Rescued By The Firefighter

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She held up her palms. “Stop right there. I would never do anything to harm these kids. And what on earth would I gain by starting a fire?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Insurance money? I’ve seen that before, too. Insurance money is a quick way out for people who get into debt.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits to filter out his accusations. He probably had seen that kind of person a dozen times over in his line of work. Maybe worse. Pyromaniacs. People whose euphoria escalated with the sound of sirens.

And even though that was nowhere near the kind of person she was, Rand was the kind of by-the-book official who would shut down her camp if he found the tiniest infraction.

Had she caused herself great harm by running into that fire to save Eli and Chris?

And what of the boys themselves? The boys might have had something to do with the fire, but she would not let herself think that either of them had done anything intentional. It all had to be an accident. But even if it was, would the fact that the boys were in her care still be enough to bring charges against her?

She could see the case Rand could make. That accusatory finger of the law was itching to point at her.

Beatrice sensed that if she let her growing sense of guilt show on her face or in her tone of voice, he would suspect her of crimes she hadn’t even thought of. That was the problem with being a cop’s kid. You could always see the dark side of a situation before you saw the light.

She cocked her chin and pursed her lips. “Well, Mr. Nelson, I can tell you one thing—you’re never going to get the truth out of a kid acting like this.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“None of your questions and interrogations will be easy for a kid. I know you’re doing what’s necessary and all this is required by the law, but these kids—” she turned her head toward the dining room and then, after a thoughtful pause, back to him “—they’re good kids. All of them.”

Ouch. Even she thought her defensive tone was sharp enough to pierce granite.

“Look,” she said sweetly, changing tack. “Some of them have had a rough life. A couple have had a very tough life. Could you be a little...well, softer in your delivery?”

“Softer?”

“Yeah. Not so gruff.”

His biceps flexed, bulged and relaxed as he folded his arms over his chest. “You think I sound harsh?” He leaned forward a few inches, but instead of seeming threatening, his closeness reminded her of the other reactions she had to him. The ones that made her wish they were not in this antagonistic situation. The ones that flashed visions of being held in his arms.

“To a kid. Yes.”

She peeled her eyes off his arms and hauled them up to his face. She met his gaze dead-on.

“I’ll take that into consideration. Thanks for the advice. I’ll be right back.”

He walked toward the huge fire truck.

His heavy black boots left shallow imprints in the dry dirt as he headed across the summer-bleached grass that in spring had been dark green velvet. Their indentations left proof that he was on the job, performing his duty. Beatrice inhaled deeply as the space between the two of them lengthened. She realized that when she was near him, he didn’t just fill the inches and feet between them, but he overtook her thoughts as well.

He wore regulation black jeans and a short-sleeved knit shirt, which had the ILFD logo over the breast pocket. Beatrice had never been the type to linger long over any male’s physique, but Rand was so perfectly sculptured, it was impossible not to conjure visions of ancient Greek Olympians and the mighty feats they accomplished.

But then, Rand had carried her and Eli out of a blazing inferno. What was more Herculean than that?

Beatrice was so immersed in her fantasies about Rand, that she didn’t notice that he’d walked back to her and had started talking to her.

“Sorry, what?”

He sighed, and started over. “I need to talk to all the kids about fire safety before I have the private, er, interviews.”

She had to give him points for carefully choosing his words. Maybe he’d listened to her.

She turned her boot around and let her body follow, using the wall for momentary security. “This way.”

The kids were nearly back to normal, Beatrice realized as she entered the dining hall. Their voices were sprinkled with chuckles and had returned to the loud, happy tones she’d heard before the fire.

She clapped her hands three times, the signal for their attention. Usually, it took them a few moments to stop joking with one another. This time they came to abrupt attention.

“Guys. This is Firefighter Rand Nelson. Some of you met him last night during the fire.” She looked pointedly at Eli and Chris. Eli smiled at Rand. Chris scooted back on his chair. He clutched either side of his seat with his hands. Little Ricky’s eyes were filled with adoration.

Cindy stared blatantly at Rand’s chest. Maisie’s cheeks were pink.

Beatrice continued. “Mr. Nelson wants to talk to you all about fire safety.”

Beatrice took a step back and nearly toppled over. Quick reflexes on Rand’s part saved her from the fall. “Thanks,” she said, feeling both clumsy and embarrassed.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered but didn’t give her a second glance.

He turned his attention to the children. His “official” hat was back on.

“The first thing I want to assure you kids is that the fire has been extinguished. To make doubly certain, later this afternoon, our crew will be out here to cut down any remaining trees that appear to be a hazard. At this moment, our forensic team is in the forest to ascertain the origin of the fire.”

Little Jessica Kettering raised her hand high above her cropped carrot-red hair. “Sir! Sir!”

Rand looked at Beatrice.

“Her name is Jessica.” Beatrice smiled. “Yes, Jessica. What’s your question?”

Jessica shoved her thick glasses back up her nose, and angled her unpatched eye directly at Rand. “Do you think someone started it?”

“We can never be sure until our investigation is complete. But since there were no thunderstorms or lightning strikes anywhere in our area last night, we felt we needed some expert eyes on the situation.”

“Sir!” Little Ricky threw his hand up. “I think it was gangs.”

“Gangs?” Rand questioned. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ricky. I’ve seen all kinds of things on the news about the gangs near Indian Lake. We have to be careful because they try to give drugs to little kids.”

Beatrice realized there were more fears buzzing in her camp kids’ heads than hornets in a nest. Camp was supposed to be an oasis for children. Their summer idyll. “Ricky, you are right. We all have to be very careful. That’s why we have camp rules about lights out and being in your cabin at sundown. We take special care to make sure all you kids are safe. That’s why Miss Cindy, Miss Maisie and Mr. Bruce are always close to you. We don’t ever want you to feel that you are alone.”

“We don’t feel alone, Miss Beatrice,” Susan Kettering said, grasping Jessica’s hand. “This is the best place. You make it the best for us.”

“Thank you, Susan.”

Beatrice felt yet another tiny tear fall from her eye. She blamed the fire for her highly charged emotional state this morning. As she lifted her finger to slide it off her cheek, she noticed Rand watching her. His face was expressionless. Part of his stoic on-the-job mask, she guessed. But his eyes probed her more deeply than she ever remembered a man doing. She felt her knees weaken, but this time she was glad she had the air boot, because it helped her maintain her balance.

“And thank you for listening, kids. Finish your breakfast and take your dishes to the kitchen for Miss Amanda. You all know your next activities.” She nodded for Bruce, Maisie and Cindy to gather their groups.

“Except for Chris and Eli,” Rand said in a loud tone that caused both boys to stop in their tracks. “I need to talk to both of you. Miss Beatrice has said that I can use her office.” Rand walked over and put strong hands on each boy’s shoulder. “Where is it?”

“This way,” Eli replied, looking up at Rand.

Beatrice held her breath as she watched Chris blanch to a ghostly white.

“Um, Mr. Nelson, didn’t you say you needed to speak with me, first?” she asked.

He glanced at Chris and then raised his eyes to Beatrice. He dropped his hands off their shoulders. “I did.”

“Okay, boys. You go out and join Mr. Bruce. I’ll call you later if we need you.”

Chris nearly shot to the dining hall’s back screen door. Eli raced after him.

Beatrice hobbled over to Rand, one hand on her hip. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you, now?”

“I do. But until I get a formal forensic report from your guys out there in that forest, I’d rather you didn’t upset the children.”

“Fair enough.”

“If there’s any hot seat you’re cooking up, I’ll be the only one occupying it.”

“Look, Bee—”

“The name’s Beatrice.”

He frowned. “All right. I’ll focus the questions on you. For now.”

Questions that can trip me up, she thought. Her dad had been a cop. He’d always said that anyone who disclosed personal information was at risk. People didn’t understand how ordinary actions in one’s life could be twisted by a prosecutor against them. He’d told her he’d seen innocent men sent to prison and murderers set free. She didn’t have anything to hide from Rand, or anyone, but an investigation of any kind made her nervous. It rattled the bars of her carefully built security gates.

Curiously, trepidation filled his face and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he didn’t want to go through this any more than she did. But how could that be? He was so formal. So official.

She knew he had a job to do, but could she trust this feeling of hers that he was uncomfortable enforcing codes and regulations? Did he always feel this way about this part of his job, or was it just her camp and this particular fire that bothered him? And if it was, could she trust that he might be lenient with her if he did find her culpable?

“Let’s go to my office,” she said, then led the way down a wood-paneled hallway.

Her office was quaint and situated in the southwest corner of the building with casement windows on two sides of the room, which allowed dappled light and patterns of maple leaves to splay across the plaster walls. There were no drapes or blinds on the windows, as Beatrice wanted as much sunlight to enter the room as possible.

Her desk was like most of her personal furniture—old, distressed, battered, in need of reupholstering and bought at yard sales, though loved and adored by her. The lamps were another thing altogether. They were true antiques. Most were Frank Lloyd Wright designs in stained glass and she’d sat in the rain for hours at area estate sales to win them. Luckily, she’d never paid more than a hundred dollars for any of them, but they were her treasures. Where other women fancied jewelry or leather handbags, for Beatrice, her Achilles’ heel was the lamps—these illuminations that glowed with colored lights through dark nights or gloomy days. They made her smile and gave her hope when she banged away at her electric calculator and pulled up a white tape with globs of red ink.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to a rumpled linen-slip-covered club chair that sagged, but whose bones were pure 1940s craftsman-designed hardwood.

Rand lowered himself into the chair. It groaned with his solid weight. He laid his hands on the rounded arms. “I like this chair. A family heirloom?”

“Not quite. There’s nothing heirloom about my family,” she said, sitting in the swiveling wooden desk chair.

Though the desk chair was circa 1930 and she’d seen replicas in box stores selling for hundreds of dollars, she’d snagged hers on Maple Avenue in Indian Lake during the spring cleanup days—an event in April where residents put out unwanted furniture and the city garbage trucks picked them up for free. Mrs. Beabots, whom she’d known since she bought the camp and was a true believer in her mission, had phoned her to tip her off to some special finds down the boulevard, at Katia and Austin McCreary’s house.

Beatrice hadn’t wasted a minute. A call from Mrs. Beabots, who’d obviously prescouted Maple Boulevard for her, was never taken lightly by anyone in town. That day, Beatrice came back to camp in a rented truck with end tables, a Ping-Pong table, a set of twin beds with headboards for the women counselors’ cabin, one walnut bookshelf and a credenza for the far end of the dining room near the stone fireplace.

The following week, Mrs. Beabots had donated the tables and chairs the children now ate at for every meal. Just thinking of the octogenarian’s generosity brought an emotional lump to her throat.

“Nice rug, too,” he said, tapping the red, gold and black wool rug.

“Thanks, I hooked it myself.”

His eyes darted to her face. “You’re kidding?”

She shrugged. “I hook rugs. Mea culpa. I do it in the winter when the days are lonely and bleak here at the camp. It keeps me busy at night.”

His face went solemn. He blinked and shook his head slightly, as if he didn’t believe her. Then he took out the recorder.

“So, for the record, how long have you had the camp?”

His voice took on an intimidating tone that matched the physical strength of the man. She was amazed at how quickly he could bounce from pleasantries to business. Then again, that could be a self-criticism since it was so easy for her brain to remain in idyllic fields and grasses of splendor. Anywhere to avoid the shards of reality, most of which had to do with her shrinking financial status.

“Three years and a few months,” she answered. “But we’ve only been open two summers. I spent a great deal of time—not to mention my small inheritance and all my savings—on upgrading the camp. It’s been a financial struggle, I’ll tell you, but I’ve done it. I’ve put in the regulation wheelchair ramps, and we have very safe recreation equipment. I’ve upgraded all the electrical, bought new beds, linens, kitchen equipment. If you didn’t know, the camp was built in the early 1950s. The bones of the place are solid as a rock. But the rest... Frankly, I have to admit that from a financial perspective I would have been better off bulldozing it down and starting over with new buildings. The bank would have been happier. But I loved this place too much to tear it down. Anyway, the bank did give me a loan for the new plumbing and electrical system.”

“And that’s all up to code?”

“Absolutely!” She ground her back teeth. Man, but she hated officiousness. “I have the inspections and permits if you need to see those.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But keep them handy if it comes up.”

“Comes up?” She glared at him.

“I’m trying to help you, Bee... Beatrice. If there was an incident last night, my chief might ask for documentation of your inspections.”

“Why?”

“If that fire had crossed the road then your camp would have ignited. All it would have taken was a strong wind for the sparks to carry. City regulations are there to protect you. In an emergency, do you have enough power to run electrical equipment? Enough water to feed fire hoses once the pumper is empty? I see you have a little lake. You could use the water from that lake, but you’d need a sump pump to extract it. And that sump pump would require an electrical feed.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll have to make sure everything is in order.”

“Mr. Nelson...” She took a deep breath, but it didn’t calm her at all. In fact, she felt she was about to ignite with indignation, which happened nearly every time she defended her camp. “I bought this place because I loved it when I came as a kid. It was lovely here. I met real friends here. You see, I grew up in Chicago, in the city, actually, and life was all about concrete and traffic and buildings. I didn’t have a yard. I had an elevator. I never had a dog or cat. When I came to camp, I felt I was me, for the first time.”

“You never had a cat?”

“No.”

“And you don’t have one now?”