Page 82 of The Fire Captain's Unexpected Baby
Of course, by this morning, there was a copy of the Crown Hill Gazette on the kitchen island with a note on top that said:I’ve circled some jobs you might like – Mom.
I have it open in front of me now as I sip my coffee and stare out of the window at sleepy Main Street, a portal to the fifties. It’s almost jarring to see modern cars and trucks passing through, the storefronts vintage, all red brick and terracotta stucco, with striped awnings and old windows.
Although Crown Hill isn’t architecturally… consistent. I’ve always thought it looked like my hometown picked and chose some styles it liked and just threw them all together.
Just down the street is a building that looks like it was plucked straight from the French Quarter in New Orleans; the florist up the street reminds me of a quaint English cottage; the town hall is almost brutalist in its concrete design; the shops that bookend Main Street have an almost Victorian Gothic quality, while the movie theater directly opposite is distinctly Art Deco.
The homes that ripple outward from the town’s hub are much the same, each one unique, following no agreed-upon style whatsoever.
The bell above The Roscoe’s door jingles, snapping me out of my architectural digest.
“Summer Turner?” An excitable voice belonging to an older woman, who’s vaguely familiar but I can’t put a name to her, has me on edge in an instant. “Iknewthat was you! I was just on my way to the store when I spotted you in the window, and I thought to myself,that’sher!”
I put on a smile. “I guess sitting by a window isn’t the best place to go incognito.”
The woman frowns for a second… then bursts out laughing, waving a hand at me as she approaches. “I should’ve known you’d be funny! Your books are.” She hovers next to my table, as if waiting for an invitation to sit. “Weloveyou in our house. I’ve read all of your books, my daughter has read them, my granddaughter has read them.”
I’m at that age where I don’t know if I’m closer to the daughter’s age or the granddaughter’s.
“Always pleased to meet a fan,” I say stiffly.
I’mterribleat meeting fans, not that they ever came up to me in New York. In a big city, there are too many people to be able to pick out one author whose face you’ve only glimpsed on a cover sleeve. In a small town, where my face has been in the window display of the Briar Patch Bookshop for years, I suppose Ishouldhave known better than to sit where people might see me.
“Sally’s story was my favorite,” the woman tells me, as if she’s given the right answer to a question I didn’t ask. “Then Lila’s, then Charlotte’s. Ilovedthe novella about their mother, but I’m desperate to read about Amy and Payton!”
So am I.
“Well, that’s–”
She dives back in before I can finish. “We’re all so proud of you, Summer, a Crown Hill girl making it in the big city. Making it onto theNew York Timesbestseller list, no less! My Angela couldn’t believe it when she saw your name there; I think you were in AP History together. She’s up in Tucson these days, and she tells anyone who’ll listen that she’s friends with a famous writer.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t remember any Angela, so I just nod along with a smile.
“Say, can I have a photo with you, to send to her?” the woman asks. “Oh, and I can’t leave without having you sign something! If it’s no trouble, I mean.”
I look exactly as you’d expect me to look after rushing to pack up my life and return to my hometown while fending off the storm clouds of an imminent depression, and only on my first coffee of the day. But she’s nice and she’s so enthusiastic and sweet that I can’t refuse.
“Of course, I’d be happy to,” I reply.
The woman manning the counter of the café-bar gives us a funny look as I pose for a picture and hastily sign a napkin for the older woman, whose name is dancing on the tip of my tongue. I feel like she used to work at the bank.
Pocketing the napkin and tapping diligently on her phone, the woman leans in. “So, when is the next book coming out? Will it be out in time for the summer? Or Christmas? Oh, I’d love a Christmas one!” She clasps her phone to her chest, sighing. “A romance in the snow.”
Even though Christmas is ten months away, I highly doubt it. But I don’t tell her that. That would mean admitting that I’m a failure and another Redwood Sisters novel is never going to see the light of day again.
“You know how publishing can be,” I murmur, heat rushing into my cheeks. The wound of having my contract cancelled is still raw, but she doesn’t know she’s rubbing salt in. “What’s been happening around here while I’ve been away? I bet there’s more gossip here than any you can get in New York.”
The older woman beams with hometown pride, clearly delighted by the suggestion that little old Crown Hill can beat the big city in something. “Well, I don’t know about that, but there’s been talk of our hotshots getting an accolade from the White House for their tireless work this summer.”
She gestures out to the street. “The mayor honored them back in September; there was a big ceremony at the town hall. A pity you didn’t come back earlier, or you could have been there.” She gasps, her eyes widening. “You could have written a story about them! Oh, that would be perfect; I wouldloveto see Payton with a firefighter.”
Hotshot. One innocent word, and it's like I’ve swallowed a hornet’s nest. My lungs tighten, heart thudding out of my chest, stomach writhing, throat closing, head buzzing with the memories that chased me out of this town in the first place.
I miss you.I guess that’s why I’ve usually avoided returning here for longer than a couple of days at Thanksgiving or Christmas; it’ll never be a true homecoming without my brother here, grinning and teasing, to welcome me back.
“Sorry I’m late!” A breezy voice calms the hornets, Paige Reed rushing into the bar with the same urgency I imagine she has in the disinfected hallways of the hospital wards. “Code brown,rightbefore I was about to clock out for lunch. Afternoon, Mrs. Oakley. How’s your husband doing?”
Mrs. Oakley.That’sher name. Still can’t remember an Angela Oakley, though.
