Page 40 of Burning Hearts
She tucked a tiny kit that she’d obviously made herself onto the receipt clip.
A lozenge, a single use burn gel, and a Post-it that readbreathein her neat handwriting.
She gave me a once-over that felt like an inspection.
“For the voice that did the counting,” she said softly. “Fire trucks get the applause, sugar. But that calm voice on the speakers? That’s what keeps people from climbing over each other.”
“My voice just…” I said, and immediately heard myself trying to dodge a compliment, “followed the numbers.”
“Mmm.” She didn’t let me dodge it. “Tell them the boring parts worked, Ellis. Doors opened and people listened. That’s the story that lets folks sleep at night.”
Behind her, a bell chimed, and a teen ordered three biscuits. Miss Pearl slid his tray down without looking then returned her eyes to me.
“My first week on midnight dispatch, I learned something,” she added, eyes back on me. “People don’t need drama, they need directions.”
“I can give directions,” I said.
I want directions, too,my chest said.
Unhelpful.
She tipped her chin toward my buzzing phone. “Then give them. Thirty seconds, three facts. And no adjectives! Save your adjectives for lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She’d practically already written the segment for me.
She slid the carrier closer to me and, instead of walking off like she usually did, rested her palm on the counter as if she’d decided I needed one more thing that wasn’t on her menu.
“My Curtis hated adjectives,” she said. “Café man by day, husband by night. Grease under his nails and a crossword puzzle in his pocket. When the AC died at the church potluck and everybody started carrying on about ‘sweltering misery’ and ‘melting into the linoleum,’ my Curtis said, ‘Two steps—open the windows and pass the sweet tea.’ Nobody fainted, the food stayed edible, and the drama went out the door.”
“I like him already,” I said.
“You would’ve.” Her voice thinned with a smile. “He had this way in crowds. His hand at the small of my back. Not steering, just reminding me wherewewere. Never once told me to calm down. Hewasthe calm. You’d be amazed what a present hand will solve.”
The heat under my ribs flickered and my body replayed last night’s steady palm against my chest and labeled it: things I cannot discuss.
Miss Pearl clocked the flicker even though I tried to hide it.
She never missed a thing.
“Directions,” she repeated, graciously vague. “The first week I worked nights, people called with every flavor of panic. Curtis would listen on speaker and whisper, ‘Give them verbs, Pearl. Adjectives make people argue; verbs make them move.’ So, that’s my free wisdom.”
I laughed. “Stealing that.”
“Cite your source,” she said and tapped the coffee carrier once. Then, softer, she added, “You know, he’s been gone ten years, but I still set two cups in the morning. It’s strange. The body remembers being handled well.”
My throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, her voice low. “He did exactly what decent men do—fixed things and told the truth. Not to mention that he always kept snacks in the glove box. Then he went and left me this café to civilize—name on the door, regulars at the counter, grease trap, and all. Your Aunt Tansy still owns the building; I just rent the walls. I’ve been a tenant of your aunt’s for decades.”
We all knew that Tansy and Harlan owned most of downtown Riverfield.
She tipped her chin at my buzzing phone. “Now Ellis, go educate the internet. Thirty seconds, three facts, and remember: no adjectives. Save your poetry for when you’ve had a biscuit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She slid the sack toward me and then added with a glint that belonged on stage, “And tell that firefighter of yours?—”
