Page 6 of Embers in Autumn
It was part of the unspoken agreement between bookseller and reader. Confidentiality. What was bought here stayed here.
The woman from the bakery gave me a polite nod before drifting toward the classics, clearly more interested in Austen than in small-town gossip. I slipped Carol’s true choice into a paper bag, folding the top neatly so no wandering eyes would catch the title.
A few minutes later Carol reappeared, looking smuglysatisfied, a blueberry-stained napkin tucked into her purse like a trophy. She accepted the bag with a conspiratorial wink that nearly made me laugh out loud.
I watched her step out into the crisp autumn air, her scarf fluttering as the fog lifted just enough for the sunlight to break through. Elegant, mischievous, and just the tiniest bit scandalous, Carol was everything I secretly hoped I’d be at seventy—a woman who loved her books, her family, her gossip, and still carried that spark of joy in her eyes.
CHAPTER 2
Dean
There was a rhythm to the firehouse. A kind of steady pulse beneath the clang of metal doors, the hiss of hoses, and the smell of sweat, smoke, and stale coffee.
I’d been with this station for almost fifteen years, and it felt more like home than the house I lived in. Cinderblock walls painted an institutional beige, gear racks lined up like soldiers waiting for orders, the constant chatter of radios and the occasional bark of laughter echoing off the garage floor—it was rough, loud, and unpolished. But it was steady. Dependable.
My crew was the same.
Mike, broad as a wall and always chewing on something—gum, jerky, sunflower seeds—sat at the table dealing out cards for a half-hearted poker game. Santos leaned back in his chair, boots propped up, flipping through his phone, probably texting the girlfriend he swore wasn’t serious. And Connor, the rookie, was double-checking the engine for the third time today, trying to look useful but managing to trip over every damn hose.
“Kid’s going to polish that truck until it shines,” Mike muttered, tossing a card into the pile.
“Better than you, old man,” Santos shot back without looking up.
I didn’t join in. Banter was their language, but mine was silence, most of the time.
I kept to my coffee, sitting at the edge of the table where I could see the bay doors and the gleam of Engine 14 waiting for us. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the noise and jokes. It justdidn’t stick to me the way it used to. Too much weight on my shoulders these days. Too much to protect.
Lana’s face flickered in my mind—her grin as she hugged those books earlier, the spark in her eyes when she talked about stories. I hadn’t seen her light up like that in a while.
And the woman behind the counter. Amber. She’d looked at Lana like she mattered. Like she was seen. Hell, she’d looked at me like she could see straight through me, too, though I wasn’t sure I liked that.
Not that it mattered. Women like her? Bright, soft, hopeful? They weren’t for men like me.
The sharp buzz of the alarm system cut through my thoughts.
“All units, respond—structure fire reported on Oakridge Drive. Residential. Occupants possibly inside.”
The room snapped to motion instantly. Poker chips clattered to the floor. Boots hit the concrete. Connor nearly dropped his helmet in his rush, and Mike swore under his breath as he yanked his jacket from the rack.
I didn’t waste time. The adrenaline hit like it always did, a cold clarity sharpening everything. Jacket. Mask. Radio check. The weight of responsibility settling across my shoulders the moment I pulled my helmet down.
Within seconds, we were piled into the truck, the siren splitting the air as we tore out of the station.
Connor’s leg bounced nervously beside me. Mike smacked the dashboard like it owed him money. Santos checked his air tank, lips pressed tight.
I closed my eyes just for a second, pulling in one deep breath. Not a prayer exactly, but close. Then I opened them again, and we were rounding the corner, smoke already curling into the sky.
By the time we hit Oakridge Drive, smoke was alreadytwisting up into the sky, thick and black against the pale autumn afternoon. The sharp tang of it crept through the vents, and my jaw clenched.
“Two-story, residential,” I barked, scanning the scene as we pulled up. The roofline was clear, but flames licked hungrily at the back windows, curling through the siding. “Looks like it started in the kitchen. Connor, grab the hose line. Santos, check the gas shutoff. Mike, ventilation.”
They moved without hesitation, muscle memory kicking in. Connor wrestled the line off the rig, his shoulders straining as water rushed through it. Santos sprinted toward the side of the house, crouching by the meter. Mike yanked a fan from the truck, already eyeing the roof vents.
Neighbors clustered on the lawn across the street, their voices rising in a chaotic mix—questions, prayers, sobs. I cut through it all, searching for the homeowner.
“Everyone out?” I asked, my voice sharp, steady.
A woman in her forties clutched a teenage boy by the arm, her eyes wide and wet. “We think so, we think so. My husband he... he went back in for the dog—”
