Loree Lough - The Firefighter's Refrain

There had been a certain edge in Mark’s voice, Sam reflected as he pulled into the parking lot. Hopefully, it wasn’t because Eli had gone on another bender. “That’d be a sorry shame,” he muttered. Mark’s younger brother had been clean and sober nearly four years.

Mark was sipping a tall glass of sweet tea when Sam slid into the booth seat across from him. “I’ve been meaning to check this place out for years,” he said, glancing around. “Most attempts at imitating a fifties soda shop fall flat, but I like this. I like it a lot.”

Mark harrumphed. “Well, thank you, Frank Lloyd Wright. I’m sure the owner will appreciate your critique.”

Sam chuckled as a freckle-faced teen stepped up and slid two plastic-coated menus onto the red Formica table. “Sweet tea for you, too, sir?”

“Sure. But hold the lemon, okay?”

The kid hurried off, and Sam pretended to read the dinner listings. “So why am I here?”

“We haven’t even ordered yet. What’s your hurry? Got a hot date or somethin’?”

“Matter of fact, I do...with a stack of lesson plans.” Sam stretched out his sore leg and massaged the taut thigh muscle. Standing for extended periods always made it ache, but never more than when he paced the linoleum-over-concrete classroom floors. “Truth is, I’m curious. Every other time you’ve popped for a meal, I’ve had to work for it.” He closed the menu. “So what can I do for you this time?”

“Sheesh.” Mark shook his head. “You’re such a cynic.” He paused, then said, “I thought you were partial to blondes?”

The movements of a short-haired brunette had drawn Sam’s attention to the kitchen. “With my luck,” he said, averting his gaze, “she’ll turn around and give me an eyeful of hairy moles and missing teeth.”

Mark snickered, then pointed at Sam’s leg. “You keep that roadblock out there, you’re liable to find out. How long since the last surgery?”

Sam did the math in his head. He’d had two operations since the cave-in. “Going on three years.”

“But it’s still bugging you.” Mark leaned back. “Are you gonna talk to somebody about it or keep playing the strong, silent type?”

“I’m talking about it now.” He leaned back, too. “Unfortunately.”

The waiter arrived with Sam’s iced tea and, taking a pencil from behind his ear, asked, “You guys ready to order?”

Mark hadn’t even glanced at his menu. “Turkey burger and sweet potato fries, house salad with light Italian on the side.”

“Holy health food, Batman,” the kid said. “What’s got into you?”

“That crack is coming out of your tip, wise guy.”

Sam read the boy’s name tag. “Go ahead and laugh, Ted. I’ll get the tip. It’s worth every dollar to see this guy squirm.” He tapped his menu. “I’ll have a BLT, a side of fries and coleslaw.” And when Ted walked away, he added, “So what’s her name?”

Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Whose name?”

“The woman who put you on a diet.”

Waving the comment away, Mark said, “Can’t a guy cut back a little without his friends jumping to crazy conclusions?”

“So I take it a best man invitation isn’t the reason I’m here.”

“Man. You’re like a puppy with a bone.” He shook a packet of sugar into his already sweet tea. “All right, Mr. Impatience, here’s the deal—Duke Miller is taking Eli on the road.”

“No kiddin’? Well, good for Eli. It’s about time the guy caught a break.”

After leukemia took his little girl, Eli’s heartbroken wife had committed suicide, and he’d found comfort at the bottom of a bottle. Hard to tell how long he might have stayed there if Mark hadn’t made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: if Eli could shape up and kick the addiction, he’d make him a full partner at The Meetinghouse. Which he had.

“He leaves in two weeks. Just enough time to get his affairs in order.”

“Will Torry replace him as manager?”

“Well, he’s on the road more than he’s here in Nashville.”

Sam pictured Torry Martin, the big red-haired comic whose stand-up and movie career had taken off in the past year. “But Eli’s still your partner, right?”

Mark shrugged. “Therein lies the rub, Sherlock.”

“Wish I had a dollar for every time that line was botched.”

Mark looked up. “Huh?”

“For starters, it’s Shakespeare, not Sherlock Holmes... Hamlet, to be specific.”

“Gimme a break,” Mark kidded. “You know as much about the bard as I do. Which is zip.”

“Says you.” Sam launched into the story of how, back in high school, the object of his affections had signed up to play Gertrude in the annual winter pageant.

“Claudia’s family owned the ranch just north of the Double M, and I figured she and I might have a chance to get closer if I drove her home from rehearsals.”

“Closer, literally?” Mark leaned forward. “Or closer, figuratively?”

Sam ignored him. “Claudia loved attention. Positive. Negative. Didn’t matter, long as people were looking at her. She was a cheerleader. Recited the pledge for the morning announcements. Faked migraines and fainting spells in the halls, so guys would have to carry her to the nurse’s office.”

“And you had a crush on a girl like that.”

“I was young and dumb. What can I say? Anyway, it didn’t surprise anyone when she snagged the female lead. I auditioned for the part of Horatio, thinking, fewer lines to memorize than Hamlet. But good old Mrs. Smith had other ideas.”

“Hamlet? You? No way.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, way. You should’ve heard my cousins, mocking every line as I prepped for that part.”

“Well, at least you got the girl.”

Sam took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“No way,” Mark repeated.

“Yup. I took all that razzing for nothing, since Claudia only had eyes for Bart Isaacs.”

“Captain of the football team?”

“Nah. His dad was a big shot in Denver politics.”

“Ah.” Mark took a swig of his tea. “But I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, my firefighter friend. No way you can convince me you played Hamlet!”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam sat ramrod straight, and began, “‘To sleep, perchance to dream, ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give—’”

A breathy oomph, the shattering of plates and the clatter of silverware hitting the floor interrupted his monologue.

There on the floor beside him, amid broken dishes, tomato slices and a jumble of fries, sat the most gorgeous brunette Sam had ever seen. Dark, long-lashed eyes flashing, she glared up at him.

“Did it ever occur to you that sticking your leg out into the aisle might trip someone who can’t see over a serving tray?”

CHAPTER TWO

THE GUY WINCED as he stooped to help her pick up the mess. “Man, oh, man. You’re right, I wasn’t even thinking. I’m really sorry.”

The flash of pain on his face looked genuine enough to surprise her, even though she was the one sitting on her rump in the aisle.

Finn flicked a slice of bacon from her lap. “Yeah, well, accidents happen, I guess. Especially when we’re distracted.” She met his eyes. “Right... Hamlet?”

His cheeks flushed slightly, and despite herself, Finn thought it was charming.

“Sticking my leg out that way has become a habit since...” He ran a hand through almost-blond waves. “It’s a bad habit, I’ll admit.”

He made a cup of his right hand and started dropping shards of glass and chunks of stoneware into it.

“Stop, please,” she said, one hand up like a traffic cop. “I’ve got this. I can’t afford a lawsuit if you cut yourself. Besides,” she added, nodding at his leg, “you’re already hurt.”