Page 8 of The Fire Between Us

"That's very generous," I manage, taking a bite of pumpkin bread to hide my emotion. "This is delicious, by the way."

"The secret is extra nutmeg," Mrs. Gunderson confides, still bouncing a contented Amelia. "Now tell me, where are you staying? Have you found a place yet?"

"We're at the Cedar Inn Motel for now," I reply. "I'm hoping to find an apartment once I have a few paychecks."

Mrs. Gunderson's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "You know, Ethel Beaumont's rental cottage on Spruce Street just became available. It's small, but it has a fenced yard and comes partially furnished. Much cozier than that motel for a little one."

My heart quickens at the possibility. "That sounds perfect. Do you know how I could contact her?"

"Ethel plays bridge with me on Thursdays," Mrs. Gunderson says. "I'd be happy to mention you're looking."

"I'd appreciate that immensely."

Max, who's been quiet during this exchange, straightens from his lounging position.

"The Beaumont cottage is nice," he offers. "Fixed her porch steps last spring. Solid little place, good insulation for winter. Not too expensive, either."

There's something in the way he says it—casual but specific, like he knows I'm calculating costs in my head—that makes me wonder how much he's piecing together about my situation.

"Well!" Mrs. Gunderson says, handing Amelia back to me. "Why don't you bring this little sweetheart by tomorrow morning before your shift? We'll have a trial day, see how she settles in."

"Really? That would be wonderful." The relief is so profound I feel momentarily lightheaded.

"It's settled then," she says with the crisp decisiveness of someone used to managing classrooms. "Max, be a dear and write down my phone number for Jennie while I pack up some of this bread for her to take."

Max dutifully jots his former teacher's number on a floral notepad, then tears off the sheet and hands it to me.

"She means it about the cottage," he says quietly while Mrs. Gunderson busies herself in the kitchen. "Mrs. G doesn't make offers she doesn't intend to follow through on."

"I'm beginning to get that impression," I reply, tucking the paper into my pocket. "Everyone here seems so..."

"Nosy?" Max supplies with a grin.

"I was going to say 'helpful'," I correct him, though his assessment isn't entirely wrong.

"Small town," he shrugs. "People look out for each other. It takes some getting used to if you're from somewhere bigger."

I don't tell him that what takes getting used to is kindness without conditions and help without a price tag. That's not something I've encountered much in recent years, regardless of town size.

Mrs. Gunderson returns with a small bag containing several slices of pumpkin bread.

"For later," she insists, pressing it into my free hand. "Growing girls need proper nutrition, and I suspect you've been too busy getting settled to cook proper meals."

Again, that piercing accuracy. I wonder if all teachers develop this uncanny ability to read situations or if Mrs. Gunderson is particularly perceptive.

"Thank you," I say, truly grateful. "For everything."

"My pleasure, dear." She walks us to the door, stopping to straighten a gnome that's listing slightly to the left. "See you tomorrow morning. Shall we say 5:45?"

"Perfect," I confirm, shifting Amelia to my hip and adjusting my purse and the bread bag. "We'll be here."

As we start back down the gnome-lined path, Max beside me, I feel a curious mixture of relief and apprehension. So many kindnesses in one morning—it makes me nervous, like I'm accumulating a debt I'll eventually have to pay.

"You okay with finding your way back?" Max asks as we reach the sidewalk. "I should probably get some sleep before my shift tonight."

"We'll be fine," I assure him, needing him to know I'm not completely helpless. "Thank you for introducing us. It was... incredibly kind."

He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed by the gratitude. "It was nothing. Just being neighborly."

---