Читать книгу Charming the Firefighter - Beth Andrews - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

“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 and makeups...”

Using the spatula, Gracie cut into the dessert, whacking away at the chocolate all willy-nilly so that a few brownies were huge, a few were tiny and none were all-four-sides-are-perfectly-equal squares, as brownies should be.

Curling her fingers into her palms, it was all Penelope could do not to grab the pan and save her dessert from such butchery. How difficult was it to cut straight, neat lines?

Gracie dug out a huge, misshapen brownie and set it on a napkin. “Here you go.”

Penelope glanced from the dessert in Gracie’s hand up to the cheery, expectant grin on her face. “Thank you.”

Then she broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth because Molly—Penelope’s neighbor and Gracie’s stepmother—was right. There was never any occasion that didn’t go well with chocolate.

Even occasions such as suffering first-degree facial burns, being ditched by your own son, and, oh, yes, being alone while everyone else had somewhere to go and people who actually wanted to spend the day with them.

The bite stuck in her throat so she took another one to try to push it down. No need to feel sorry for herself. She was fine. Things could have been much worse, after all. She was healthy and whole and not seriously injured.

She ran her fingertips over her eyebrows. Still there.

See? She was just dandy.

But she’d been careless. Stupid. She really could have been seriously injured. Or killed.

All because she’d let her emotions get in the way of her good sense. Had let Andrew’s behavior and attitude upset her to the point where she’d been unable to think of anything else.

She couldn’t be an effective parent if she took things so personally. If she let him hurt her feelings or make her angry. Composure. Control. Those were the traits she needed to focus on. They would help her do her job of raising a productive, well-adjusted, hardworking human being. One she could send out into society without guilt, doubts, regrets or fear.

She shoved more brownie into her mouth. It wasn’t helping. Maybe chocolate didn’t make things better. What she needed, she decided on a brilliant flash of insight, was another glass of wine.

And possibly one of the Valiums she’d been prescribed during the worst of Andrew’s illness. Of course, she’d had way too much pride to ever take any of the pills. Pride that was currently crumbling faster than her brownie.

Wine was definitely the lesser of the two evils.

She slipped off the stool and crossed to the table, snagging her glass and the bottle. On her return trip she wove a bit, her steps not exactly steady. Perhaps Andrew was right. Perhaps she had imbibed a little too much alcohol.

Except she didn’t feel drunk. She felt quite good—other than her twinges of self-pity, her stinging face and her sore rear from landing so hard. She certainly wasn’t acting drunk. No dancing topless on the table, no wearing a lamp shade on her head. She had complete control still.

She set down the bottle, then sipped from her glass. Glanced over to see Gracie staring at the pan of brownies with undisguised longing. “Would you like one?”

Gracie smiled and it lit her entire face. She wasn’t what Penelope would call a pretty girl—took one plain Jane to know a plain Jane, after all—but she was cute with her wild hair and big gray eyes.

“I’d love one, but I’m a vegan. I don’t eat any meat products, and that includes eggs and dairy. Well,” she continued, as if Penelope had asked her to go on, which she definitely had not, “actually, I only decided to start practicing veganism last week. My dad, of course, thinks it’s stupid, but then he’s a carnivore right down to the barbaric practice of hunting animals—like going out and shooting a helpless deer makes him some sort of alpha male. Molly says it’s his way of providing for his family, but I figure it’s easier and costs less for him to go down to Pineview Market and pick up a package of ground beef, you know?”

No, Penelope didn’t know. Just as she didn’t know how to respond to Gracie. How to act or react with the girl around. She was much happier on her own, taking care of herself and Andrew. She didn’t need or want help.

“I’m not sure—”

“Besides, no one I know even likes the taste of the animals he brings home. I mean, who eats rabbit, squirrel or venison? If it was that good, they’d have it in the stores, am I right? But he just laughs, like my beliefs and ideas are some big joke, so I decided to counterbalance his overabundance of meat consumption by going vegan.” Gracie slid another longing look at the brownies. “I’ve been good, too. I mean, Friday it was super hard because I forgot my lunch and it was pizza day—which is the only decent food they serve at school—but I held firm and I was really proud of my willpower.”

“Well,” Penelope said, shifting in her seat. Did the girl want a pat on the back or the go-ahead to forget her convictions this one time? “If you’re sure—”

“Then again, I haven’t eaten dinner yet on account of my entire family going to my grandmother’s for a picnic, which, let me tell you, Molly was not happy about. Not that I blame her. Grandma can be so mean. Like last time she actually told Molly she was gaining too much weight even though she’s the same size she’s been at this stage with all the other pregnancies. Molly started crying, right then and there, and Dad just sort of stood there like he had no clue what to do or say. I mean, how hard is it? Your mother insulted your wife. Your pregnant wife. The woman who popped out five—and counting—sons for you. Say something. But he didn’t so I had to step in and then I got in trouble for being mouthy and disrespectful to my grandmother. Where’s the justice in that?”

Was Penelope supposed to answer that? “Thanks again for helping me. I really am feeling—”

“So, I’m sure a brownie would make me feel way better about being abandoned on a holiday by my own family,” Gracie continued, as if she had no intention of ever running out of steam, breath or words. “And it’s not like you actually told me you used eggs or butter to make these.”

She stared at Penelope as if waiting for something. Penelope had no idea what. Denial? Confirmation? She couldn’t read minds, after all, and was horrible at deciphering expressions. Oh, how she hated these situations. Social situations, which, oddly enough, this one definitely qualified as. She was always insecure and out of her element. It didn’t help that her hair smelled singed and the pleasant, buzzed feeling she’d had was fading to a pounding headache.

She gulped more wine, then refilled her glass.

She could tell Gracie that of course she’d used butter and eggs. Who made brownies without those ingredients? And why would you want to?

But she respected the girl’s determination to stick to her guns and eat healthy.

Plus, if she told Gracie the brownies were definitely not vegan-friendly, maybe, just maybe, the girl would leave, go to her own house.

Her empty house. Then they would both be alone.

How depressing was that?

“No,” Penelope finally said, “I didn’t tell you there were animal products in the brownies.”

“In that case, and without any verbal proof or confirmation, I’ll have a small one.” Wrinkling her nose, Gracie nodded. “Half a one. Just a bite, really.” She cut a tiny piece from the pan and ate it. “Two bites. Two bites can’t hurt, right?”

“Thanks, again, for the help,” Penelope said, standing so she could usher the girl out the door. “I don’t want to keep you from this gorgeous, sunny day.”

Gracie waved that away. And ate another bite of brownie. “I was just reading in my room. I have to be careful because I burn really easily and with all the new research on the hazards of too much sun exposure, I prefer to stay inside.”

Penelope hung her head. She felt foggy. Her thoughts not quite clear. If they were, she’d be able to think of a way to get rid of Gracie—in a polite, careful manner, of course. Her ears started to ring. No, she thought, frowning, not ring, more like...blare.

Like...she lifted her head, her eyes wide. Sirens.

“You called 911?” she asked, incredulous and horrified at the very idea, even as the small part of her brain that was still functioning logically wondered why it had taken the emergency responders so long to arrive. Definitely something she needed to take into account if something ever happened to Andrew.

Gracie, in the act of eating yet another brownie, dropped the spatula guiltily. Nodded. “When I was outside turning off the gas to the grill.”

Penelope checked her watch, squinting to make out the numbers. Approximately eight minutes for them to get here from across town. Not bad, she had to admit. Though five minutes would have been better.

The siren got louder. And louder. Closer and closer.

She did a mini twirl, her mind telling her to escape, her feet having no idea what she was doing. No. No, no, no. The last thing she needed was everyone in Shady Grove knowing she’d done something so completely stupid. And they would. She’d lived here for less than a year, but she already knew the paper was notorious for printing things like this, usually smack-dab on the front page.

Oh, dear Lord, she could imagine the headlines: Local Accountant Left Heartbroken and Alone After Son Refuses to Spend Time With Her. Almost Blows Her Own Head Off to End Her Grief.

She’d die of embarrassment.

No. She definitely did not want the fire department here, parked in her driveway for the entire neighborhood to see. Did not want them trying to help her. She was fine. Slightly charred, yes, but overall no real harm done.

The sirens were close now, the sound incredibly loud. Gracie hurried toward the front door as if she owned the place, her flip-flops slapping in the most irritating way.

“This way,” she told someone.

A moment later, she returned followed by a tall, darkly handsome firefighter—in boots, a heavy jacket and even a helmet—looking as if he was ready to battle a raging inferno instead of dealing with a now stone-cold grill.

“This is a nightmare,” Penelope whispered, shutting her eyes. “A complete and utter nightmare.”

“Are you kidding?” Gracie asked breathlessly, her eyes dreamy as she stared at the good-looking man. “If I’d known the local firefighters looked like that, I would’ve let that stove fire keep burning last year instead of putting it out with the extinguisher.”

Penelope doubted all the firefighters in town looked like the one approaching her. He was one of those guys. Too handsome, with dark, wavy hair visible underneath the helmet, deep brown eyes and a charming, boyish grin.

One that said, why yes, I do know I’m God’s gift to women. Drink it in, ladies. Drink it in.

The worst kind to a woman’s sense of self, willpower and virtue.

Not her, of course. Other women. She was too old for him. Had too many responsibilities and more important things to focus on in her life other than dating or, heaven forbid, a relationship.

Especially when she’d already proved she wasn’t any good at them.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m Leo Montesano with the Shady Grove Fire Department. Could you tell us where the grill is?”

Ma’am. See? Even he knew she was too old for him.

Why she was disappointed and a little ticked off, she had no idea.

It must have been that disappointment that had her taking a moment to realize what he’d asked—and that he wasn’t alone. A huge bear of a man, his wide face as ordinary as the dark-haired one’s was extraordinary, stood behind the younger firefighter.

All she could do was lift her hand and point to the door.

“I’m on it,” the second fireman said, heading out the French doors.

“Could you tell me what happened?” Firefighter Montesano—or whatever title he went by—asked, taking his helmet off.

Even mussed, his hair was perfect, dark as night and waving sinfully, almost artfully, around that sculpted face.

“I was reading in my room,” Gracie blurted, stepping between them. “I had the window open because it’s such a nice day, when Leighann—that’s my best friend—called. She was upset, again, over her boyfriend. I was talking her through yet another romantic crisis—I mean, it’s obvious he only wants in her pants so I’m not sure why she’s so shocked each and every time they’re alone and he tries something and then he gets mad and storms off when she says no.” She frowned at the firefighter. “Are all guys like that? Or is it just a teenage thing? Because most of my friends have the same problem.”

Shedding his jacket, the firefighter raised his eyebrows at that overload of information, but didn’t seem embarrassed by the question. “I’m going to respectfully decline to answer that.”

She sighed as if in resignation—or else she was simply taking in the firefighter in all his six-foot-plus glory. And what glory it was. Broad shoulders, narrow waist and biceps that proved the man spent a great deal of time in the gym.

“Fine.” Gracie shrugged. “I’m only trying to get some insight into the inner workings of the adolescent male brain.”

He grinned and yes, it was even more potent than Penelope would have imagined.

“Believe me,” he told Gracie. “The last place you want to go poking around is a teenage boy’s mind.”

“Amen,” Penelope muttered so fervently she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a choir of angels drift down from the heavens to sing it with her.

Then again, if she could see into Andrew’s head, she might have a better idea why he hated her so much.

Sending that devastating grin her way, the firefighter helped her sit.

“Anyway,” Gracie said, “I was telling Leighann she needed to dump him when there was this big boom—”

“It wasn’t that big—” Penelope interjected.

“It was! It shook the windows. I hung up on Leighann and hurried over. By the time I got here, Ms. Denning was awake but like, stunned. The grill wasn’t burning or anything so after I helped her inside, I shut it off and called 911.”

“Smart thinking,” the firefighter told her.

“When you have five brothers under the age of eight, you learn the ins and outs of fire safety. The twins especially are fascinated with anything that burns. Or explodes,” Gracie said, helping herself to another brownie. “Still, I was terrified I’d find poor Ms. Denning dead or in flames when I got here.”

Poor Ms. Denning?

Penelope shut her eyes. She’d been called many things in her life—smart, reserved, aloof. Cold. But never poor Penelope. Not when she’d been a child and had moved ten times before her fourteenth birthday, forced to attend a new school almost every year, always the new, awkward girl no one wanted to sit with at lunch. Not when her marriage had fallen apart and Todd had found comfort in the arms of another woman. Not even when her son was so sick that many people, including his doctors, feared he wouldn’t make it.

She wasn’t someone to be pitied.

“I’d offer you a brownie,” Gracie said to the firefighter, “but I can see you take your physical health very seriously and probably don’t eat sweets or junk food or anything that, you know, tastes good. How many hours a day do you work out?”

Penelope caught his gaze. “Make it stop,” she whispered. “For the love of God, make it all stop.”

His grin broadened and he knelt in front of her. “I take it you’re Ms. Denning?”

“Yes. Penelope Denning.” She’d gone back to her maiden name a few months ago when her ex-husband had remarried. She hadn’t felt right being Mrs. Freeman anymore. Not when another woman also claimed that title.

She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montesano.”

A look of bemusement in his dark eyes, he shook her hand. His grasp was firm and warm. “You, too, Ms. Denning. And Leo is fine.”

She wondered if he was related to the people who ran Montesano Construction, a successful contracting firm in town. She assumed so, but hated to assume anything, and asking felt like prying. Small talk was part of the world, part of living and breathing and sharing the planet with other human beings.

It should be reserved for certain situations—workplace gatherings, social interactions such as parties and bridal showers that one couldn’t get out of, and horrendous first, second and third dates.

But small talk should not be a part of her day off.

“Look straight ahead for me.” He shone a light in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Stupid. Helpless. Both of which she hated. “I’m fine. Gracie is making it out to be worse than it was.”

“She was acting spacey,” Gracie said, peering around Leo’s arm, her mouth twisted in contemplation. “I think she may have been in shock.”

“I’m not in shock.” Penelope looked at the firefighter. “I’m not in shock. All of this fuss isn’t necessary.” Yes, she sounded a bit...strident...but it couldn’t be helped. “I did not almost die. I did not suffer any internal injuries or head trauma. All I want is to curl up on the sofa and relax.”

Her voice broke at the end, a low, desperate sound that could have been misconstrued as a sob. It was horrifying. Humiliating.

She simply wanted to be left alone.

Now a bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She clamped her lips together to make sure it didn’t escape. She’d lost her mind. That was the only excuse for her roller-coaster emotions. For wanting to be alone when she spent so much of her time on her own.

When she spent so much time being lonely.

The events of the past hour started pressing down on her, pushing on her chest, an unbearable weight forcing the air from her lungs. She felt her composure, her control slipping, sliding away from her grasp, faint as a wisp of smoke. Tears stung her eyes, made her throat ache.

“I think I left my cell phone on the deck,” she blurted, praying her phone—safely tucked in her pocket—didn’t ring. She looked at Gracie. “Would you mind looking for it?”

“No problem.” But she seemed reluctant to leave. “I’ll be right back.”

Gracie stepped outside and Penelope grabbed Leo’s hand and tugged him forward so their faces were only inches apart.

“Help me,” she whispered, her voice ragged and more than a little desperate. “Please, please help me.”