Teacup Novellas 02 - Strike the Match (4 page)

 “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 grip.

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.”

“Take it, honey. I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Now sit. I’ll have these eggs cooked in a jiffy. I put some cream cheese in them for you.”

“You remembered. You’re too good to me, Aunt Nita.” Keri took a seat at the counter, releasing a heavy sigh.

Nita turned, still stirring the gooey egg mixture with a wooden spoon.  “Now, Keri, you’ve got to let this go. It’s all going to work out. We need to be thankful that no one was hurt tonight. And thank goodness the Blankenships hadn’t moved in yet. Think of what
could
have happened.”

Keri dropped her head in her hands with a moan. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“You didn’t? That was the first thought I had when I saw those flames. I thanked God no one was sleeping in that house yet.”

Keri looked up, shaking her head. “What kind of horrible person am I? That thought never crossed my mind. All I could think of was Dad, and how much this would upset him. And . . .”

“And?”

She took another sip of the steaming coffee and set the mug back on the counter. “And how it would affect
me
. If it would affect how much Dad could pay me this year.” She rubbed her face. “How’s that for compassion?”

Nita scraped the eggs out of the black iron skillet onto two separate plates, then pulled a tray of biscuits from the oven. She set them on the stove. “Grab some orange juice for us, will you?”

Keri knew her aunt too well. Nita avoided answering the question Keri put out there, but she knew an answer would come. And knowing Nita, she was praying for wisdom even as she dished up bacon to put on their plates.

When they finally sat down on the bar stools, Nita unfolded the cloth napkin and laid it across her lap. Keri followed suit, knowing the ritual. Her aunt reached for her hand and bowed her head.

“Father, we thank You for Your mercy and grace. We thank You for protecting everyone tonight during this horrible fire. Lord, we trust You with every smidgen of our lives, and we’re trusting You with this one as well. Bring Tyler home safely. Protect him as he travels. And prepare the Blankenships for this devastating news. May they feel Your presence even in their hour of sadness.”

She squeezed Keri’s hand. “And Father, please comfort my sweet Keri. Lord, cover her with Your peace and understanding. Help her to know that all things truly do work together for good for those who know and love You. Help her to trust You in the days ahead as she pursues her goals. But more than anything, Lord, help her to rest in Your open arms. Let her feel those arms around her even now.

“Thank You for Your blessings and the food for which we are about to partake. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

She squeezed Keri’s hand again, but Keri couldn’t speak.

“So eat, already! The girls tell me their food always gets cold when I pray, but I just can’t help it. Prayer diarrhea, what can I say? C’mon. Take a bite.”

Keri smiled as she picked up her fork. “Nita, Nita, Nita. What am I going to do with you?”

Nita shrugged with a chuckle as she buttered a fat biscuit.

 “How are the girls these days? I haven’t seen them yet.”

“Oh my goodness, they’re ornery as ever. Which is why I love them so much. Peas in a pod and all that. Stop by Chandlers on your way to the office and say hello, okay? They’re all dying to hug your neck.”

Keri took a bite of the enormous fluffy biscuit. “Mmmm . . . oh Aunt Nita, this is so good. I didn’t know I was so hungry.”

“Of course you are. You eat like a bird if I’m not around. You’ve lost weight, missy, and I aim to fatten you up while you’re home. I’ll send you back to New York absolutely waddling.” Nita laughed in the warm, boisterous way Keri had always loved. How could the sound of someone’s laughter bring so much comfort?

“Like I’m going to let that happen?” But she knew it would be a battle. “Then again, these eggs are to die for. No one makes them better.”

They chatted over the rest of their meal and Keri even succumbed to Nita’s offer of a second biscuit. Dawn was just breaking, so there was no need to rush to the office yet. Dad wouldn’t be home for several more hours. After they cleaned the kitchen, they settled into the den over another cup of coffee. Muffy scampered into Nita’s lap and settled in for a nap as rumble of thunder gently shook the house.

“I was wondering when that storm would arrive,” Nita mused, sipping her coffee.

“Wouldn’t be Oregon if it didn’t storm everyday.” Keri lifted the framed picture from the table beside the sofa. “Oh Nita, I miss Uncle Rafe so much.”

Nita smiled, setting her mug on the coffee table. “I know, sweetie. I do too. Not a day goes by that I don’t talk to him, laugh with him. He’s still my best friend. After all these years.”

Keri caressed the pictured face of her uncle. It was Rafe Sanders who first sparked a love for journalism in Keri’s heart. A war correspondent for the Associated Press, Rave had traveled all over the world covering some of the biggest stories of his time. His lively tales of daring adventures in far-off lands like Vietnam, South Africa, Iraq, and Israel had planted a burning desire in her to follow in his footsteps. She was only thirteen when he was killed in a bombing in Bosnia. The pain of his loss still haunted her, but it was also the driving force in her quest to carry on the work he loved so much.