Barbara McMahon - Men In Uniform - Burning For The Fireman - Firefighter's Doorstep Baby / Surrogate and Wife / Lying in Your Arms

“Stephano was your friend?”

“My best friend.”

“I’m sorry he died.”

“He was killed in the bombing. We were on our third rescue foray when the second bomb went off. The roof of the tunnel completely collapsed, killing everyone still beneath it.”

Cristiano wanted to step out into the rain, feel the cleansing of the water, feel the coolness, see the sky above him, know he was alive. But he held the baby, so remained sheltered in the doorway. The trust from Dante touched him. The baby knew the adults around him would care for him.

She reached around his waist, hugging him. “How horrible.”

“The entire event was horrible.”

“But you saved seven lives. If not for you, they would have perished in the second bombing.”

“It wasn’t enough. There were so many still trapped.”

“It’s amazing, that’s what it is. How can you say it wasn’t enough? It was more than anyone expected.”

“I should have made sure Stephano was right behind me, not lagging behind—that he had not been in the tunnel when it collapsed. We lost seven men from our station.” The anguish penetrated to his core. His duty was to save lives. His chosen way was to fight disasters and rescue people. He hadn’t even been able to rescue his best friend.

She offered support the only way possible, her body warmth to chase the chill of torment. If only she could truly heal his sorrow. If only anyone could.

UNAWARE of the turmoil, the baby happily babbled, reaching out once or twice as if to touch the rain. The air grew chilled, but Cristiano didn’t move. The child was well wrapped. He felt like the only warm spot in the world where he rested against Cristiano’s chest. That and where Mariella touched him.

The silence extended. Yet it wasn’t awkward. Instead, it was—almost healing. He took a breath, trying to let go the ache that plagued him with all the death and destruction.

“So how long were you and Stephano friends?” she asked.

Cristiano almost smiled. “I remember the first day I met him—it was at the training for firefighting. He came from Genoa, a man loving the sea. I came from here—hills and lakes. He was an only child, had a pretty wife and parents who doted on him. We both passionately loved soccer. We were paired up in training and the rest—”

He hadn’t thought about those days in all the months since Stephano had died. Now, telling Mariella, he let the memories wash through him. They’d had fun times. They’d fought fires in Rome. Been sent to man the lines in raging forest fires worldwide. Practiced paramedical routines to save lives. And spent a lot of time together in their off hours.

“He was always up for adventure.” Slowly Cristiano began to speak of his friend, remembering aloud the trips to the sea, the ski trip that had ended with both falling face first in the snow, and how quickly they’d progressed from that. The quiet times by a fire, sharing philosophies, plans for the future.

“His wife would probably like to hear from you,” Mariella said as Cristiano wound down after telling her many of the shared experiences. “You haven’t seen her since?”

He shook his head. “How can I face her when I lived and Stephano didn’t?”

“You didn’t kill him. The terrorists did. You and she have a shared love of the man—different, of course, but bonding nonetheless. I bet she misses you being around.”

“I would remind her of Stephano.”

“Maybe she wants to be reminded. Maybe she wants someone around who knew him, faults and all. Who can remember the happy times together. Celebrate his life, not ignore it.”

“You don’t understand.”

She shrugged. The baby was growing more and more squirmy.

“He’s probably hungry. I’ll take him,” she said, reaching for Dante.

He relinquished the child, feeling the cold air hit where the baby had been.

“What are you working on?” she asked, moving back to the workbench and looking at the wooden pieces.

Cristiano turned as well. The emotional toll started to overwhelm him. Needing a diversion, he crossed the small room and picked up one of the pieces that would be a chair leg. “A table and chair set for Dante.”

“Wow, you can do that? Did you do all those?” She looked at the pieces lined up against the wall.

“It’s been a long summer. I don’t just ignore housework,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“These are beautiful.” She stroked a finger across the smooth polished top of a small half pie table. The cabriolet legs were elegant. The rich cherry wood gleamed even in the defused lighting.

“Those legs were hard to do. I ruined more pieces than I wanted.” Temper had played a part, but he didn’t need to tell her that. Impatient with his recovery, feeling helpless, he’d taken it out on the wood.

“And this, what a beauty this is. Did you make it for someone?” The small console table had classic lines and a band of inlay lighter wood in the perimeter.

“Just made them to kill time while recuperating.”

“I’d buy this one if it’s for sale,” she said hesitantly.

“You can have it. No charge.” He wondered where she would put it. Could he visit her one day and see how she was using it? It made him think of a connection between them. For as long as she held onto the table, she’d be holding onto a part of him.

He turned back to the workbench.

“Go on and work if you wish. Looks like we’re going to be here a while with the rain. We won’t get in your way,” she said with a smile. “I can’t wait to see what Dante’s going to get. He’s one lucky boy, isn’t he?”

That damned optimism. Cristiano shook his head. How could she think that? The kid had no mother or father. No known relatives. He placed a terrible burden on the young woman now his mother. Yet Mariella seemed sincere in her comment.

Cristiano began working on the leg. At first he was conscious of Mariella watching him. But soon the pleasure he took in working with wood took over.

He was aware when she fed the baby, of the soft lullaby after he ate. Then when she put him down in the stroller for nap. She came back to stand beside him.

“Circle of life sort of thing, isn’t it?” she said.

“What is?”

“You fight fire and destruction, and now create things of beauty. A balance. Is that why you do it? To balance out?”

“No. I do it because I like it. My grandfather taught me.”

“And your father taught you to cook?”

“A bit. I do like good food prepared well.”

“I can boil eggs,” she said impishly.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. She’d been to America and back. Was capable of taking on an infant. And couldn’t cook worth beans?

“So you and Dante will live happily ever after on boiled eggs.”

“I might have to expand my repertoire,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe you can give me some hints.” She frowned. “You don’t think that will be a problem in the future, do you? I mean, I can learn. And for now he’s just beginning to eat baby food, so no worries.”

“I’m sure that’s not a condition of growing up healthy. Though to enjoy eating, you do need to know more than how to boil eggs.” He shook his head. All the members of his family knew how to cook. Well, he wasn’t sure about the newly found half-brothers from America. But if they lived alone at any time, they would cook for themselves.

“So tell me what you’re doing now,” she said, pressing closer. She was a toucher. He hadn’t been touched since he left hospital. Until now. Every time Mariella came close, she reached out or bumped against him. He liked the human contact. The thought of pulling her into his arms grew stronger by the second.