Page 30 of Playing With Fire

For the next ten minutes the conversation was entirely taken up with talk about the incredible dangers of fighting fires and the bravery and strength required of firefighters. Alma moved her assessment of Ricky up a few notches—especially after he promised to let her sit in the driver’s seat of the firetruck the next time she was downtown.

They had just finished discussing how to carry a Rottweiler down a ladder (don’t try this at home) when the Miata pulled up at the church hall. Jodi steered carefully down the narrow access lane to the back door.

People spilled out the door with cries of welcome. There was a brief tangle of limbs as the food and other supplies were unloaded. Ricky finally staggered to his feet with the lasagna in both arms.

“That smells divine.” Jodi inhaled the fragrance of tomato, meat, cheese, and pasta. She sniffed. “Ummm...garlic, basil, and what’s that other herb? Oregano or maybe tarragon?”

She grinned when she spotted a slight shiftiness in his eyes.

“Gotcha. So you got your mom to make it. I knew it.”

Despite the heavy dish, Ricky managed to slip one arm around her waist. Her heart began thudding like the newspaper presses of yesteryear, and her knees were dangerously weak.

She really ought to get out more, she told herself briskly. A good-looking firefighter comes to town, and she was putty in his hands.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Ricky whispered in her ear. “I did not get my poor overworked mom to make it. I was...unavoidably detained at the old folks’ home —” He ignored Jodi’s snort. “An informative session with Ms. Bonnie Browning, followed by forty minutes trying to explain to an elderly gentleman that county law forbids smoking indoors in public institutions, and that the fact that his brother-in-law was on the town council didn’t matter a hill of beans.”

Ricky huffed out frosty air, sending a shiver of goosebumps down Jodi’s neck. He inched infinitesimally closer. “Only realized when I was leaving that the old coot had taken out his hearing aids. Anyways...I called my dad and asked him to get started on dinner, and by the time I got home it was in the oven. Haven’t seen the old boy so chuffed for ages.”

His hair was tickling her cheek.

“So what do you think of that, Ms. Acting Editor?” he murmured. “Worth a frontpage story?”

“Man Makes Lasagna?”

She put her finger to her bottom lip and pretended to consider the question. Happiness welled up inside her, and her heart was fluttering in her chest like a captured bird. She forced herself to project an air of cool sophistication, as though harmless flirtation with handsome men was pretty much part of her job.

“Hmmm...any story is purely speculative at this point since the lasagna has not been taste-tested. Maybe for the next Mindfulness and Wellbeing feature, or possibly the recipe page, though the fact that it contains gluten, dairy, and meat could be problematic.”

Her smile was angelic.

“But if you don’t get that lasagna inside in thirty seconds, the front-page story will be about the food riot at the church hall.”

***

The free Friday night community supper at Temple Mountain Community Church had always been popular, especially in the dark months when the pandemic was decimating local businesses. Now that life had returned to the “new normal”, people still turned up to share what had become a regular event.

Of course, few knew better than the newspaper editor that the town was made of villains and heroes, with most folk somewhere in between, but on the whole Jodi was proud of the Temple Mountain community for holding together.

And of the volunteers, she reminded herself when she finally paused for breath. She looked around the half-empty hall. Her hands were full of scrunched up paper tablecloth and stained napkins.

She puffed at the corona of dark blond curls over her eyes which had escaped from her ponytail. Her cheeks, she knew, would be flushed from heat and exertion, and there were spots of sauce on her jeans.

But Jodi had learned not to fuss. No place here for egos. Serving food, chatting, manhandling pots and dishes, and lugging tubs of washing-up to the huge sinks and commercial dishwashers (thank you, Lord!).

She glanced through the wide server hatch to the kitchen, where the volunteers were milling around with dishcloths and chatting ten to the dozen. The last guests, as Silas insisted on calling their customers, were slowly filtering from the heated hall to the now frigid street where nobody was inclined to linger.

Ricky had fit right in. Even better, he had kept his eye on Alma while Jodi helped at the check-in desk and flitted around doing any number of tasks. He had manned the bain-marie with good humor and used his authoritative manner whenever things looked to be getting out of hand or when the gravy looked to be running out.

Even the twins were watching their step, she observed. Jodi’s gaze rested briefly on the tousled heads whispering in the corner. In fact, Judah and Josh were actively avoiding the newcomer. Male authority figures tended to have that effect on them.

She swiped at the tables with a damp cloth, watching Ricky under her lashes as he chatted with a couple of the regular homeless folk lingering in the warmth.

She cocked her head. Ricky was listening rather than talking. Nodding, concentrating, like what they were saying was worthy of his full attention.

Huh. Made sense.

Jodi wished she’d thought of talking to the town’s less visible citizens herself.

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