Page 63 of Embers in Autumn
“Well… since you asked.” She gave the words a dramaticpause, savoring them. “You know the furniture factory out on the way to the interstate? The one with the faded red sign that still says Roger and Sons?”
“Yeah, I’ve passed it a hundred times.”
“Well, Daniel is one of those sons. He took over after his father’s early passing, what—ten, maybe twelve years ago now? The place had been on the brink of closing, but Daniel turned it around. Modernized it, cut costs, made it profitable again.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said carefully.
Carol tilted her head, her pearl earrings glinting as she gave me that look. The one that meantI’d walked straight into her trap.
“No, not bad at all. Except the way he did it. He laid off half the staff within a year. People who had been working there since before he was born. Outsourced most of the production overseas. Oh, the profits soared, yes. But the goodwill? Went straight down the drain.”
I winced. “Ouch.”
Carol nodded sharply, satisfied that I was keeping up. “And don’t get me started on the way he uses the factory now. More of a shell operation, if you ask me. The name makes it sound local, wholesome, family-run, but half the pieces are imported, just assembled here for the label. Very clever, but very hollow. You know the type.”
I couldn’t help it; I leaned an elbow on the counter. “And here I thought I was going to get a cute little story about him sanding chair legs in a workshop somewhere.”
“Ha.” Carol sniffed. “The only thing Daniel Fairchild sands down are his public edges when election time rolls around. His whole campaign was about keeping Maplewood Harbor ‘authentic.’ Tell me, how authentic is a dining table that ships halfway across the world before it lands in your living room?”
I had to laugh at the indignation in her voice. “You’ve giventhis a lot of thought.”
“I told you,” she said primly, reaching into her handbag for a wrapped peppermint, “gossiping is social work. Keeps the town running. Better than any council meeting.”
“Sure, Carol,” I teased, “you’re practically a civic institution yourself.”
Her lips curved, and for once she didn’t argue.
CHAPTER 19
Dean
Two weeks had blurred by, and somehow Amber had woven herself into every part of my days. Every morning started with a text from me—good morning, book girl—and ended with her name glowing on my screen before I closed my eyes. When I wasn’t working, I wanted her near. Twice she’d come over for movie nights with Lana; the second time devolved into a popcorn fight that left my couch looking like a bird feeder and Amber laughing so hard she nearly fell off the cushions. Lana had declared it the best night ever. I couldn’t argue.
Now I was back in the station, pulling on my gear as the bells clanged faintly in the distance. It smelled like smoke and grease and that faint undercurrent of coffee that never left no matter how often the place was scrubbed. The lockers gleamed in neat rows, and the red engine sat in her bay like she was waiting for someone to call her name.
Mike was back.
He stood near the desk in the corner, not in turnout gear but a clean department polo, his ribs still bound under his shirt. His expression was somewhere between pride and irritation, which pretty much summed him up at the best of times.
“Desk duty,” he muttered as I came up beside him. “Feels like a death sentence. I should be out there with you guys.”
“Better than a coffin,” Carter chimed in from the other side of the room, lacing up his boots.
Mike shot him a glare. “Careful, rookie. Keep talking and I’ll assign you to inventory toilet paper for the next month.”
The room erupted in laughter.
I clapped him on the shoulder, careful not to jostle him too hard. “Glad to have you back, even if you’re grumbling. We missed you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Carter called, smirking. “I enjoyed not hearing his voice for two weeks.”
Mike rolled his eyes but his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll miss it soon enough when I’m the only one keeping you from running into a fire without your pants.”
“Once,” Carter groaned. “That happened once.”
“Twice,” I corrected, unable to hold back my laugh. “And Mike wasn’t even there the second time.”
The whole bay filled with chuckles and groans, the kind of ribbing that kept us sane between the serious calls. Mike leaned back against the desk, shaking his head.
