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Cassia reaches across the counter and squeezes my wrist, right over the dandelion tattoo, and then her phone vibrates against the register and she grabs it.
“Shit. Caleb’s calling in everybody who’s off to cover the station.” She’s already halfway to the door. “If he says anything on the radio, I’ll text you.”
The silence is profound when she leaves. No footsteps upstairs. No orders to take. Just me and my thoughts.
My worry.
At eleven Betsy Morris comes in for a single carnation, which is how I know she wants something. Betsy has never in her life spent ninety-nine cents without a reason.
“Terrible fire,” she says, laying her dollar on the counter.
“Looks that way.”
“My cousin in Huntsville can see flames from his porch.”
“Is that right?”
“Those Hollister kids should have sold that land years ago.” She leans in. “I hear your new tenant went out on it.”
“He’s a firefighter, Betsy. They all went out on it.”
She adjusts her glasses. “I also hear he was in your shop at five-fifteen this morning.”
I stop wrapping the carnation. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody told me. I walk Pearl about that time. I saw him going up your back stairs barefoot.” She smiles at me like a cat. “Barefoot, Lindsey. In September.”
Good grief. With a sigh, I mumble, “He came down to complain about my singing.”
“I’m only saying.” She picks up her carnation and sniffs it as she pats my hand. “Lovely forearms, your tenant has. Have a nice day, dear.”
She goes out humming. I stand there with my mouth open.
Lovely forearms. Betsy Morris is seventy-three years old.
By noon the smoke is thinner and whiter. By two I’ve made two extra arrangements. By four I’m humming, and I don’t even realize it until I catch myself.
Worried. He was right.
When another fire truck passes the shop heading to the fire, I can’t stop myself from pressing against the glass.
“Stay safe, guys.”
Chapter Three
“Don’t look at the fire, Raines. Look at the ground.”
Rob is ten feet behind me with a Pulaski over his shoulder. We’re cutting line through thick growth.
It’s hot. Stinks like hell. The smoke is so thick the sun is a red dot in the sky.
I swing. Scrape down to dirt. Step. Swing.
“Like that?” I ask.
“Exactly like that.” Rob coughs into his bandana. “You’re faster than Clint. Don’t tell him.”
“I don’t talk to Clint.”
