him.”

  I tighten my folded arms, but I can’t deny her; I respect my elders. I stare at the fireman while he climbs up the ladder to get Monroe again, and then I walk over to collect him.

  I take a deep breath; Mr. Jimmy and Ms. Lynn stand on their porch steps, both watching. She’s probably filled Mr. Jimmy in by now. He probably agrees with her.

  “Excuse me, Mr...” I begin, and the fireman turns. My eyes find his name stitched on the pocket of his shirt. “Mr. Whitmore.”

  “Alex.”

  “What?”

  “Alex,” he repeats. “You can just call me Alex.”

  “Right,” I say awkwardly. “Alex. Um, I’m Raina. This is the third time you’ve saved Monroe. I just - I was wondering - I wanted - ”

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, one eyebrow quirked, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, like he thinks I’m funny. For a moment, I’m struck by how beautiful his eyes are.

  I shake myself out of it. “Do you want to come over to my house for some lemonade or something?” I ask, gesturing to my house.

  He looks startled; this obviously wasn’t what he expected me to say. He glances behind me toward Mr. and Mrs. Logan, then fidgets with the ladder, which he’s still holding. “Yeah,” he says. “I can spare the time. Just let me pull my truck into your driveway, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine,” I say stiffly.

  “All righty then.” He walks off toward his truck.

  I turn toward the porch; Mr. Jimmy waves and heads inside his house. Ms. Lynn gives me a
thumbs-up, and I think I hear her chuckling as she, too, goes inside.

  Chapter 7

  Alex Whitmore the Rude Fireman knocks after he’s done parking his truck in my driveway. Despite myself, I think it’s cute; he already knows he’s invited, and only the screen door is closed.

  “Come on in,” I say.

  I hear the screen door open. Instead of letting it shut on its own, he pulls it closed behind him. “You want the big door closed?” he asks. His voice is deep, kind of rumbly.

  “Yes, actually, that’d be great. I have the AC on.”

  I hear the door shut. He emerges from the small entranceway and looks around. My house was definitely built years after the Logans’, so it’s an open floor plan, making it feel far less cramped. I’m in the middle of pouring us both glasses of lemonade at the kitchen counter.

  “I don’t have my dining table unpacked yet,” I tell him apologetically. “Sorry about the boxes.”

  I see his eyes roaming over my coffee table, my sofa, the TV perched on my dresser because I haven’t unpacked the wall mounts. He spots the barstools at the kitchen counter and heads for them.

  “So you’ve just moved to Rockville, then,” he says as he settles down. It isn’t a question; I know it’s obvious.

  “Yep. Wanted a small-town kind of atmosphere.”

  “Oh? You lived in a big city before?” Alex pulls the glass of lemonade toward him. “Charleston?”

  “Mt. Pleasant, actually.” I lean on the counter. “Lots of noise, lots of...hustle and bustle.”

  He chuckles and takes a sip; he glances up at me, looking astonished. “This is great lemonade.”

  “Why are you so shocked?”

  “You just...don’t seem like a lemonade person.”

  I snort. “Oh? And what kind of person do I seem like?”

  He smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen him do it; his whole face lights up, his eyes turn up at the corners. “A crazy cat lady.” He takes another sip.

  Normally I’d be offended, but he doesn’t say it with any malice. “You’re actually joking,” I say to him.