Charming the Firefighter. Beth Andrews
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to her car in the driveway. He climbed in, buckled up, then, with the sound of the radio thumping much louder than was necessary, he carefully backed into the road.
“You’re welcome,” she muttered. So glad to see he appreciated her letting him go to Luke’s, use her car and avoid her company for yet another day.
Didn’t matter, she assured herself. She was fine on her own. She’d have a nice dinner, catch up on her work and maybe even finish the bottle of wine. Why not? Everyone else seemed perfectly content to indulge in bad behavior once in a while.
Maybe it was time she joined the party.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to worry about giving her teenager the wrong impression since the child preferred to spend his time anywhere and with anyone but her.
Frowning, feeling more than a little sorry for herself, she jabbed at the grill’s ignition button, though something in the back of her mind told her not to.
Too late. There was a loud boom and the lid flew open as a wall of flame engulfed her.
“I THOUGHT YOU were dead.”
With a groan she fervently hoped wasn’t audible, Penelope eased onto one of the two high-backed stools at her wide kitchen island. “So you said,” she murmured. “Several times.”
More like twenty, but who was counting?
Well, yes, she was counting, but she doubted her young guest was.
“No,” Gracie Weaver said somberly, shutting the door to the deck. The girl had gone out to make sure the grill was off. “I mean I seriously thought you were dead. Really, completely dead.”
Penelope frowned, but her face felt sunburned and any movement or twitch hurt so she schooled her expression. “Is it possible to be sort of dead?”
She winced—another painful moment—and wished she could see her words floating in the air so she could grab them back before they reached Gracie’s ears. The last thing she wanted was to encourage her neighbor’s sixteen-year-old daughter to continue this inane conversation.
Maybe if she pretended to die—really and completely—the teen would go on her way.
“Oh, it’s very possible.” Gracie opened and shut several cabinet doors, her movements comfortable, as if she went through a stranger’s cupboards on a daily basis. “I once read an article in Reader’s Digest or National Geographic or something about this man who was in a coma for two months, but, get this—” she stood on her toes, the heels of her bright pink flip-flops lifting from the ground as she reached for a glass on an upper shelf “—he could hear everything going on around him. His brain was completely working the entire time. Can you imagine, being trapped in your own body, your mind working, but being unable to get your body to do what it wanted? Not being able to escape?”
Penelope glanced wistfully at the door. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Gracie filled the glass at the sink and carried it over to Penelope. “Here. You should drink something so you don’t go into shock or get dehydrated.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” But to appease—and hopefully silence—the girl, Penelope took a small sip of water, the trembling of her hand barely noticeable.
She still wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute she’d been having a nice little alcohol-induced pity-fest and the next, she’d been flat on her back, the scents of propane and singed hair filling her nostrils. Her head had spun, her face stung and a low, annoying thrum filled her ears. But it hadn’t been all bad. She was, for the most part, unharmed. And lying on the sun-warmed deck, blinking at the puffy white clouds drifting across the sky, her thoughts still pleasantly blurred by that last glass of wine, had been sort of calming. Peaceful.
Until Gracie arrived.
By then, Penelope had struggled to a sitting position and had only been catching her breath, getting her bearings. But Gracie had insisted on helping Penelope get inside—though Penelope took great pride in standing on her own two feet, on making her own way.
Now her little savior wouldn’t leave her alone. And Penelope, never any good at asking for what she wanted, had no idea how to get rid of her.
“I really am fine. I appreciate you checking on me,” she added in case she’d come across as ungrateful. Or worse, rude. “I’m sure you have better things to do today than worry about me.”
Worry. Annoy. Why quibble?
“Not really. Besides, you shouldn’t be left alone. You might have a concussion. Or internal injuries.”
“I don’t.”
“But you could,” Gracie said, studying her with a gaze that was way too direct, way too adult for someone so young. It was unnerving. “And you wouldn’t even know until you fell unconscious or started coughing up blood or something.”
“That’s a disturb—”
“Are you hungry?” Gracie asked. “I could make you something to eat.”
“I’m—”
“That’s probably stupid, huh? I mean, you just had a near-death experience—”
“I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near—”
“The last thing you want is a snack, right? Then again, you might want to celebrate being alive and I noticed you have brownies—”
“Really, I don’t—”
“—and what better way to celebrate still being among the living than with some chocolate?”
Penelope wanted to cover her ears and beg Gracie to be quiet, just for a moment, but the determined and talkative girl walked over to the pan next to the stove.
Humming the same Fray song Penelope had danced to earlier, Gracie brought the brownies to the island, then once again invaded Penelope’s privacy by searching through several kitchen drawers.
Penelope slumped. She surrendered. A woman had only so much fight in her, and she’d used up her stores with her son.
Her home was being overrun by a five-foot-two-inch wisp of a girl in cuffed jean shorts and a floaty white peasant top. A thick floral headband held back Gracie’s light brown hair, the riotous curls reaching her waist.
Penelope couldn’t imagine the time and effort needed to take care of that much hair. Her father believed long hair was nothing more than vanity. Her mother—whose own hair was still kept in the same short, layered style she’d worn since her college graduation in 1970—thought it was too much work.
Touching the ends of her chin-length hair, Penelope set her elbow on the counter. Even after she’d been on her own, independent in every possible way, she’d never let her hair grow past her shoulders.
Almost as if she was trying to gain her parents’ approval.
Still.
She dropped her hand and straightened. Absurd. Years ago she’d realized she no longer needed to prove anything to her parents. She didn’t care what they thought of her if they were proud of her.
If they loved her.
She could grow her hair as long as she pleased. Could color it and wear makeup and dress in any manner she so chose.
Except thirty-eight counted as middle-aged. Long hair would now be inappropriate.
Wonderful. She was old, haggard, divorced and unappreciated by her only child. Gracie was right. She really did need a brownie.
With a soft aha, Gracie faced her, waving a small spatula in the air. “Molly says chocolate is the perfect food, good for any and all occasions. Celebrations...commiserations...breakups