Teacup Novellas 02 - Strike the Match Page 2

  He pressed his lips together to hide the smirk. “Nita, what brings you out on this beautiful night?”

  She whacked him on the arm. “The fire, you big lug! Do I need to remind you that’s my house just across the road? I heard all the sirens and got over here fast as I could. It’s also my brothers—”

  “Aunt Nita!”

  Grant noticed the young woman approaching them as they made their way toward the inferno. Surprised, he did an immediate double-take. He’d never seen her before. The blustery wind whipped a mass of light brown curls around a face etched with worry. Her skin was flawless, her eyes sparkling with tears in the surreal glow of the blaze. He forced his gaze away from her, not wanting to be caught staring.

  This must be the niece Nita’s been babbling about so much. The journalism student, home from school and none too happy about it. No doubt a Christiane Amanpour or Ashleigh Banfield wannabe.

  Weeks ago, Nita had broached the subject, batting her merry eyes at him. “Grant, couldn’t you just tell her a thing or two about the business? Show her the ropes? She’s so disappointed about having to come home. Maybe you could hire her part-time to help out with the paper.”

  Since then, every time she’d brought up the subject, he’d envisioned some pimple-faced, gawky coed wearing black-rimmed glasses, nipping at his heels, bugging him to death with a million questions.

  What was her name? Sherry? No, Carrie. That’s right. Carrie. Like the freak from the Stephen King movie. Sheesh, I hope she doesn’t destroy Waterford Bay with her telekinetic powers.

  He watched Nita hug her very un-Sissy Spacek niece, then quickly moved away from them, anxious to avoid the inevitable introduction.

  “Sweetie, did you call your father?”

  “Yes. He’s on his way home. He’s devastated. He actually broke down over the phone, Nita. You know Dad—he never does that. I can’t even imagine what he’ll do when he sees what’s left of this.”

  Nita pulled her close, hugging her tight. “Honey, he’ll survive. He always does. I stood beside him, holding you in my arms when we buried your sweet mother. You were just five days old. If he can survive that, he’ll get through this. God will see him through.”

  Keri took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts from her mind. “C’mon, let’s see what Bill can tell us.”

  They tromped through the mud, stepping over a tangled web of hoses. The local fire chief watched as his men took control of the blaze. Keri was relieved to see most of the flames almost extinguished, despite the waves of smoke still billowing into the air. “Bill, any idea what started it?” She covered her nose and mouth with her knitted muffler.

  Bill Gregory shook his head. “We won’t know until it’s out and we can investigate. The structure was fully engulfed by the time we got here. Good thing Bertie next door called when she did. With this wind and all these trees around here, we could have lost a lot of homes tonight. Where’s your dad?”

  “He’s in Sacramento bidding on a job, but he’s on his way home now. He should be back early this afternoon.”

  Nita coughed. “If he doesn’t get stopped for speeding. Mercy, that brother of mine has a lead foot.”

  Bill gnawed on his signature toothpick. “Oh, he’ll be here by noon, if I know Tyler. You can count on that, Nita.”

  A loud crack ripped through the night air.

  “GET BACK! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!”

  As the warning cut through the chaos, Keri felt herself propelled backward. Bill shoved her and Nita away from the house with startling force as a sickening crash exploded behind them. All three landed in the mud beside Keri’s car. Bill scrambled away from them, barking orders and demanding a headcount of his men.

  Keri sat up to see what had happened. The entire second floor had pancaked onto the first floor, leaving only the stone fireplace standing like a lone statue draped in a whirlwind of sparks, smoke, and debris.

  “Nita! Are you okay?” She crawled to her aunt’s side.

  “I think so, honey. Although it’s the first time in my life I’m thankful for the extra padding on my back side. Help me up, will you?”

  “Here, let me,” someone offered. “Nita, are you all right?”

  Keri didn’t recognize the voice of the man helping her aunt back on her feet. A dark baseball cap covered his head, but she could see still see his thick salt and pepper hair. Heavy on the salt. A fancy Nikon hung from a strap around his neck over a blue squall jacket.

  “I’m fine, I think. Good heavens, what a mess!” Nita pulled the scarf from her head and wiped her muddy hands on it. “And Keri, look at you—covered head to toe.”

  Keri looked down at her jeans and jacket, completely covered in brown slime. She held out her hands, unsure where to wipe them.

  “Here,” the man said, digging a bandana from his back pocket then handing it to her.

  She reached for it, finally looking up into his face. He was younger than she’d thought. The hair had fooled her. He couldn’t be more than thirty, maybe thirty-two? But it was his eyes that stopped her. She wasn’t expecting them to be that blue, even in the mere reflection of all the flashing lights. And there was genuine concern in them, too. Who is this guy?

  As if her thoughts were overheard, Nita answered. “Oh Keri, honey, you haven’t met Grant yet, have you? This is Grant Dawson, the editor of our local paper. I write a column for him now and then, though I think he mostly keeps me on out of pity. Grant, this is my niece, Keri McMillan. The one I told you about.”

  She wiped the mud off her hand as best she could then extended it toward him. For a split second, he didn’t respond. Hello? I’m holding my hand out here?

  He took it briefly, gave it a quick shake. “Nice to meet you, but I need to see what happened over there. If you’ll excuse me.”

  They stared after him, Keri still rubbing her hands on his bandana. “Friendly guy.”

  Nita used her scarf to wipe off some of the mud on Keri’s face. “Who, Grant? Oh, normally he’s a teddy bear. Just focused. Used to be a big shot reporter for the L.A. Times. Got tired of the politics and rat race, and moved here a little over six months ago. Took over the Waterford Weekly when Ed Furley decided to retire and move to Florida. Grant was a writer, not a publisher, but he’s learned fast. Does a nice job with our little paper.”

  Keri watched him taking pictures of the wreckage. “He left one of the biggest papers in the country to come here and run a small-town weekly? What an idiot.”

  “A kinda handsome idiot, though, don’t you think? I’ve always thought he looked like that dear reporter from NBC. You know—the one who died over in Iraq, God rest his soul. What was his name? David something . . .”

  “David Bloom?”

  “David Bloom! So you see it too, the resemblance?”

  Keri studied her aunt’s face. Perfectly manicured eyebrows danced in mischief on a genteel face betraying her age. “Nita? Forget it.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “No, I’m just saying—I’m not interested, don’t go there, and don’t bring it up again. Got it?”

  Nita’s face melted in disappointment. “Oh sure, fine. Take away all my fun.”

  Keri grabbed her aunt’s elbow and steered her toward her car. “I’m not home for fun, Nita. I’m home to work and save money. Period.” She stopped, turning to face the smoldering cabin. “Let’s just hope Dad’s insurance is paid up.”

  “Well, if not, you could always go to work for the local paper.” Nita planted a kiss on her cheek. “In fact, I’ve already talked to Grant about hiring you while you’re home. Might be a good chance to get your feet wet and—”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I know. That’s why you love me, though. Now come along. Let’s go get cleaned up then I’ll make us some breakfast.” She turned back. “Maybe I should invite Grant to join—”

  “Not gonna happen. Move it.” Keri gently pushed her aunt toward the car. As Nita grumbled her way to Keri’s vehicle, Keri took on
e last look at the smoky skeleton of the once-beautiful log home and sighed.

  “Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter 2

  Grant leaned closer to the computer screen, studying the thumbnail images of the pictures he took at the fire. Good job, Dawson, good job. He selected ten pictures, a variety of different shots of both the burning cabin and the firefighters he interviewed. He would narrow it down to five pictures to sprinkle throughout his story.

  Satisfied, he stretched, happy to have so much done this early in the day. Normally, he’d trek over to Chandlers for an espresso to kick-start his morning. But the pouring rain and chilly temperatures convinced him to settle for a cup of his own brew. He made his way back to the small kitchen area of the old house that served as the office for the Waterford Weekly.

  Scooping the coffee beans into the grinder, he realized he was smiling. Not so many months ago, he would have already popped a handful of pills by this time of day. The relentless pressure of working for a paper like the Times had taken its toll. At first, he’d loved it. The chase for the hot story, the killer pace of the office and constant deadlines, the opportunity to travel—heady stuff for a kid just out of college. Landing a dream job at a major newspaper was the biggest adrenaline hit he’d ever known.

  But in less than ten years he’d had enough. The glitz that initially lured him into the job only frustrated him. He was constantly at odds with his bosses, usually fighting over political philosophies and the resulting pressures to give his stories an “edge.” But that was only part of it. Even now, more than six months later, he tried not to think about it, the loss just too painful.

  “Anybody home?”

  “Back here, Pop.”

  He heard the slow footfalls of his father ambling down the hall. Shep Dawson appeared in the doorway, his raincoat dripping on the hardwood floor.

  “Whoa there, Hoss, let’s get that coat and hat off you. You’re puddling the real estate, old man.”

  Shep’s lopsided grin barely lifted one side of his mouth. “S’pose you’re right.”

  Grant helped his father out of the heavy slicker and weathered captain’s hat. “I’ll put these on the back porch rockers. Grab yourself a cup of coffee there. Cream and sugar’s on the counter.”

  “Well . . . okay,” Shep mumbled.

  Grant draped his dad’s rain gear on the covered porch then joined him in the tiny kitchen. “To what do I owe this honor?” He reached for his Dodgers mug. “You haven’t been to town in weeks, Pop.”

  Shep shuffled toward Grant’s office, heading for the easy chair facing his son’s desk. “You left early. Didn’t come back. Just wondered.”

  Grant stirred cream into his coffee then plopped down in his desk chair. It amused him endlessly that his dad never used the telephone. Instead of trekking to town, something his father hated to do, he could have picked up the phone. But Shep Dawson was a man of few words. The telephone—forget the convenience of a cell phone—was nothing but a nuisance to him.

  “Sorry. I should’ve called you. There was a big house fire up on the bluff. That new luxury cabin Tyler McMillan’s outfit built. Got a call about three o’clock this morning. Afterward, I came here and got started on the story. Paper goes out tomorrow, and I knew this had to be our lead.”

  His dad nodded, sipped his coffee again.

  The grandfather clock in the corner ticked in rhythm, the only sound between them. He studied his father, still surprised by this unusual visit. Shep was a loner. As captain of a whale-watching vessel for Oregon’s tourist industry, he stayed mostly to himself. His buddy, Joe Trent, played host to the many guests on Shep’s whaler always entertaining them with plenty of enthusiasm, humor, and more knowledge of the whales of these waters than anyone else along this coast. Shep simply took care of the boat, steering her to the favorite waters of the gray whale.

  Grant was used to his father’s silence. It was just his way. When he’d left his job in Los Angeles, his dad offered for him to move in with him and live aboard The Sarah Jane, his 64-foot Grand Banks Alaskan docked at the Waterford Bay Marina. They’d always been close, but Grant knew his father liked his solitude. Always had. At least since Grant’s mother died of breast cancer fifteen years ago. Sarah Jane Dawson.

  He’d thanked his father for the offer, insisting he needed to live closer to the office in town. He’d bought a cabin just off Main Street and happily called it home, giving both himself and his dad the privacy they both needed. Still, he made sure to check on his dad on a regular basis, usually driving out to The Sarah Jane two or three times a week for a game of chess or a slow conversation under the stars.

  They’d settled into a quiet routine together. And it was just what Grant needed at this point in his life. Peace and quiet.

  “Bad?”

  “Bad what?”

  “Bad fire?”

  “Oh.” Grant smiled. “Yes. A total loss. The owners were supposed to move in sometime next week, I believe.”

  “Strangers?”

  “No. They’re from Idaho, I think, but they used to summer here a lot. Apparently decided to build a permanent home here. It’s a shame, too. That was some place. You’d have loved it. A whole bank of windows on both levels overlooking the ocean, wrap-around porch. Incredible view. Now it’s gone.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How’d it start?”

  “They don’t know yet. Bill said there’d be an investigation. I’d hate to think it was arson, but who knows.”

  Shep nodded again. The clock ticked on.

  Grant finished his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “No charters today with all this rain?”

  Shep shook his head.

  “So what are your plans for the day?”

  Shep shrugged. “Need Fig Newtons. Oatmeal.”

  “Tell you what. You pick up your groceries, let me do a little more work here, then we’ll meet over at Chandlers for a couple of cinnamon rolls. My treat.”

  His father stood up, dug a hand deep into the pocket of his worn pants. “Well—”

  Grant scooted his chair back and stood up. “Oh, c’mon. It won’t kill you, Pop. If anyone tries to bite you, I’ll whomp ‘em with my baseball bat. Fair enough?” He took the empty cup from his father and deposited both on the kitchen counter.

  Shep headed for the back porch. “We’ll see.”

  “No good. I’ll see you there at nine sharp. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

  “Well’sir . . .”

  The back door slammed, punctuating the old man’s signature retort, his answer to everything.

  Grant chuckled at the familiar peculiarities of his father, loving him all the more for it. He poured himself another cup of coffee. If he worked hard he could have the new layout ready to roll in another hour. He looked out the workroom window to see sheets of rain parading down the street. He still wasn’t used to this weather. Especially on press day. Paper and ink weren’t too fond of humidity in the hundred percentile range. Could be another long night.

  As he took his seat, he reached for the mouse to scan through the pictures again. He scrolled through them to make sure he hadn’t missed anything important. A face popped out at him. How did I miss this one?

  He clicked on the thumbnail image to see the bigger version of Keri McMillan talking to Bill. Grant remembered the shot now. He’d used his zoom lens, focusing on the moisture of her lips to bring her into perfect clarity. Her hand was suspended above her hair. He remembered that she’d grabbed a fistful of those curls in apparent frustration at Bill’s remarks shortly after he took the picture. He clicked on the zoom icon, making Keri’s image even bigger. She was without question beautiful. The lines of her jaw, her slender nose. Olive-green eyes filled with emotion. Even in the darkness, he’d noticed her teeth. She hadn’t smiled once, but as she’d talked, he could see they were perfect and straight and white.

  So her teeth are nice. She’s not a horse, Dawson. Get a gr
ip.

  He leaned forward, looking closer at the computer screen. Tears were pooled in those dark green eyes.

  It disturbed him to look at her in such obvious pain.

  It disturbed him even more that it disturbed him at all.

  “Feel better?”

  Keri toweled off her hair. “Much better. Thanks.”

  “Our clothes are in the wash. They’ll be ready by the time we finish breakfast. Here, have some coffee. NO, Muffy! Get down!”

  The ball of fur bouncing at Keri’s feet took a sudden beeline for the sofa, diving under its plaid skirt.

  “What was that?”

  “That’s my naughty, naughty little girl. She’s a rescue from the pound, but I’m about to take her back if she doesn’t start minding me. I’ve had her about three months now, I guess. And I’ve decided she’s schizophrenic.”

  Keri leveled her eyes at her aunt. “A schizophrenic dog?”

  “Oh very. When she’s playful like this, I call her Muffy. Cute as a button. But sometimes she’s rowdy and acts almost like a man with an attitude, if you can imagine. That’s when I call her—him—Jock. Then there’s the demure side of her when she thinks she’s some best-of-show poodle or something. I call her Fifi on those days. And then there’s Pedro—”

  “Let me guess. Spirited and hyper like a Chihuahua.”

  “Very good!” Nita beamed. “But she’s mostly Shih Tzu. She just doesn’t know it.”

  “A schizo-Shih Tzu. Now there’s a mouthful.”

  Nita dropped her head back and roared with laughter. “Oh, that’s perfect, Keri! I must remember to use that in my column next week. ‘A schizo-Shih Tzu’—love it!”

  Keri sipped her coffee. “Mmm, this is really good. Thanks, Nita.” Keri wrapped the towel around her head. The soft pink robe felt heavenly against her skin. “I might just have to steal this from you. I’d forgotten how much I love chenille.”