Page 16 of Fire and Icing

“I’m on day seven,” I confess.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” she says. “No. That just won’t do. So, when are you planning on moving in?”

“I haven’t even seen your place,” I remind her.

“Details. Them’s just details. You’ll want to see it, of course. But I just know you’ll love it more than a hound dog loves nappin’ on a front porch in the sun.”

“I can come by after my shift. That’s at like 7:30 tomorrow morning. Is that too early?”

“Early? Heavens, no. I’m up with the birds. I’ll have a cup of coffee and something to eat here for you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, nonsense. You’re a young man and you fight fires. I know you need your food. Just let me feed you.”

“If you insist,” I say, smiling at her spunk.

In the strangest way, she reminds me of my mom, only at least twenty years older and with a little twang in place of Mom’s slang.

“I insist,” Mrs. Holt says. “I’ll see you in the mornin’, Dustin. You’re going to love your room.”

My room. Why do I already believe her?

I walk into the station. Cody’s already set our sandwiches, pickles and chips on plates. That’s one thing about firemen. They’re all about meals. Any one of us will take it on ourselves to cook or clean. We have a rotation, but we’re not shy about serving one another and sharing what we have. Only four days working here and I can already attest to that. With the exception of donuts. I chuckle to myself. We don’t like to share our donuts.

“How’d it go?” Cody asks.

“She told me I can come by in the morning to see my room. She’s going to cook me breakfast.”

“Man, maybe I ought to move off the ranch and take her up on the room.”

“Nope.” I grab my chair and pull it out. “That room is mine.”

Cody grins.

The next morning, I drive to Mrs. Holt’s home as soon as I leave the fire station. A tiny woman in her late sixties or early seventies greets me at the door with warm, grandmotherly energy.

“Well, Dustin. Aren’t you something? It’s a good thing I’ve got a king-sized bed down there. What do they feed y’all out in California? Redwoods?” Mrs. Holt laughs a hearty laugh, belying her size. “Come in. Come in.”

“Not redwoods, ma’am. I just eat a lot of protein. And I work out two hours a day.”

“I never could see the use in working out. I’m on the move a’plenty just doin’ my laundry and such. No need to lift weightswhen I’m hauling a mop and broom around. But to each his own.”

I smile, following her through the long entry hallway toward the back of the house. The house smells like cinnamon and apples—making me imagine it’s the kind of place where someone’s always baking something delicious.

There’s a stairway to the right of the foyer and a family room with dark carved wooden doors across from it. This house has character. Crown molding, a carved railing going up along the staircase, beveled baseboards—all stained to enhance the original wood. I peek into the family room. A bench seat is nestled within the bay window. A small TV that looks like it came with the house when it was built sits on a tray table across from an equally outdated recliner.

“That’s where I watch my shows,” Mrs. Holt says. “I do love my shows.General Hospital,The Young and the RestlessandTheBold and the Beautiful.I’ve been watchin’ them since they really were bold and beautiful.”

Mrs. Holt walks past a cutout in the hallway with a built-in. On the surface of the cabinet sits a bunch of what I assume are family photos in mismatched frames, some of the pictures yellowed with age.

One particular photo grabs my attention: a little redheaded girl grinning over a rolling pin. She’s on a stool at the counter, focused on the dough with an intensity that tells me baking is serious business to her. Another frame holds an image of a teenager at what must have been some sort of a baking contest. She’s covered in flour, holding up a pie in one hand and a blue ribbon in the other. Her smile overtakes her face.

I gesture at the frames. "Your granddaughter?"

Mrs. Holt answers me, her voice dripping with fondness. "Yes. My little sunshine. She’s here in Waterford too—I’ll introduce you one day. She’s as sweet as the treats she bakes—just a dash of allspice in that one. As it should be. She’s single too. Are you single?"

A nervous laugh escapes me. I’m not used to being put on the spot about my love life.

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