Hearts on Fire Page 9

  “Max the Fire Dog,” Jack supplied.

  “Wasn’t it nice of Max to give you a helmet?”

  Alex patted the plastic helmet on his head. Nonetheless, the glance he directed up at Max the Fire Dog was dubious at best. Which was perfectly understandable—it wasn’t every day that one saw a six-foot-five-inch dalmatian walking down the street.

  “Thank you,” Alex mumbled and grabbed onto his mother’s hand, holding it tight.

  Jack ambled away. When he was young Alex’s age, he probably already knew his way around the St. Caroline fire station like a pro. In fact, his earliest memories all centered on the firehouse. His mother’s hopes to keep him out of the family business were doomed from the start.

  Not that his father wasn’t trying to honor her wishes. When he told Jack he was going to put him to work, walking around downtown in the Max the Fire Dog costume wasn’t what Jack had in mind. Especially not in ninety-degree heat. He could feel the sweat trickling down the backs of his thighs. Living in northern California, Jack had almost forgotten how hot summers were on the east coast.

  He was remembering now.

  July was peak tourist season in St. Caroline, and the chamber of commerce had decided to stage a street fair this year. Main Street was closed off to traffic so local businesses and restaurants could set up tables and booths. Jack strolled down the middle of the street, looking for children to give out plastic helmets to. He waved at the two teenaged girls manning a table for Two Beans Coffee. Their iced coffee samples were proving popular. No way for Jack to drink one, not without taking off the costume head.

  There was a man Jack didn’t recognize sitting by an artist’s easel, sketching anyone willing to sit down for a spell. Jack was willing. He spent half an hour sitting with children on his knee while the man drew their portraits. The kids walked away smiling, wearing a red plastic helmet, and clutching a picture of themselves with Max the Fire Dog. Jack had done his share of community involvement activities with the department in California. He had risked life and limb at busy intersections, collecting money in his boot, and corralled a frenzied mob of hot chocolate-fueled kids waiting for the Christmas train to arrive. He liked it, even. He’d rather not do it while wearing a head-to-toe dog costume in ninety-degree heat, that’s all.

  When he stood finally, he held out his hand—er, paw—to shake the artist’s hand. “Jack Wolfe. With the fire department.”

  The man gave Jack a leisurely once-over. “I surmised.”

  Up close, Jack saw that the man was younger than he’d initially thought. Mid-thirties, he guessed, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a loose linen shirt, untucked over khaki shorts.

  “Elliott Parker,” the man introduced himself.

  “Nice to meet you—wait, did you say Elliott Parker?”

  The man nodded, smiling. “Surprised a dalmatian knows who I am.”

  “I dated a woman who was a curator at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. For a few months.” Elliott Parker was an artist popular with the tech crowd in Silicon Valley. According to Jack’s ex-girlfriend, Parker’s work fetched five and sometimes even six figures.

  “Ahh. You’re a cultured dalmatian, then.”

  “You have a house around here?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Nice of you to do this.” Jack gestured toward the easel. “Those kids don’t know what they’re walking away with here. A signed portrait by Elliott Parker. They could pay for their college tuition with that.”

  Elliott shrugged. “Part of it, maybe. Books. Or beer money.”

  Jack spent a few more minutes shooting the breeze with the artist about sailing and the state of the blue crab population in the Chesapeake, then headed back down Main Street in search of more kids to distribute plastic helmets to. Matt had practically rolled on the floor, laughing his ass off, when Jack told him how he’d be spending the day.

  He passed the small canvas tent for Evers Landscaping & Design, but kept his distance. He knew he couldn’t keep avoiding Ian Evers in a town the size of St. Caroline, but his old friend was a reminder of what had happened at the graduation party with Becca Trevor. He didn’t want to be reminded of his bad behavior all the time. It was bad enough that Becca herself was a living, breathing reminder.

  Even worse that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  He had apologized. She had accepted his apology, as far as he could tell. So what was his brain’s problem? Why did images of her face pop up at the oddest times? Why could he still see, clear as day, the way her hair had floated in the air between them on the ferris wheel?

  Because it’s not your brain doing the thinking, buddy.

  He stopped to kneel down and talk to another youngster. Another helmet. A brief chat about fire safety. Another mumbled “thank you.” He was supposed to stay at the street fair until he ran out of helmets. Or until I pass out from the heat. When he reached the northern end of Main Street, he ducked around the corner and stripped off the head of the costume. He gulped in huge breaths of air, which were only marginally cooler than the air inside the costume. At least they were fresher. Even here in the heart of town, one could smell the bay. Hear the hooting of seagulls. Savor the relative absence of manmade sounds. The peacefulness of it was soothing to his soul, and his soul needed soothing right now. His mother was dying.

  And his heart was breaking over it.

  He leaned over and rested his palms on his knees. It hurt. It actually, physically hurt. He’d never had his heart broken before, not by a woman, not by disappointment. Not by anything. Until now. And damn if it didn’t hurt so much he could barely breathe.

  He straightened and put the costume head back on, picked up his shrinking stack of plastic helmets. Stay busy. Not that it made his heart hurt any less, but it was a distraction for awhile. Since he came home, his time had been split between spending as much time as possible with his mother and trying to stay busy and distracted.

  Thoughts of Becca Trevor were an effective distraction.

  He passed out the rest of the plastic helmets and made lots of honorary firefighters. His heart wasn’t in it anymore, though. Despite the heat, he was glad to be hidden inside Max the Fire Dog where no one could see the forces ripping his heart into a million pieces. Distraction only went so far.

  He handed out the last helmet across the street from the Purple Pickle Deli. He was about to turn and head for the lot where he had left his car when he spotted Becca and Cassidy Trevor. He watched as they climbed the short stoop up into the deli, their legs long and shapely in shorts and sandals. Jack was a leg man, always had been, and he was suddenly feeling more charitable toward the costume he was wearing. The cover was coming in handy at the moment.

  Becca had nice legs. Even to a connoisseur of legs, hers were damn near perfect. Not as tanned as her sister’s, but Jack didn’t mind that. He wasn’t a fan of tan lines, particularly. He preferred one continuous expanse of perfect, unblemished skin that he could trace with his fingers from the gentle curve of a calf up to a sleek thigh and then on over the point of a hipbone and a—by then—quivering stomach.

  He shouldn’t be noticing her legs. What he should be doing was marching over there and telling her not to bother with his wedding quilt. It wasn’t as though he’d be getting married any time soon. He couldn’t bring another person into his uncertain future. That was why the museum curator had dumped him. He was “unfocused.” “Wandering through life.”

  Looking back now, he could see that he had been something of a project for her. She’d even gone so far as to get him an interview at the company her brother worked for. And Jack went. Put on a suit, rehearsed his interview answers, did everything you’re supposed to do to land a nice, steady job. Halfway through he had realized it wasn’t just the practice of law he couldn’t stand. It was the thought of sitting in an office all day long, barely moving, in a building where the windows didn’t even open.

  His attention snapped back to the present at the sight
of Ian climbing the steps into the Purple Pickle, right behind Becca and Cassidy. Cassidy turned her head back to look at Ian, laughing at whatever he had said to them. Jack had no idea how many people might know that he and Becca had hooked up once. She said she hadn’t told anyone, and he had no reason not to believe her. He had no reason to believe her, either. Jack certainly hadn’t told anyone, but Ian was there that night. He had watched Jack follow Becca to her car. For certain, Ian Evers knew—and had probably told others. He wasn’t exactly the sort of person you trusted with the key to your safe deposit box.

  Did it even matter at this point? It was seven years ago, and it wasn’t like Jack had taken her virginity. His, yeah, but not hers. His parents would certainly be upset to learn of it, given that the Trevors were close friends of theirs, but again it all happened seven years ago. He and Becca were adults now. So they had hooked up once. No harm, no foul.

  Becca set down the large plastic bag and fished in her purse for the slip of paper on which she had written the shop’s new security code. It was late and she had worked a double shift at Skipjack’s. And that was after helping her mom, Cassidy, and Natalie at the shop in the morning and early afternoon. But she also needed to get the fire quilt done. She’d spent every spare minute over the past week piecing the top. Seam after seam, row after row. Sew. Press. Repeat.

  The finished top and the fabric for the backing were in the bag. A shipment of bats, the inner material of a quilt, had come in yesterday. She bought one, a low-loft cotton that would quilt easily and show off the stitches. It was inside the shop, waiting.

  Her fingers finally found the slip of paper and she punched in the six-digit number. Inside, she felt along the wall for the light switch and closed her eyes reflexively at the sudden burst of light. She closed and relocked the door behind her. It was after ten o’clock at night and she was exhausted. Cassidy had made an excellent suggestion that morning, though, as they set up the new quilting frame. Put the fire quilt on the frame and let customers come in and work on it. Becca balked at the idea, at first—the shop’s customers had already quilted the first fire quilt, the one that was lost in the fire. Then Cassidy pointed out the obvious.

  “My phone’s been ringing off the hook with people wanting to know when the shop will reopen. They’re used to hanging out here, seeing friends, talking. The shop’s not fully stocked yet, but put up a quilt and they’ll be here in a heartbeat.”

  Her sister was right. Quilt Therapy had always been more than just a store. It was just as much a social club. As much as she hated to ask other people to finish what should be her responsibility, it would be better for the store if she did. She owed her mom and sisters whatever was best for them.

  She carried the bag over to the brand new wooden quilting frame. It was big enough for eight people to work on a quilt at a time, three on each side, one on each end. In the old shop, the frame had been tucked away next to a wall. Here, her mother wanted it right in front of the big window so passersby could stop and watch the quilting. Natalie had declared that she would only quilt in the dark from now on, rather than have people watching her “like an animal in a zoo.” But Nat was famously shy.

  Becca ignored the stiffness in her fingers as she spread the layers of the fire quilt across the frame and attached them to the rails. It had been a few years since she had used a quilting frame like this. She couldn’t afford one, for starters. Even if she could, Brandon would never have let her set one up in the apartment. She was never going out with a man again who didn’t respect her need to quilt.

  She got the top, batting, and backing fabric onto the frame with no problems. She had grown up in Quilt Therapy. She could do this stuff in her sleep. She stepped back to admire the sight of the quilt on the frame, ready for the shop’s customers to start work on tomorrow. Her gaze skimmed across the pyramids of fabric—nearly two thousand in all—and over to the shop’s front window.

  A face stared in at her from the darkness. She yelped and jumped back, before she recognized who it was. Jack Wolfe.

  Immediately his features rearranged themselves into an apologetic expression. He held up his hands, then pointed to the door. She let him in.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She shot him a look of pure skepticism.

  “I was driving past and I saw the lights on. Thought I’d stop in and see how the shelves are working out. And then …” He gestured toward the quilt. “It was fascinating, watching you put it on there. You’ve obviously done it plenty of times.” He walked over to the frame. “So this is the Thousand Pyramids quilt?”

  She was surprised he remembered the name of the pattern. “Yeah, but closer to two thousand pyramids.”

  Now it was his turn to shoot her an incredulous look. “You cut and sewed together almost two thousand pieces?”

  She nodded. “It goes pretty fast, actually, once you get in a groove.”

  “The zen of quilting?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you’re going to quilt it here in the shop?”

  She nodded. “Cassidy suggested I let customers help. That way it’ll get done quicker and I can get it to your dad. Then I can start work on your quilt.”

  “Yeah, about that … you don’t have to do that, Becca.”

  “Your mom asked me to.”

  “I know she did. She’s trying to tie up loose ends, but it’s going to be years before I get married.”

  Becca shrugged, thinking of how agog every woman in St. Caroline under the age of thirty was over Jack. “You never know.”

  He rolled his eyes, a move that had always annoyed her when Brandon did it. Which he did often. But it was considerably cuter on Jack. She didn’t allow herself to ponder that idea.

  “I’m in no position to get married anytime soon,” he said.

  “Who knows? I mean, just because you’re not a lawyer—”

  “I’m a security guard.”

  “Well … nothing wrong with working with your hands.”

  He laughed. “I don’t work with my hands. I sit on my ass all night long watching the security camera feeds.”

  “But you have a girlfriend, right?” Cassidy was dying to know the scoop on Jack’s relationship status. “That could get serious.”

  “Nope. No girlfriend. I have a low-paying job. I share an apartment with three other guys.” He laughed again. “I’m not exactly a catch out there, not compared to all the software engineers and tech boy wonders.” He ran a finger across the quilt. “So seriously, Becca. You don’t have to finish that quilt. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  She watched as he stroked his finger back and forth on the quilt, on the fabric she had spent hours sewing together. It almost felt as though he were touching her. Stroking her shoulder. Tracing circles on the palm of her hand. She probably did have better things to do but right that minute, she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather be doing than watching Jack Wolfe.

  The room seemed lighter since Jack arrived, which made no sense since there was also a somberness about him. Dark shadows stained the skin beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Gorgeous, but tired.

  “Can I ask you something?” he lifted his hand from the quilt.

  “Sure. If I can ask you something.”

  A look of surprise flashed across his face. “You go first, then.”

  “Was that really you in the dog costume today?”

  A pale pink flush crept over his skin, from his ears to his cheeks. “Yes. My father’s put me to work.”

  She gave him a smile. “Ian said it was you, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.” She stepped around the quilt frame. “I don’t mean to imply that he’s a liar,” she backtracked. “I know he’s a friend of yours.”

  Jack shrugged again. “We’ve lost touch.”

  “Me too. I mean, with the people I used to know. So what was your question?”

  “Speaking of stuffed animals … why do you have that sock monkey in your car?”


  That was it? That was the big question?

  “I’ve had it since I was a baby. Sentimental value, I guess.”

  Chapter 13

  Becca pulled a chair up next to the fiftyish woman squinting through her glasses at the tiny needle she was trying to rock back and forth through her practice fabric. Outside the Chesapeake Inn’s glass-walled reception room, sunlight bounced off the whitecaps of the bay. It was a gorgeous summer day, but roughly a hundred and twenty-five women had holed themselves up inside for Quilt Therapy’s first-ever quilter’s retreat weekend. As promised, Becca was teaching the hand quilting workshop.

  “I had no idea they even made needles this small,” the woman sighed and set down her fabric. Becca and Natalie had spent yesterday basting together eighteen-by-eighteen-inch squares of fabric and polyester batting for the attendees to practice on.

  “They do take some getting used to.” She picked up the woman’s practice “quilt” and glanced at her name tag. “What do you do, Sylvia?” She pulled out the needle and slowly showed her how to move the needle through the fabric.

  “I’m a child psychologist.”

  “Private practice?” Becca demonstrated the stitches again, then handed it back to Sylvia.

  “Used to. Now I work for a school system outside Washington.”

  “I had a few run-ins with the school psychologist when I was a kid.” Becca watched as Sylvia took a few slow, awkward stitches.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Becca chuckled. “You can pretty much stop anyone on the street here, and they’ll corroborate my story. But look. You’re getting the hang of it.”

  Sylvia’s needle was moving more smoothly now. Becca had just needed to get her to stop overthinking the motion by talking to her about something else. Focus without thinking, that was Becca’s secret to hand quilting.

  She left Sylvia to practice on her own. She made the rounds of the room, patiently demonstrating the technique over and over. Before she knew it, forty-five minutes had flown by. She was surprised when Cassidy poked her head into the room to announce that lunch was being served in the ballroom in ten minutes.