Page 13 of Playing With Fire

Jodi shivered, instantly regretting the vanity which had prompted the choice of her new light wool coat, a delicious teal with a matching paisley lining, instead of the sensible puffer jacket which apparently only came in battleship grey and even straight off the shelf smelled of coffee and donuts.

The season had changed, almost overnight. A light frost that was almost but not quite snow lay on the lower branches of the cluster of old fir trees standing between the church and the rectory. The hard, bare ground was littered with the last of the fall foliage, and the weak and pale sun held no warmth.

It was that time of year when only an optimist could have faith that spring bulbs still lurked beneath the soil, waiting patiently for the spring warmth.

A sudden and unexpected memory caught Jodi by surprise. Her mostly absent mother. Sitting on the window seat of the rectory living room, peering out at the monochrome landscape of early winter.

“There are two sorts of people, darling.”

The clear, confident tones of the woman who had long ago shucked off her small-town ways to embrace New York society had been unusually reflective, even for a woman still learning to be a widow. But then, coming back to Temple Mountain had always had that effect on Lucy-May Ruskin, née Trent.

“The ones whose hearts are energized by the coming of winter, who can’t wait to put on their coats and boots and gloves and run outside and stamp in icy puddles. That’s when they come alive.”

Lucy-May had laid her forehead against the cold glass. Her voice had been muffled.

“The other sort of person...their spirit wilts. They see only the darkness and the long cold months ahead.”

Jodi, a child still grieving for her father, had instantly understood two things. That her father, a merry, perhaps too-easygoing man, had belonged to the first group. And her mom? There was never any doubt to which group she belonged. Not when Lucy-May had taken off for the sunlight just as soon as she could decently leave her fatherless daughters with their grandfather.

Jodi blinked hard. Her cheeks tingled with cold and she shrugged off the slight melancholy that thinking about the past always caused. She was not her mother, not by a long shot.

She stuffed her chilly fingers into her coat pockets, wondering whether to chance the usual intensive interrogation about The Temple Mountain Monitor at the communal morning tea in the heated church hall—or to go directly to the rectory and risk being pressganged by the Beecham’s children into playing hide and seek before lunch.

“Can I interest you in a lovely firefighter calendar?” Ricky appeared at her side. “The puppies are really worth a look.”

Jodie tried to glare. She gave an unladylike hiccup of laughter instead. She quickly pulled him away from the knots of people chatting outside the church and further into the fir trees. Several sets of eyes followed them with interest.

“Thanks for putting me back in the spotlight of the town gossips,” she said lightly. “I don’t think Ida has enjoyed herself so much for ages.”

Ricky laughed. “I didn’t realize that you were a church regular,” he said.

His slow smile sent a shiver that was half excitement and half warning between Jodi’s shoulder blades. They were standing close enough for her to see the faint glint of stubble on his chin, and to get the full effect of those thick eyelashes. His deep-set eyes locked onto hers.

She was suddenly glad that she didn’t look like the Michelin man or smell like Dunkin Donuts.

“I wasn’t,” she admitted. “Not when Gramps was preaching. Sounds horrible, I know, but I got sick of people assuming I was some sort of unpaid lackey who would love to print off the church newsletter and take messages for my grandfather. And tired of hearing about the sins of my sister, ad nauseum.”

Ricky’s eyes drifted around the groups of people heading for the church hall.

She paused. “And I like the Beechams.”

He cocked his head, nodded thoughtfully. He stood quietly, hands in pockets, and Jodi had the sudden thought that Ricky, for all his keen eyes and commanding presence, could be a very...restful kind of person to be with. A man who wouldn’t drown her in words when she needed silence.

“I didn’t set out to get involved, but the Beechams—well, they have a way of drawing folks in from the highways and the byways.” Her smile was wry. “I dropped by one day to pick up some books that Gramps had left in his study—his former study, I mean—and the next thing I know I’m helping one of the twins with his homework while mushing up carrots for the baby.”

Ricky’s laugh was like the rest of him; warm, laid back.

More words came tumbling out. “It’s so simple really,” said Jodi. “They open their hearts, and you just walk straight in.”

She looked away quickly, suddenly embarrassed. Maybe Ricky was too easy to talk to. It wasn’t like her to let down her defenses.

“So.” Jodi took a breath and tried to focus on something less...personal. She pitched her voice to light and conversational.

“So...you catch the firebomber yet?”

He winced. “Arsonist, please. Mischief-maker, perhaps.” He looked unconvinced. “The Chief will have my hide if Homeland Security starts running around Temple Mountain. No, Ms. Acting Editor, that particular crime wave is ongoing.”

His gaze narrowed. “Though I’m surprised that nobody has complained to the acting editor of the local newspaper. Sounds right up your alley.”

---