Page 11 of Playing With Fire

The Beecham family had suddenly become a lot more interesting.

“Let’s get going then, Mom. Latecomers have to sit in the front row. See, I do remember.”

This sudden cooperation earned him a sharp look from his mother.

Ricky threw her a fond smile, tamping down the wild optimism that surged through him. After all, Temple Mountain was a small place, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

And he would tell his parents everything, of course he would, once he something to tell. No point getting their hopes up.

His mother bustled off to get her coat, throwing last-minute instructions over her shoulder at her husband about eating a proper breakfast and not to even think about checking the storm windows or going down into basement.

Ricky headed for the front door. He reached for his leather jacket, pausing out of habit to peer at his reflection in the small mirror of the hallstand.

A stranger stared back. A shaggy-haired stranger with a watchful gaze and faint shadows under his eyes. Ricky raked his fingers through the unfamiliar thatch of thick dark hair. The functional, brutal buzz cut had disappeared, softening the hard angular lines of his face and the blunt, no-bullshit expression.

Now he looked...less like the heroic, larger-than-life firefighter gripping an axe, and more like the nice young man from the council who reminded people to pick up their dog poop.

And that was perfect.

***

As usual, Jodie only just made it to the early service. She slid into the back row next to Mrs. Bexhall as the congregation launched into the last verse of the jaunty opening song of worship.

Ida Bexhall wasn’t standing on account of needing her wheelie walker. These days she only made the effort of standing for the “Old Hundredth” and maybe the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” on Memorial Day if she was feeling especially spry.

Jodi smiled hello. The diminutive white-haired figure looked up guiltily from thumbing through her battered hymnal. The grey blue cloth-bound hardcover was barely holding together after eighty years, and Jodi knew there was no way that the snappy chorus now winding to a close was anywhere in Ida’s book.

“Couldn’t find the right page,” Ida whispered, flashing a conspiratorial grin.

Jodie winked.

There was a rustle and the soft hum of folks settling in as everyone sat down. Jodie knew for a fact that candy was being distributed amongst the very young and the very old, and that some fingers were itching to get back to the Wordle (which was especially tough today).

She relaxed as much as possible into the old oak pew and gave her attention to the pocket-sized figure of Rev. Hattie Beecham.

It was Hattie who had bounced into the offices of The Temple Mountain Monitor in early January, so bundled up in coat, hat, and scarf that her delicate face was a flash of smooth ebony skin and warm brown eyes.

Jodie had discovered fast that Hattie was a hard woman to say no to; initially for free advertising for a winter community fundraiser for the homeless shelter and later for helping out in person.

“Welcome,” Hattie began in her accented English. Her voice was surprisingly powerful for such a petite frame. She was finishing up with the church notices when a tall figure slid onto the pew next to Jodi, pulling off a FDNY navy beanie.

Ricky.

He threw Jodi a quick grin.

Jodi’s heart began hammering so loudly in her ears that even Ida Bexhall could probably hear it. Being a preacher’s granddaughter, Jodi’s frosty “you’re late” look was second nature.

On cue, Ida quickly abandoned her perusal of hymns ancient and modern. She threw the handsome newcomer what Jodi considered to be a rather saucy wink and nudged Jodi meaningfully.

Jodi closed her eyes briefly. She was guessing that the sight of one of Temple Mountain’s local-boy-made-good heroes (and bachelors) sitting with that sweet-but-prickly Jodi Ruskin was much more interesting than the church cleaning roster and the annual call-out for surplus winter clothing.

The congregation rose for another song, a contemporary re-do of a classic, and Ida perked up. She grabbed her vintage hymnal and joined in, but her eyes kept flicking towards the young couple beside her.

Jodi’s cheeks were burning. She knew from long experience that the grapevine would have the two of them engaged and the bride-to-be checking out wedding magazines before the day was done.

Who needs social media when the old black Bakelite handset still worked, she thought wryly. Had a proper ringtone too, as her grandfather pointed out, easy to hear, and the darn thing never ran out of battery or got lost down the back of the sofa.

Ricky sidled across to whisper in Jodi’s ear. The pleasant soap-and-spice scent of clean male mingled with the familiar church combination of damp wool, cough medicine, and furniture wax.

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