Page 7 of The Fire Between Us

Jennie's laughter is genuine and unguarded, and the sound has my heart racing like a teenager with no control.

"Should I just knock, or...?" she asks as we approach the house.

"She'll be thrilled to have visitors," I assure her. "Fair warning—she'll probably try to feed you. She was my high school English teacher, and she's been trying to fatten me up for the last decade."

I lead the way up the neat garden path, careful to step between gnomes, and knock on the bright blue door. Almost immediately, it swings open to reveal Mrs. Gunderson, her silver hair in its usual perfect bun, wearing an apron that says, "I like big books, and I cannot lie."

"Max Davidson!" she exclaims, delighted. "What a wonderful surprise! And who have you brought to visit me?"

"Mrs. G, this is Jennie and her daughter Amelia," I introduce them. "They just moved to town, and Jennie's looking for childcare options. I thought you might be able to help."

Mrs. Gunderson beams at them. "Well, aren't you a precious pair! Come in, come in. I just made pumpkin bread, and I need honest opinions."

As we step inside, I catch Jennie's eye. She mouths a silent "thank you" that makes me feel like I've done something more significant than showing her the way to a potential babysitter.

And for the first time since spotting her in the motel breakfast room, I allow myself to wonder if maybe—just maybe—getting to know Jennie and Amelia might be worth complicating my uncomplicated life.

Chapter 3 - Jennie

I've always prided myself on my ability to read people. It's a survival skill, one I've honed over years of gauging Derek's moods, of knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. But Max Davidson is proving difficult to categorize.

"So, you're looking for childcare?" Mrs. Gunderson asks as she bustles around her kitchen, cutting thick slices of pumpkin bread that smells like autumn incarnate. "For this little angel?"

Amelia, perched on my lap at the round oak table, reaches eagerly for the plate set before us. I gently redirect her hand.

"Yes," I reply, keeping my voice light. "I just got a job at Lou's Diner and start tomorrow morning."

"Oh, Lou's is wonderful!" Mrs. Gunderson exclaims. "He still makes those cinnamon rolls on Sundays?"

"I don’t know," I say, glancing at Max who's leaning against the doorframe, watching our exchange with a relaxed ease that I envy.

"They're worth breaking any diet for," Max confirms, accepting a slice of pumpkin bread with a grateful nod. "Mrs. G, Jennie was hoping you might be able to watch Amelia occasionally. I mentioned you've helped out other parents in town."

Mrs. Gunderson sits down across from me, her bright blue eyes—remarkably similar to Max's, I realize—assessing Amelia with experienced warmth.

"I'd be delighted to help," she says. "After forty years of teaching, retirement is sometimes too quiet. How old is she? About fifteen months?"

"Fourteen," I reply, impressed with her accuracy. "She's a good baby. Not fussy, and she's already sleeping through the night."

"All important qualifications," Mrs. Gunderson smiles. "May I?" She holds out her arms to Amelia.

I hesitate only briefly before transferring Amelia across the table. It's a test I've learned to set for myself—allowing others to hold her, to touch her. Normal mothers do this. Normal mothers don't flinch every time someone reaches for their child.

Amelia goes willingly to Mrs. Gunderson, immediately fascinated by the colorful beaded necklace the older woman wears.

"When would you need care?" Mrs. Gunderson asks, bouncing Amelia gently.

"I'm scheduled for breakfast and lunch shifts, 6 AM to 2 PM, Tuesday through Saturday," I explain. "But I understand if that's too much or too early."

"Nonsense! I've been a morning person for sixty years," Mrs. Gunderson says. "Can't break the habit now. This could work perfectly—you drop her off on your way to work, I get my baby fix during the day, and by afternoon, we're both free to enjoy other activities."

It seems too simple, too perfect. I've learned to be suspicious of things that come easily.

"What would you charge?" I ask hesitantly, mentally reviewing my meager savings. I'd calculated daycare costs in my budget, but finding an opening had been my bigger concern.

Mrs. Gunderson waves her hand dismissively. "We can work something out that's fair for both of us. Far less than that daycare center, I can promise you that."

I blink rapidly, fighting the unexpected sting of tears. After months of nothing going right, of doors closing and paths narrowing, this one thing—this essential thing—might actually work out.

---