I'm Sure (2 page)

I know not all men are liars. And cheaters. And frauds. Like the last guy I went out with, for three entire years, only to discover he’d had additional girlfriends for at least two of those years, and he used the oldest excuse in the book. Those late nights he told me he was at work, he was hard at work for sure—just not at his job. Mostly, I keep the book shut tight on this chapter of my life.

And anyhow, Jason’s smoking good looks weren’t his most attractive feature. I would have noticed Jason if he’d been asking me from inside a hazmat suit about buying an iris for his grieving aunt.

I would have noticed his heart.

I shove a potted shrub someone left in the walkway back in place with my foot. “But my fraud radar sucks,” I remind Sara. “Not to be trusted. We know this for a fact.”

Sara brushes aside her Cleopatra bangs, her engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight. “That was then. This is now.” She caresses a stray wisp back off my forehead until she reaches my ponytail, and then she tugs.

The pull doesn’t hurt, but her concern does and creates a pang in my chest.

“Come on, sweetie. Let someone treat you nice. Dress up pretty, if just for an evening.”

Sara can’t fathom wearing a uniform of khaki shorts, denim shirts, boots, and mud every day like I do. I don’t mind. The outfit is efficient for what I do, and designing and creating water gardens never ceases to fill me with wonder.

But I’d be lying if I claimed I hadn’t wished, more than once in the past year, that I had an occasional reason to ditch the work clothes, dress up, brush out my hair, and have a man give me the kind of attention he gives to a woman he cares about.

“Would just one date kill you?

The original topic of this conversation, Jason, fills my senses in 3-D. Myrtle-scented Jason. One date, with him? Only one, and then no more? Yea, that could do me in. I yank on the hose, taking a few steps away to search for what it’s snagged on.

“Sara!” One of the high school cashiers is leaning out the door of the nursery building. “Customer in floral.”

“Got it!” Sara calls back. “Think about it,” she intones.

Again, I yank at the stubborn hose, harder this time. I follow the length, my own boots as heavy as if they’re filled with water now, too. Darn Sara.

But it’s not Sara who’s stirred up old wounds, and I know it. Jason is the trigger.

Chapter Two

Jason

I lean over the basil plant Tony grows on the hallway windowsill at our firehouse and inhale. My Aunt Dee always has a large pot of basil growing to add to her home-made tomato sauce. To me, basil smells like home.

Does Megan grow basil on her windowsill?

Imaginings about Megan have been bombarding me for three days since I fixed Aunt Dee’s pond. Megan, so seriously listening to me struggle to explain my problem without landing the double entendre my buddies here at the station house are so fond of, then laughing and announcing the word herself.

I can’t help my grin. Maybe I didn’t realize this before, but I do now. I’m drawn to serious with the ability to laugh.

“Two points!” The shout comes from the rec room.

I poke in my head. Three of my colleagues are engrossed in a basketball video game. We tend to stay away from virtual annihilation and destruction as entertainment, opting for sports or
Jeopardy
instead. I’m reigning
Jeopardy
champ.

“Answer that if you can, LeBron!”

This current basketball game is a no contest; I know who will win. I head down the hall to our family-style kitchen.

Firehouses often have one or two guys who like to cook, and Tony Marino is ours. He’s here, with his striped dish towel slung over his shoulder. I’m adequate in the kitchen—I’m Italian, too—but Tony’s a magician, sautéing chicken cutlets or conjuring a salad dressing. The mouth-watering scent of tomato sauce and basil fills the room. My stomach growls in anticipation of Tony’s lasagna, or maybe stuffed shells tonight. The firehouse is home, and these big goons are family. No one understands better the routine we’ve chosen.

I was on two long calls today, both hospital trips. We’re all trained to be fire fighters, plus we also have emergency medical technician or paramedic certification. I’m one of the paramedics.

The first call was tough. A senior male fainted getting up from the table after too much breakfast. At any rate, the meal came back up before we got there. The man couldn’t tell me his name or answer any other simple questions. And his living situation wasn’t ideal. He needed hospital care, but we couldn’t maneuver the stretcher through the cluttered house until we physically moved all kinds of boxes and furniture. I checked in with the staff before I left the hospital this second time; he’s resting comfortably.

The table is set for eight, because it’s the first Sunday of the month and Tony’s wife and two boys are coming for dinner. The eleven-year-old is a mini Tony, and, according to Dad, can already throw together a mean lasagna. And the five-year-old is a stitch. We have to keep ourselves in check when he’s here and not act like we’re five ourselves—or risk the wrath of Tony.

Tony having his kids and wife to dinner at the station is a good thing. Maintaining a “normal” existence with family is an ongoing challenge. The work we do can be intense and consuming. We have trouble making guarantees to family or friends. In an emergency, we can miss dinner. The weekend family picnic. Back-to-school night. Any number of family events.

And although we’re trained and educated and have up-to-date equipment, we have a potentially dangerous job. We all know the possibility, no matter how remote, is always there—we could become one of the casualties of the next emergency ourselves. I heave a sigh. That’s the part of the job it’s easier not to contemplate, but I always do when I think about getting involved in a relationship of my own.

I push away the thought of Megan that pops back into my head, for now anyhow.

“Hey ya, Jason,” Tony calls out as he tosses dressing into a large bowl of salad. “Can you grab that bottle of apple juice out in the garage for the boys?”

“Got it,” I reply.

A second later, our transmitters sound off.

“STAND BY FOR EMS TONE.”

Tony and I stop still.

The tones fill the room, followed by the call.
“Respond to the intersection of High Street and Maxwell Avenue for a five-car accident. Injuries are reported on the scene.”

In the hallway, the other firefighters pass, hustling out to the garage where their gear, boots, and overalls lay ready in front of the truck doors.

Tony punches the button to turn off the oven. “Lasagna’s in there.” Then he, too, is gone.

I’m manning the station for this call. I stand listening for other information. Our sirens on the fire and EMS truck blast as the guys pull out of the station. And then the place turns eerily quiet.

I take the lasagna out of the oven. I’ll eat, and then wrap up the food for when the others get back. They may not return for two hours or more.

The buzz of the back doorbell startles me. I remember Tony’s family. When I open the locked door, I see Elisa with Tony Jr. and little Nicky.

“He’s out on call, isn’t he?” Elisa exhales the question on a sigh.

I nod. A hollowness fills my chest. I hate this.

Elisa’s shoulders sag, Tony Jr. stiffens, and little Nicky lets out a wail. “Daddy said I could do the gong for dinner!”

My own brand of anguish thrashes inside my ribcage. I lost my mother when I was sixteen from a congenital heart disorder my brother and I didn’t know about. My father never recovered from the loss, to the extent that Aunt Dee, who lived three houses away, took my little brother to live with her. I gravitated there for meals and on weekends, too, to see my brother and to have some semblance of family. That’s how Aunt Dee and Uncle Pete’s house became more of a home than my own.

I gaze down at the boys. For part of every week, these two little guys have a one-parent home.

I crouch down. “How about a piggy back, Nicky?”

Nicky climbs on, wrapping his skinny arms around my neck and his legs around my waist.

“You can still be in charge of the gong,” I tell him. “Tony, how about if you serve the lasagna?” I wave my hand for the older boy to proceed ahead of us. “You know what you’re doing in the kitchen a lot better than I do.”

Tony stands taller and takes the lead.

The tightness in my chest lessens.

Elisa studies the back of her oldest son then offers me a grateful smile.

****

Megan

On Wednesday, I’m mucking in the water again, cleaning the pond liner, when over my splashing I hear my name called.

“Hey, Megan.”

It’s him. Jason. A grin, foolish, I’m sure, splits my face. “Jason. How you doin’? Back for more pond supplies?” I groan inwardly. Great opening line. I hope he can figure out I’m glad he’s here, since I can’t flirt to save my life. Today he’s dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt, and he looks, if possible, better than I remember.

He stops a few feet away, runs his fingers through his hair, and surveys the area. “My aunt likes the plant and says she might plant a couple more. Do you have any?”

I point at a table behind the nearest pond. “Right there. On the corner are about five of them.” Something pops out from among the plants and arcs over the table to land and disappear among the rocks around the pond.

Jason whips toward it.

I grin. “That was a frog.”

He takes a breath and settles his stance again, returning his attention to the plants. “I’ll find out how many she wants.” Then his gaze shifts, straight on to me.

Bam, I feel it again. Alive. Alluring…even in my mud-spattered shorts. Magnetized in a field where he’s the center attraction.

“Are you, ah, at a place you can take a break? Want to get some lunch?”

I stand, my gloved pond-smelling hands at my side, as a delicious bliss curls up through my body. For a moment, I breathe in the sensations, the shining sun, him, me…us? Three minutes ago, I thought I’d never see him again.

“Am I being too presumptuous?” He looks at me.

His expression is guarded, like he’s admitted to a soft spot for little hopping frogs, but wants to appear tough nonetheless.

“Are you, ah, in a relationship?”

“Yea.” I nod, my expression serious.

His gaze darkens.

“With these fish. They expect me here every morning. For breakfast.”

He waits a beat, his lips pressed together. “But it’s lunch time.”

“I know.” I smile, a quieter smile than the happy surprise blooming through me would suggest. After the disaster that was my last relationship, I’m taking baby steps. I’m not ready to reveal much. “Which is why”—I pull off my cumbersome gloves and drop them in the bucket on my cart—“I’m cleaning up, and we’ll go have lunch.” I push the cart to the side of the shed. “Where shall we go?”

He lifts his muscled shoulders in a shrug. “I usually go to Peggy’s Deli. That’s the only place I know here in Riverton. Where do you like to go?”

“The deli’s great.” I live in Riverton, and the deli is very popular, with its inviting funky interior and generous sandwiches. And close enough to walk. “I’ll meet you out front in about five minutes?”

I race in and down the short stairs to our employee lounge and lockers. Should I take down my hair? Or would that look like I’m unleashing my inner temptress? I take off my denim work shirt and wash my hands and arms up to the elbow. From my locker, I grab a clean T-shirt and change in the bathroom. Then I go for my tube of grapefruit hand cream and slather it on my hands, my arms, my neck, and, for good measure, up my cheeks and across my forehead. I don’t pack perfume, but this cream has a delightful scent that will be a definite improvement over pond water. I decide to take down my hair, brush it, and put it back up in a neater ponytail. Then I’m racing back up the stairs, my stomach a jitter.

Ridge Road has no sidewalk, and the land alongside is uneven and littered with scrub brush. Jason places himself between me and the cars. Talking over the traffic is difficult, not only because of the noise, but because we both step off the narrow shoulder when a car is coming and dodging the brush requires attention. I manage to get some details about his aunt’s reaction to the plant, and how the pond system is operating with the new kit. His aunt lives in San Moreno about fifteen miles away; Jason lives and works in Bradley Park, two towns west of here.

The sun is warm, and since I’ve half-suffocated myself with skin cream, I’m in danger of again breaking an unattractive sweat. I’m glad for the air conditioning in Peggy’s.

Peggy is long-gone. Her daughter Maggie, not in her infancy either, now rules the place, lording over the counter activity in her trademark leathery tan, her white blond-from-a-bottle long hair, and her too-tight, low-neck knit shells, like she’s channeling Donatella Versace, only there’s twice as much of her. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when she sees me enter with Jason.

That I’m with someone at all? Or that he looks like he does? I don’t want to find out. I like Maggie, but she’s got no filter.

She beelines toward her prime counter position.

I wave hello, and then steer right toward the seating area where we can get table service.

We sit in the back at a small wooden table painted in an orange-and-turquoise checkerboard pattern.