Disaster Status (18 page)

“When are you bringing Elmer Fudd?” Cody asked.

Iris pulled a chair close. “Next time. I thought you’d had enough excitement today.”

He snorted. “I want to see him, but I wouldn’t call a goldfish exciting. Small shark or a jellyfish, maybe. My great-grandpa’s a marine biologist. I’ve seen stuff.”

“I’ll bet.” Iris thought of Hugh McKenna with his yodeling dog and how concerned he’d been for his family today. She was glad things were working out. And that Cody had his outing. The sun had raised a smattering of freckles over his nose. “You had a good time at the wharf?”

“Better if I could have fished, but we’d get in big trouble if my bandage got wet or if I bumped it or . . .” Cody’s gaze flicked to his propped leg, and he sighed like he’d long ago tired of the subject. He glanced back at her. “You’ve never come after dinner before and without your books.”

She shrugged. “Time on my hands tonight. Plus, a little bird told me you wouldn’t have many visitors.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m too old for that ‘little bird’ deal.”

Iris laughed and smoothed his thermal blanket. “Okay, then, your great-grandfather told me.”

“You know him?”

“Yes.” She’d almost said, “Small world,” but decided it was as clichéd as gossipy little birds. “I met your uncle Scott too.” She shook her head, thinking that day seemed so long ago. The day of the pesticide poisonings, the day she’d applied as a volunteer here. And Erin tried to talk her out of it.

“He was working today at the fire department, but he asked for the time off to take me to the wharf. My grandpa was supposed to take me, but he’s sick. Grandma called a little while ago. She said he’s better, but she was using that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The one people use when they say things to make you think everything’s okay.”

“What kind of things?”

“You know. Like just now when she said, ‘It’s nothing serious with your grandpa.’ Or when people tell me, ‘They’ll get your leg fixed this time’ or ‘Your mother’s watching you from heaven.’ And ‘We’ll take that charter boat, Cody.’ Those kinds of things.”

The pain in his eyes made her heart stall and she searched for words, afraid she’d come up with another cliché or use “that voice.” She finally picked the subject that sounded safest. “Charter boat?”

“With Uncle Scotty. We’re supposed to take a fishing boat out of Monterey when my leg’s better. He bought me this cool deep sea lure called El Squid, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Sometimes I’m not sure we’ll really go. Because—” Cody picked at a thread on his blanket—“he’s not around as much as he used to be. Not since the accident.” His shoulders lifted and fell in another sigh. “Today was good, though. And I’m glad Erin was there. He invited her to come with us. She’s a nurse.”

Iris nodded, a wave of guilt washing over her. If she told Cody about Erin, then he’d mention it to Scott, who’d tell . . . She was going to have that talk with her granddaughter. Cliché or not, it was a small world. And it was past time that she cleared things up.
A lot of
things, Lord.
Tomorrow . . . Friday at the latest. She’d do it.

“Erin’s pretty. Nice too,” Cody said. “And knows about bait—can’t say that about most girls. She makes my uncle smile. I think he likes her.”

+++

Scott ended the cell call, then glanced at Erin standing a few yards away. She’d stepped away from the truck to give him privacy and was gazing at the ocean.

He inhaled slowly, watching. The sunset’s burnished glow, orangey bright, splashed across her cheeks and tinted her sweater coral pink, almost like a reminder of her incredible warmth. Not that he needed a reminder. He’d been steeped in it all day—when she’d cared for his parents in the ER; the good-natured teasing with Cody; a discreet bowing of her head before beginning their meal; and the feel of her skin when he’d briefly taken her hand across the table. Her warmth . . . warmed him. Like nothing had in so long. Made him want that. No, worse, made him
need
to feel it again, and—

“How’s Gary?” she asked, walking back toward him with the breeze in her hair.

“Good,” he said, trying to ignore his mouth’s going dry. He cleared his throat. “He’s sleeping.” Down the beachfront street, there were the faint sounds of music and laughter mixed with the far-off chug of boat engines.

“I’m glad. And I’ll say a prayer for his tests tomorrow. He’s going to be fine, Scott.” Erin’s eyes met his. “Thank you for all of this today. I loved meeting Cody, and dinner was wonderful.” She chuckled and pointed down the long wharf. “But I should force you to walk the entire length of this thing with me, after you tempted me with that key lime pie.”

“No problem. I could use the exercise myself,” he said, realizing that while he’d had the stitches removed earlier than expected and would be able to swim tomorrow morning, he suddenly didn’t care. For the first time in a year he didn’t feel the need for it. He wanted warmth, not cold. “Besides, I hear music down there.”

“Sounds more like a hungry sea lion to me.”

“No. I heard music a minute ago. I swear. Which also means dancing.”

“Dancing? The last time we tried that someone got defibrillated.”

“We’ll be more careful.”

“Well . . .” A surprising wariness came into her eyes.

“C’mon,” he said, reaching out to her. “Let’s risk it.”

She took his hand and the warmth swirled.

Chapter Twenty-One

Erin leaned back in the creaky rattan chair and laughed at the look on Scott’s face. Pure exasperation. It turned out the elusive music had been coming from a karaoke party, a Hawaiian-themed fund-raiser for a senior citizens’ recreation center. They’d set up on the deck outside a cheesy seafood bar, with clusters of brightly colored tables, swags of party lights, neon palm trees, tiki torches, fruit punch, a bubble machine . . . and row after row of double-parked walkers. Plastic leis required; glow-in-the dark hula skirts optional. Erin tied one around her hips just to see Scott cringe. She glanced around the tables, shaking her head. They were the only couple under sixty. By a long shot.

“So,” she said, raising her voice over a trio of oldsters singing a rousing rendition of “Tiny Bubbles,” “shall we review our ABC’s?”

“Huh?” Scott fussed with his triple leis.

“Airway, breathing, circulation. If they start the ‘Hokey Pokey,’ we’ll be doing CPR again before you can count to ten.”

He flipped through the songbook and frowned. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Really?” she teased. Then her heart tugged. The man had wanted a chance to dance with her. He’d sprung for the tickets anyway because she’d hated to disappoint the eager senior at the doorway. Captain McKenna
was
looking more and more like a good guy. She popped a glistening bubble and smiled at him. He stood up. “Hey, where are you going?”

“To put in our song request.”

“What? Wait, I don’t sing.”

“You do now.”

“But—”

“No buts. It’s for charity. And your idea. If I’m willing to make a fool of myself for a good cause, you can too.”

Before she could break out in hives, the balding man at the microphone called for a round of applause. “Let’s hear it for Scott and his . . . Wonder Woman.”

The crowd hooted and Erin’s face flamed.
No way
. She sank low in her chair, but Scott tugged her to her feet. The crowd applauded again, and the opening notes of Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” blared from the speakers. Then somehow they were suddenly holding microphones under a decrepit disco ball. She grimaced, hiked up her glowing hula skirt, and squinted at the hot pink lyrics on the TV monitor, then reminded herself that Scott was making a fool of himself too.
Charity, charity, charity.

She croaked out the first line like Kermit the Frog with a bad case of laryngitis: “‘They say we’re young and we don’t know. We won’t find out until we grow . . .’” She pressed her fingers to her lips and looked at him helplessly.

Scott winked through a glistening spray of bubbles, then responded . . . in a rich and completely confident baritone: “‘Well I don’t know if all that’s true. ’Cause you got me, and baby I got you . . .’”

She stared at him, mouth open, as a dozen silver-haired women scrambled to their feet and squealed with delight, “Ooh, honey, sing it!”

“You sing?” she mouthed.

He smiled.

She’d been hustled, big-time. Erin stared into his eyes, her heart thrumming. Not sure if she was furious or completely blown away by this handsome and unpredictable fire captain.

Scott nodded and pointed to her mike, signaling her to start.

She blinked against another release of soapy bubbles and then joined him in the silly vintage refrain: “‘I got you babe. I got you babe.’”

+++

Sarge switched the water bottles as quietly as he could in the darkness and turned to leave.

“Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“I knew it was you.” The smile in the boy’s voice made his chest feel full.

Sarge returned to Cody’s bedside. “Here,” he said, pointing to the bottles. “Good water. If you get thirsty.”

“There was still . . . half a bottle . . . ,” Cody said, his words stretched by a yawn.

“This is fresher.”
And safer. Can’t trust what the evening staff left.
Sarge watched the night-light play across the boy’s sleep-mussed curls as he moved in bed. It gave him a sort of halo. Like God’s angels in that bedtime story that . . .
I always read to
Ricky.
For a blissful second, he could feel his son’s downy hair beneath his fingertips. He winced at the bittersweet memory. Things had started to come back like warped jigsaw pieces this past week. Not all of them good.

“You’re not like the other nurses,” Cody said, sounding like he’d given the idea some serious thought. “You never check my blood pressure or ask me those same dumb questions over and over. Like, ‘Can you give me a number for your leg pain? Is it a three or a seven?’”

Sarge grimaced and shifted his weight on the prosthesis. “That’s not my job.”

“Right. You’re here to keep me safe.” There was a soft chuckle. “It makes you sound like some kind of superhero. You know, like Batman.”

“No.” The nausea swept back without warning, along with the images of the bodies in the desert. Sweat prickled above his lips. “No hero. Not even close. I’m . . . just here. For you.”

“You probably won’t have to do that much longer.”

Sarge’s stomach tensed. “Why not?”

“After the MRI, we’ll know.”

“Know what?” Dread rose with bile.

“If I go home. Or to Rohnert Park. That’s where the hyperbaric rooms are. Oxygen treatment. My great-grandpa says they use it on scuba divers that come up from the ocean bottom too fast. Pretty strange. But better than surgery.”

Amputation.
Sarge fought the image of the red plastic pathology bags piled beside the trash sanitizer. The sweet stink of formaldehyde filled his nostrils. His mind whirled. “But what if you didn’t want to?”

“The oxygen treatment? Or the surgery?”

“Any of it.”

Cody shifted on his bed. “If the infection’s in my bone, I have to. No choice.”

Sarge’s temples pounded as the children’s faces intruded one by one, lying milky pale and still on the sand beside the tattered tents. “What about your family?” he asked, hands trembling. “Wouldn’t they help you get away from the desert?”

Cody peered at him, his hair lit once again in a halo. “What do you mean?”

“If your family thought you weren’t safe, wouldn’t they take you out of the hospital?”

“Oh. You said
desert
.”

“Huh?” Sarge choked.

“
Desert
. You asked if my family would help me get away from the desert.”

He groaned, battling a wave of dizziness that nearly buckled his good leg. “Forget it. Stupid mistake. I’m tired. And old.”

“How old?”

“Old enough to be your father.”

“Are you? A father, I mean?”

Sarge decided not to answer. How did you tell a kid like this . . .
I don’t
see my son anymore
?

Cody was mercifully quiet and then yawned. “It seems kind of funny that I’ve never really seen you. Not in the daylight, anyway. I can tell you’re tall and that your hair’s sort of long, but I’m not sure I’d recognize you.” He chuckled. “You know, if I had to, say . . . pick you out of one of those police lineups like you see on TV.”

“All you need to know is that I’m always here.”

“To keep me safe.”

“Yes. Remember that.”

“I will.” His blond halo bobbed.

Sarge glanced at the doorway and saw that the corridor was clear. He went back to the closet—his dark, secure foxhole—grabbed a piece of beef jerky, and opened his notebook.

Change in mission: Get the boy out.

+++

You could count on Sinatra. Scott knew if he waited long enough, a string of balding seniors would capture the karaoke stage for an endless tribute to Ol’ Blue Eyes, and Erin would be in his arms. They did, and she was.
Worth the wait.
He steered her around a silver-haired couple wearing matching Hawaiian shirts, then whispered against her hair, “Still thinking about punching me?”

Erin leaned away and peered at him, the party lights reflecting in her eyes like glass beads in a kaleidoscope. “I should, but I’m afraid your fan club would tackle me.” She nodded toward a table. “Word to the wise: every time we pass that woman with the pineapple hat, she makes a grab for your back pockets.”

He chuckled. He hoped Sinatra never ended. This felt good. Laughing, holding her, and forgetting everything else. It was like the world was suspended. Right now crew schedules didn’t matter, the job follow-ups could wait, and there was even respite from Gary’s medical problems and worries about Cody.

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” she asked.

His heart cramped. He exhaled softly as the karaoke singer began crooning a new song:
“I wanna be around to pick up the pieces when somebody breaks your heart . . .”
“Colleen,” he said, drawing Erin close again. “She was the singer in the family. Even when she was a little kid. I remember her standing in the kitchen, wearing Grandma’s high heels and Mom’s lipstick, holding an old strainer, pretending it was a microphone. . . .” He tried to swallow down the rising ache.

“And you sang with her sometimes?” Erin’s voice was gentle.

“She was always twisting my arm. Signing us up for the school talent show, karaoke duets . . . our church worship team. Her favorite song was ‘Amazing Grace.’ I don’t know how many times she made me sing it. I couldn’t say no to her.” His stomach sank, and he closed his eyes. Why had he started this? All he wanted tonight was to finally escape.

“Scott?”

“Yeah?” He opened his eyes. The music had stopped.

“They’re starting the raffle.” Erin pointed. “That golf cart. With the fringe.”

Scott smiled, partly because of the look on her face. Partly because she was so beautiful. But mostly because she’d been such a good sport all day—pushing Cody’s wheelchair and discussing mackerel and fishing hooks, standing up onstage bravely squeaking out that duet. He suddenly wanted to kiss her. Long and sweet. Right there on the dance floor, beside the woman in the pineapple hat and under the strings of colored lights, and while they were calling out the winning raffle number. Reach out, cradle her face in his hands, bend down, and—

“No golf carts,” he said, touching his finger to the tip of her nose instead. “No fringe. No way. Turn in your hula skirt, and let’s get out of here.”

+++

Erin walked beside Scott down Monterey’s Old Fisherman’s Wharf, past still-bustling restaurants, dimly lit souvenir shops, and whale-watching headquarters, in a long row of weathered buildings thickly layered in paints the colors of bakery frosting. She sidestepped a cluster of noisy gulls scrambling for popcorn on the damp pavement and brushed against him. He took her hand.

Her face warmed despite the chilly fog, proof positive that her traitorous senses intended to defeat her logic.
Why, Lord?
Why should this fire captain seem so special? Why on earth should she risk feeling like this? She was nearly thirty-two, smart, independent, strong. So deliberately strong. She’d learned the hard way to be wary, but . . .

“Coffee?” he asked, facing her as they passed under a wharf light. His eyes, the same misty shade as the fog, held hers, and her resolve hit the mat with a thud. “Cappuccino on the Wharf is just a little ways down.”

“Only if you let me pay this time,” Erin insisted, aware of the feel of her hand inside his.

“Can’t let you. Against the rules.”

“Which rules?”

“Dating book,” Scott said, not cracking a smile.

“Dating . . . ?” Her brows scrunched for a split second until he laughed. “Oh, brother. Your books.”

“Which reminds me,” he said as they approached the small coffee kiosk painted red, green, and white like the Italian flag. His expression sobered. “I finished that report.”

“Report?” The rich scent of coffee permeated the damp air, and spotlights shone on bottle after bottle of Italian syrup, glittering like jewels. She caught a waft of chocolate.

“My summary of the incident review, including the information you passed along regarding CISM,” he explained.

“Oh.” Erin released a low sigh, not sure if it was because he’d let go of her hand or because he’d changed the subject. He’d had issues with the subject of stress counseling. But no matter what his report said, he wouldn’t change her mind. She’d been right to try to help her staff. His too. And she’d do the same thing again in a heartbeat. Still, she didn’t want to argue tonight. For the first time in so long, she didn’t want to raise her gloves against—

“My conclusion was overall positive.”

“What does that mean?”

His gaze moved to the penned list of gourmet coffees, then back to her. “That the hospital’s initial response was adequate. And that your suggestions for critical stress intervention are valuable.”

“Wait. You mean, you concluded that stress counseling should be included?”