Page 17 of Embers in Autumn
“You signed up to save lives,” Santos shot back, smirking. “Sometimes that means saving wedding albums from mildew.”
The rookie, Connor, groaned from where he sat on an overturned bucket, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Do people really keep that much junk in their basements?”
“Kid,” Mike said, dropping onto the bench beside him, “half our job is hauling people’s ‘junk’ out of trouble. Get used to it.”
Despite the weariness, laughter rippled through the group. The day had wrung us out, but the kind of exhaustion you shared with your crew always sat easier than the kind you carried alone.
Later, when the last call was logged and gear stowed, we piled into a corner booth at O’Malley’s, the local bar a block from the station. The place smelled of fried food and beer, the wooden tables carved with decades of initials. We looked like a pack of drowned rats, but the bartender didn’t bat an eye, just dropped pitchers and glasses on the table.
“Here’s to another day of glamorous hero work,” Mike said, raising his glass.
“May tomorrow be drier,” Santos added.
We drank, and the sharp bite of beer washed away some of the grit. The conversation turned to the usual—gripes about the rookie, jokes about who snored loudest in the bunkroom, the eternal debate about the best burger in town. I chimed in when needed, but mostly I let their voices roll over me, steady and familiar.
By the time I stepped out into the damp night air, the storm had softened to a drizzle. I pulled out my phone and called Lana.
She answered on the second ring, her voice bright.
“Dad!”
“Hey, bug. You doing all right?”
“Yeah. Aunt Sarah made spaghetti, and Uncle Andrew let me help close the shop. It was fun.”
“Good,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”
After she hung up, Sarah took the phone. Her voice had the warmth of someone who had been carrying me along for years without ever making me feel like a burden.
“You sound tired,”she said.
“It’s been a long stretch,” I admitted. “How’s everything there?”
“Busy,”she said.“The rain had half the town running in for flowers. People must think marigolds will keep the water out.”She laughed softly.“Andrew and I can’t complain, though. Business is good.”
“You’ve always made it good,” I said honestly. Sarah had been more than a sister. When Lana was two and her mother walked out, it was Sarah who stepped in. She babysat when I worked double shifts, she cooked meals when I couldn’t, she whispered encouragement when I was sure I was failing. Without her, I wasn’t sure I would have made it through those first years of single fatherhood.
“Listen,” I said, the words heavier on my tongue than they should have been. “Do you think you could make up a bouquet for me? Something nice. Elegant.”
There was a pause. Then a teasing lilt in her voice.“Dean Bennett, are you telling me you want to send flowers to a woman?”
“Maybe,” I said, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth.
“You’ve never sent anyone flowers.”
“Maybe this one’s worth it.”
The line was quiet for a moment, then Sarah’s voice softened. “I’ll make it perfect. Where am I sending it?”
“The bookstore,” I said. “Downtown.”
“Got it.”
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and headed inside again. The place was louder now, Friday-night energy. Our table in the corner still held the crew, glasses refilled, laughter rolling like thunder.
Mike spotted me and smirked, leaning back with his arms spread wide across the booth. “Well, well. Look who’s got that faraway look in his eyes. Bennett, don’t tell me you’re smitten.”
I slid into my seat, lifting my glass without giving him the satisfaction of a straight answer. “I’m just tired.”
