I hold the delicate sheet of paper from years ago, then read the words written in a blocky pen.
Dear Harriet,
As we played cards late into the night, the hush of the firehouse falling over us, I appreciated you sharing with me why you had wanted to be a firefighter. It means a lot to me, the way you opened up. I’m grateful to know that you feel the same as I do about the service—called to help.
This job, this world, this life means everything. It’s what I’ve wanted to do since I was a young boy.
For you to have wanted it since you were a little girl too, feels extra special. I appreciate it’s not easy for you as the only woman around here. I want you to know that your stories are safe with me. I will treat them with care. I feel lucky to work with you, to cook with you, to play cards with you. (Even though you beat me at rummy!)
If you ever need someone to talk to, to lean on, to just share your day with, I want to be that person for you. I might not always open up right away when we talk, but that’s why I turn to these letters. For some reason, it’s easier for me to share my thoughts after dark as I sit down to write.
I hope you’ll keep these. I hope they mean something to you. When I leave at the end of the shift, I find myself hoping the time passes quickly so I can see you again.
Until the next shift, I’ll be counting the hours.
Yours,
Russ
Mabel covers her mouth with her hand. For several seconds neither one of us says anything. After a weighty pause, she says, “He fell in love with her through lettersright here.”
I look around at the firehouse-turned-bakery, and marvel at all the stories these walls hold, the secrets this building has kept for decades. “It’s kind of surreal.”
Briefly, I picture a romance from years ago unfolding between two people who worked together, who became friends, who fought their attraction. For a moment, I wonder about…possibilities as I watch Mabel, her wide eyes, her pouty lips, her agile mind. Her big heart.
I want to reach across the table, to kiss her, to tell her that I feel the same as Russ, that I want the days to pass quickly when I’m playing hockey, when I’m out of town, when I’m heading to the arena.
I want them to pass so that I can spend more stolen moments with her.
But we made a deal, and I won’t let romance get in the way. Even though it’s getting harder to stick to that deal by the hour.
34
PICKLEBALL SLAYERS AND RSVPS
MABEL
Trevyn steps back and gives me an assessing once-over in the sleeping quarters of Afternoon Delight. AKA my new part-time residence. It’s just easier to crash here most nights. I peer at the clock—the big pickleball game starts in forty-five minutes.
I’m ready to…well, to look fantastic as I play mediocrely.
“My work here is done. You look simply fabulous,” Trevyn says with an approving nod.
“You’re only saying that because you did her eyeshadow,” Skylar points out, while giving belly rubs to Simon, her rescue pup, the world’s sassiest Dachshund mix who’s lounging on my bed, along with my girlfriends.
Trevyn whips his gaze to our redhead friend. “Like I’d leave it to Mabel to look fierce on the court.”
“Hey. I can do my own makeup.”
“Of course youcan,” Trevyn says.
“He’s just better,” Skylar says impishly.
“Eyeshadow is a serious commitment,” Remy observes from her spot next to Skylar. “Eyeshadow saysI have more free time than you do.”
“Eyeshadow saysI took makeup training classes at Goddess,” Clementine puts in, as she kicks one black Mary Jane shoe back and forth.
Trevyn rolls his eyes. “Do not start insulting makeup tutorials, classes, or the world’s best store. That’s where I met Jean-Paul Patrick the other week,” he says with a curve of his lips.
