Disaster Status (9 page)

Chapter Ten

Annie Popp glanced first at Scott and then at Erin, and in an instant Erin felt strangely self-conscious in a bait shop she’d visited all her life. But then, she’d never walked in here with the best-looking man she’d ever met
. Don’t say anything, Annie. Please.

“Hey, Annie,” Erin began casually, inhaling the rich scent of coffee and what she’d bet were fresh-baked lemon bars. “How’s it—?”

“Well, would you look at this?” The gray-haired proprietress set down a pair of needle-nose pliers, and a grin lit her sun-weathered face. “My Sea Dog black and my Starfish Latte extra cinnamon. Together.” She swept aside several pieces of sea glass and driftwood, then planted her palms on the counter, sighing as if the planets had finally aligned. “Praise God, it’s about time.”

“About time?” Scott asked.

“That you two met, of course.” Annie nodded and her earrings, blue glass and silver beads, swayed back and forth. “I told Arlo it makes no sense, you battling that cold ocean like a tortured soul every morning. All alone. And you, Erin. How many summers have you been coming here with your grandmother? And your grandfather, may he rest in peace. I’ll never forget that Labor Day weekend Iris was sewing your Wonder Woman costume. You paraded down here in your bathing suit twirling a gold lasso, with that crown sitting lopsided over your pigtails and all those ‘magic’ bracelets. Skinned knees, no front teeth, and knee-high to a grasshopper. But you doubled up your little fist and told us you were ready to fight.”

Erin groaned.

Scott chuckled low in his throat. “Trust me, Annie. She’s still fighting.”

“I am—we are, actually. That’s why we’re here. Trying to coordinate our disaster plans and help Pacific Point citizens deal with all that’s happening right now.” Erin glanced at Scott, wondering if there was really any chance he’d cooperate with what she had in mind. This meeting could be as misguided as hoisting an umbrella against poison rain.

“Good,” Annie said, her grin fading into an expression of concern. “I saw that news piece with the young mother at the town meeting. Scared to death, poor dear.” She grabbed a couple of Get Hooked on Our Coffee cups and then squinted over her shoulder. “You looked good on TV, Scott. Handsome as Superman. But be careful where you stand. It looked like a butterfly was having you for dinner.

“The fact is, this whole pesticide problem is hurting our little town. People aren’t fishing as much, scared they’ll pull in something poisonous, I suppose. I’m selling more bottled water than coffee.” She waved toward the sea glass and driftwood mobiles dangling in the window. “And the art’s for my soul, not income.”

Annie checked the milk steamer. “Anything you can do to help our town through this mess would be a blessing.” She turned back. “And you two take your coffee outside . . . enjoy the sea air. There’s more to life than fighting.”

Except they were sparring in less than fifteen minutes. Or so it seemed to Erin. Sea air, a glorious sunset looming on the horizon, and even Annie’s lemon bars hadn’t changed anything. They were sitting at a table overlooking the beach, but they might as well have been facing each other from opposite corners at Madison Square Garden. Too bad she didn’t have her gloves. She should have stuck to discussing their incident review. He clearly wasn’t happy she’d steered the conversation toward the subject of critical stress.

Erin shifted on the bench and glanced at Arlo’s Bait & Moor, sighing when she saw the window blinds spring quickly back into place. Annie Popp, hopeless romantic, was undoubtedly expecting Erin to be holding Scott’s hand right about now or feeding him bits of lemon bar while staring soulfully into his eyes.
Those eyes. As gray as a stormy ocean
.

Erin looked at Scott, who was, as usual, impossible to read and as rigid as his coffee choice. Sea Dog black. Why wasn’t she surprised? The man was an emotionless robot. She frowned and touched her fingertip to the last crumbs of lemon bar. “Well,” she began again, “at least it’s good to know you’re familiar with the various components of Critical Incident Stress Management, and—”

“I am. I told you that. But we’ve already accomplished what’s called for in community disaster protocol.” Scott raised his big hand, ticking off the items on his fingers. “Crisis Management Briefing: identify local leaders, provide information and resources, answer questions, quell rumors, and promote a renewed sense of community wellness.”

“Wellness?” How many times had they gone over this? Erin willed herself to stay calm, tried to count to ten. And made it to four. Barely. “How do you suggest we check
wellness
off our list?” She leaned forward. “Have Tinker Bell come and sprinkle fairy dust?”

A muscle twitched along Scott’s jaw, and he was silent . . . for ten full beats. “The town meeting isn’t meant to address personal psychological symptoms. What you’re suggesting now is a debriefing.”

“Maybe. If it comes to that and only after the disaster response has completely ended. That could be several more days . . . or longer. I’m thinking more of one-on-one counseling at this point. Talking with staff, checking for signs of stress. With the help of social services and the hospital chaplain. For each affected department, like ICU and ER. We all dealt with Sandy’s collapse. And Ana’s still in a coma.” She watched Scott’s expression and continued warily. “Maybe you could offer the same assistance to the firefighters involved at the plane crash, with cleanup, and on-site at Pacific Mercy. Like Sandy’s husband, Chuck.”

Scott raised his brows but said nothing.

“You know, talk about symptoms of traumatic stress, offer ways to cope, and follow up if needed. That way, we could all get some closure.” She saw Scott wince. “What?”

“Closure?” he asked with a barely concealed smirk. “You’re offering Freud in place of Tinker Bell?” He raised his palm before she could speak. “Look, what I’m saying is that type of psychological first aid isn’t universally accepted.”

“Johns Hopkins isn’t good enough for you?” Erin taunted, wondering if the peeping Annie Popp would call the police if she took a swing at the arrogant fire captain.

“I’m familiar with Hopkins’s three
R
s: resistance, resilience, and recovery. I told you I’ve studied critical stress. On paper, I can understand the plan. Medical and rescue personnel are under the gun 24-7; I know that personally. And who doesn’t want to protect themselves and their fellow coworkers from the effects of stress? What’s that phrase used for medical personnel? ‘Healing the healers’?”

“Yes,” Erin answered, impressed that Scott had done his homework—or girded himself for battle against her. She still wasn’t sure which.

He exhaled slowly. “Well, I’m not disputing the need for that. And I’ve seen plenty of good outcomes as a result of counseling. . . .”

“But?”

“But in some cases there’s a risk.” Scott’s eyes seemed to darken, their gray less like the sea and more like a deep bruise. “Emotions are unpredictable. Sometimes you stir up the embers and everybody gets burned.”

He turned and looked toward the beach below. The sun, dipping toward the horizon, cast an orangey gold glow over his features and broad shoulders, almost as if he were indeed battling a blaze.

“Everybody gets burned.”
Erin opened her mouth but wasn’t sure what she could say. It was true; asking people to examine their feelings and express them in a group setting was uncomfortable at best. Health and rescue workers often viewed that as weakness. And some studies showed debriefings had in fact worsened symptoms in a small percentage of people. There was even reluctance to use the term these days. Scott was right about that. But she wasn’t suggesting a full-scale debriefing at this point. Still, there was something about the look in his eyes just now that had nothing to do with statistics or his ever-present book of procedures. His wariness of counseling was personal for him. Why?

When Scott turned back, the bruised look in his eyes was gone. “Want to continue this fight on the beach?” He pointed at a large rock near the seawall. “Someone didn’t douse that fire pit. I should put it out.”

Erin shook her head slowly. “Sure. You, me, Tinker Bell, Freud, and now Smokey the Bear. I wouldn’t miss that match.”

She followed Scott to the steps that led down the cliff to the beach, pausing to glance toward the bait shop. Rosy sunlight glinted on dozens of sea glass mobiles dangling from the covered porch. Arlo Popp, his Einstein-wild hair as white as ocean foam, stood beside his wife, and they both waved with obvious approval. Erin could almost hear Annie boasting about her matchmaking success with Sea Dog black and Starfish Latte extra cinnamon. The woman couldn’t know this beach stroll had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with dousing a campfire and continuing a skirmish.

Erin still wanted the captain’s cooperation with counseling of affected staff—his as well as hers—but something about his earlier reaction made her think she needed to change her strategy. Sometimes you had to hold your punches and learn to read your opponent.

She waved to the Popps, then followed Scott McKenna into the sunset . . . for round two.

+++

“This is perfect.” Iris lifted the framed message and smiled across the shop at Little Mercies’ aging volunteer Helen Cary. “I’m going to tuck it away for my granddaughter’s birthday next month. Erin wants new sparring gloves, but this is much more appropriate.”

“One of the Scripture plaques?”