Page 67 of Playing With Fire

Ricky put his cup down with a thump. The cake was lead in his stomach.

“This is only going to cause you more pain,” he said thickly. He began to rise to his feet, suddenly desperate to be gone from this place of memories and mourning.

“Sit down son,” said Tom briskly. “Spit it out. We’re not breakable, and the truth is that it gives us great pleasure to talk about Chrissie with people who knew her and loved her. She brought us and so many others such a lot of joy.”

Molly’s smile was warm. “Lord yes. We often think about that weekend when Christine brought you down to the cottage at Canandaigua Lake. You remember, when that, what was it now...that newt came into the bedroom? I never heard a man yell so loud.”

Ricky grinned. Oh, yeah, he remembered the strange little orange creature which turned out to be an Eastern Newt but had looked just like a snake at first glance.

Everyone, including all the other folks who had cottages on the Lake, had found the sight of the six foot plus would-be firefighter tearing out onto the deck in his shorts endlessly amusing.

“They are probably still laughing about that.”

Tom collected the coffee pot, and he filled Ricky’s cup without asking.

Ricky felt himself relaxing. Why hadn’t he visited these people before, sought them out as soon as he realised that Chrissie was dead?

Guilt, cowardice? Both, if was honest.

Tom helped himself to more cake, and Ricky did the same. The sweet aroma of fresh baking was familiar, comforting. Ricky took a deep breath. His heart began thudding painfully against his ribs.

“I need to tell you something.”

His carefully prepared speech, the one which skated over the fact that he was the one who had found Chrissie, and which focused on what he had discovered between the pages of her sketchbook—a rambling self-serving discourse which might prepare Tom and Molly for the shock—dissolved into nothing.

“Chrissie had a baby—a girl.” Ricky swallowed. The words fell into a silence that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. His lungs labored with the effort of breathing.

“My child. And Chrissie surrendered the baby for adoption right here in Temple Mountain.”

Chapter Eleven

Was the grilled parmesan on top a mistake? Would the fresh herbs in the mash look fancified?

Friday night arrived at the same unforgiving speed as the last community dinner, and Ricky had to scramble to get his cottage pie cooked and cooled in time. It sure wasn’t the same recipe that his mom used, but then, she hadn’t consulted the internet for inspiration.

He was still trying to untangle his thoughts about his imploding life as he stared at the crispy pie and inhaled that delicious, homey smell.

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