Page 10 of Playing With Fire

“You sound good this morning, hon,” she said cheerfully. “Why, you hardly coughed at all last night.”

Ricky watched, his face set, as his father lowered himself to the table. The towering figure of his boyhood, who could labor over the heavy, hot machinery for ten hours and then come home and take his son down to the basketball court was gone.

His father winced slightly at the limp toast his wife handed him. Ricky didn’t blame him one bit.

According to Lottie, the doctor was cautiously optimistic that Herbie’s lungs were finally on the mend. Ricky wasn’t so sure.

“You taking your mom to church?”

Ricky released a silent growl.

He already knew about Hell, didn’t need a lecture on the subject thanks very much.

Sudden, unprovoked rage—which he had been working so hard to control, had thought he had controlled—flooded back.

Hell? Oh yeah.

Try standing helplessly in the fierce, crackling heat of an out-of-control fire, he wanted to shout—knowing that there were people stuck inside the building you couldn’t save. Maybe the guy in there was the buddy who had handed you your coffee a couple of hours ago.

His anger faded as quickly as it had appeared.

He looked down at the open, hopeful faces of his parents. Inwardly sighed. Practiced his deep breathing. An hour of standing and sitting wouldn’t kill him, and he knew that his mom was dying to show him off.

And Jodi Ruskin might be there.

A tingle of anticipation crawled across Ricky’s chest, followed by a rush of pleasurable warmth. Lord knows he wasn’t looking for romance, but he was sure that he hadn’t simply imagined the spark between them.

He smiled. After all, Jodi Ruskin was an important source of local knowledge, perfectly placed to provide insight into who might be the budding arsonist. It was his duty to follow up with an interview, maybe over lunch.

Was it too much to hope that shakshuka might be on the menu in downtown Temple Mountain?

“Sure thing.” Ricky put down the toast thankfully. He wrapped a long arm around his mother’s shoulders and inhaled the familiar scent of laundry soap and hair spray. His mother’s face creased with pleasure, and he felt a surge of pure love and gratitude.

“As long as you promise not to invite any single women back for lunch.” His voice wobbled a tad, and he cleared his throat.

His father’s laugh whistled through cramped lungs. “If you go to church, you at least get to pick.”

Herbie glanced at his old watch, now loose on his bony wrist. No smart phone constantly telling the time in a perky voice and pinging with the latest weather report and stock market update for Herbie Sharp.

“Better get going if you want to catch the early service. Otherwise you get ol’ Bob Ruskin yammering on about the glorious past. I sure don’t remember the past that way.”

This was a long speech. Ricky and his mother turned in surprise.

“I thought you liked Rev. Bob?” said Lottie. “You told me it was a mistake to let that new couple come in and change everything.”

Herbie shook his head. “Maybe I was wrong. Bob Ruskin ought to see the writing on the wall. Take the gold watch and learn golf.”

Lottie huffed. “As if the church can afford to give anyone a gold watch. Have you seen the state of the rectory? It’s a disgrace.”

Herbie’s breath was labored. “That’s my point,” he whispered. “Bob Ruskin had his day. Now it’s time for new folks to come in. Do things differently.”

Ricky rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He pointed to the table, which was all set for five people for the traditional Sunday roast lunch.

“So, the new pastors are coming?” he repeated, steeling himself for the response and mentally farewelling the combined delights of Jodi and shakshuka. It was the last thing he felt like, making polite conversation with not one but two ministers and fending off requests to join the gardening roster or help paint the vestry.

His mother smiled and shook her head. “My goodness me, Ricky Sharp. Don’t you listen to a word I say? Silas and Hattie Beecham have three children, last time I counted. No, wait, they have a new foster child now, bless them. It’s hard to keep track.”

She went on to name a couple of old friends whom she had invited to lunch, but Ricky had heard enough.

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