Breath on Embers (7 page)

Chapte
r Six

December 22nd

Thea needed three trips with both of the building’s luggage carts to haul the presents to the lobby. She left them and Ronan’s full name, rank and detailed description with the doorman, then hurried with her shortbread to the subway stop to catch a downtown train. The Open Table weekly soup kitchen was hosted in the basement of a church on Park Avenue near Eighty-Sixth Street. Most of the buildings in this upscale neighborhood cleared their sidewalks promptly, the gray-coated doormen looking like any other suburban homeowner as they blew the snow into mounds near the corners. She noted the fire hydrant nearly buried in a drift as she opened the side door and took the stairs to the basement kitchen.

The rest of Cooper Bensonhurst’s volunteers, wearing matching red aprons, were already gathered. Some chopped vegetables for a salad while others monitored commercial-sized pots of water needed to boil macaroni for goulash. Two men supervised large pans where hamburger sizzled and in the fellowship hall still more people opened tables and removed chairs from rolling storage units. The tables where they’d serve the meal were already set up and covered with festive red-and-green plaid cloths. The dessert table was filled to overflowing with a massive variety of cookies and bars. Thea hung up her coat, then pushed a plate of chocolate brownies decorated with red-and-white-iced candy canes forward to set her shortbread into a spot at the back of the table, then returned to the kitchen.

Nancy Watkins, the volunteer coordinator, was a short, stout woman who ran the agriculture commodities division. “Hi, Thea. Have any trouble getting here?”

“No,” she said. “I live one stop uptown, so it was an easy trip.”

“Where are the presents?”

“A friend with a van is bringing them in a little while,” she said. “Where can I help?”

“Feel like washing dishes again this month?” Nancy asked ruefully.

The kitchen, like many in Manhattan, didn’t have a dishwasher. They used biodegradable plates and silverware to feed the guests, but all the pots, pans and utensils had to be washed by hand. It was a dirty, messy job lifting heavy pots and pans into hot water in sinks too low to be comfortable.

“I’m happy to do it,” she said. No one else ventured back there, and she could listen to music while doing a job that had to be done.

“It’s all yours, then,” Nancy said. “Grab an apron. We need to wash apples and butter bread slices before we start the dishes, though.”

She joined a group of volunteers discussing last-minute shopping as they slathered butter on whole wheat bread, but took a quick break to hurry up the steps leading to the back door and check for Ronan. The cold air bit through her fleece pullover as she peered up and down Eighty-Fifth Street in search of Ronan or a rented van. No sign of him where the guests gathered, taking numbers in order of their arrival to determine who went through the line first. The line extended down the long block between Park and Madison, homeless men and women, families on reduced incomes waiting for a free meal. The volunteers asked no questions about income or assets, just assumed that if you were willing to stand in line in temps in the teens for food, you probably needed it. A herd of kids burned off energy transforming a snow mound into a fort. Two dads stood by, keeping the play fairly contained so traffic continued to move on the sidewalk. The line was quiet, orderly, exuding the hard-won patience of people without the money to demand immediate service.

As she walked back down the steps, into the basement fellowship room, Thea pulled her phone from her apron pocket and sent him a text.

Are you on your way?

His reply came before she pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Yes. Short delay, but we’re on it. I’ll be there.

In the kitchen the food was ready to serve. The volunteer coordinator spoke to the clustered volunteers, going through the routine for the benefit of newcomers.

“We gave them numbers based on when they arrived, so the door person just needs to make sure no one’s jumping the line. Each person gets one helping of everything, seconds when everyone’s been served. Help the elderly folks and parents with kids to the tables. Thea, are the presents on their way?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good. We’ll hand them out after everyone’s eaten. An anonymous donor bought vouchers for turkey dinners at the Common Pantry. We’ll hand those out to family units while the kids get their presents. Any questions?”

Thea pushed the sleeves of her fleece pullover to her elbows and made her way to the waiting pile of dirty pots and pans stacked by the double sinks. Cheerful yellow rubber gloves on, she was scrubbing crusted goulash from a pot when a tap on her shoulder startled her.

“Yes?” Thea asked, tugging the earbuds from her ears as she turned.

“Why didn’t you tell me what you’d arranged?” Nancy asked. Her eyes were wide, and shining.

Over her shoulder Thea heard not the typical low rumble of two-hundred people sharing a meal, but the excited chatter of children and a higher-pitched energy level. “What? Is Ronan here with the presents?”

“Oh, he’s here, all right,” Nancy said. She took Thea’s hand and pulled her through the empty kitchen to the swinging doors. Thea’s jaw dropped, and she slowed in the process of taking off her rubber gloves.

Santa Claus stood at the back of the fellowship hall, waving to the kids as FDNY firefighters in their blue uniforms passed big cardboard boxes of gifts along a human chain from a waiting ladder truck, down the stairs to a table hastily set up by Cooper Bensonhurst volunteers. At the tables the kids stared first at Santa, then at the firefighters. Word of the truck spread from table to table, and the wriggles and noise escalated once again.

It was a tiny Christmas miracle. She swallowed hard against the tears clogging her throat. Ronan came down the steps two at a time and crossed the hall, tossing “Get someone to clear that hydrant” over his shoulder as he headed for Thea.

“Sorry we’re late,” he said without preamble. He reached for Thea’s hand as he said it, and his warm, strong grip anchored her. “How do you want to do this?”

Thea found her voice. “This is Nancy Watkins,” she said. “She’s in charge. Nancy, Lieutenant Ronan O’Rourke. He brought the presents.”

“You certainly did, Lieutenant,” Nancy said. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got Santa and a fire truck for the next hour. After that we’re all back on call,” Ronan said.

Nancy executed millions of dollars’ worth of trades a day; it would take more than an unexpected appearance of Santa and four firefighters to unnerve her. She beckoned the volunteers over. “Let’s take the kids up to see the truck table by table starting from the left. Start on the right to take them up to Santa. Once they’ve done both they can hit the dessert table.”

Ronan summoned two firefighters who, together with volunteers, began ushering people either out the door to the waiting truck or up to see Santa.

“Why don’t you go help Santa hand out the presents?” Nancy asked Thea.

Despite Ronan’s warm grip, panic fluttered inside her. “Oh, that’s all right. Someone else can do that. I’m a mess.”

“Where were you?” Ronan asked.

“She usually washes the pots and pans,” Nancy said briskly as she turned Thea around and untied her apron. “But not today, Cinderella. You set this up. You get to enjoy it.” Nancy handed Thea’s wet apron to the man formerly scooping out salad.

Ronan took Thea’s hand and led her around the tables. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she said weakly.

“I know I didn’t,” he said. “I thought the kids would like it. You going to be okay?”

“Yes,” she said, because the last thing these kids needed was to see her lose it in the middle of a visit from Santa. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, hey, darlin’,” Santa said.

Thea did an honest-to-God double take. Moss green eyes leered at her over the white beard, but she didn’t have to see blond hair to recognize the instigator from St. Patrick’s Day. “You?”

“Hard to believe, but he actually volunteered,” Ronan said drily.

“Why don’t you come sit on my lap, and tell me what you want for Christmas?” Tim said, but he’d lowered his voice in deference to the family atmosphere.

Thea leaned in close and murmured, “How do you ever get laid with such horrible lines?”

“I work extra hard to make up for them, darlin’.”

“Focus, Tim.”

Ronan’s warning tone got through to Tim, because he sat up straight and surveyed the room. “Let’s make some kids happy,” he said.

Thea, Tim and a Cooper Bensonhurst trader’s assistant named Cindy quickly developed a rhythm. Cindy ushered each child up to Santa as Thea chose an age-appropriate gift from the boxes lined up on the table. For all his flirtatious bluster, Tim had the right demeanor to deal with little kids. Even sitting down he towered over the kids so he bent his considerable height down to their level and gently asked their name. He took time to listen to each child, answered questions about reindeer and sleighs, the North Pole and fire trucks, never rushed them and always wished them a Merry Christmas as he gave them their present.

Nancy moved through the crowd, taking pictures and handing out meal vouchers to anyone who needed one; as she watched Nancy taking time with each family, Thea had a pretty good idea exactly who the anonymous donor was. Tim waved goodbye to the kids, and blushed, actually
blushed
as he left to the standing ovation the parents and volunteers gave him.

“I didn’t think he could blush,” Thea said. She’d escaped as soon as humanly possible and now stood with Ronan at the dessert table, where she poured coffee into a styrofoam cup and handed it to him.

“I didn’t think he could, either. What happens with the extra presents?” Ronan asked.

“I don’t know,” Thea said, her fingers automatically reaching for her earbuds. The cheerful chatter ebbed away as people gathered coats, stacked chairs and ushered excited children back up the stairs to street level, leaving a nagging void she ached to fill.

Ronan didn’t miss the habitual gesture. “We can take them back to the station with us. We’re already collecting for Toys for Tots.”

“Thank you,” Thea replied. “For everything. The kids were thrilled.”

“We’re happy to do it.” He sipped the coffee, then eyed the picked-over desserts. “What did you make?”

Thea pointed to the shortbread. Someone with an eye for arranging desserts moved her big cookie from the back corner to the front of the table. Only the center holly and ivy remained. Ronan cracked off a generous section and bit into it.

“Wow,” he said through his mouthful.

“I know,” she said.
I remember. I remember what it’s like to love this season, the way it looks and sounds and tastes.

“Did you have any?”

“No,” she explained. “I didn’t have any cookie cutters so I just made one big cookie. I couldn’t exactly nibble off the edges.”

Nancy overheard her, and pulled out her iPhone. “I took a picture,” she said as she tapped and scrolled, then held it up to show Ronan. “This is so going in the January newsletter.”

He glanced between the picture and Thea’s face. “Amazing,” he said softly. “Try some now.”

She hesitated, torn between the really tempting sight of Ronan offering to feed her shortbread from his hand and the meltdown at the simple smell of the cookie. He slid his fingers into hers and drew her through the double doors, into the dim hallway leading to the church’s meeting rooms, and stopped on the other side of a coat rack filled with volunteers’ coats, scarves and boots.

“I’m right here,” he said quietly. “Give it a try.”

He knew. Not that by this late date in the month it wasn’t glaringly obvious. Phrases like
I think we should end this
and
It’s really for the best if we stop seeing each other
trembled on the tip of her tongue. But as she inhaled to speak, the scent of the shortbread and Ronan’s warm skin drifted into her nostrils. Instead, she opened her mouth and let him place a section of holly leaf on the tip of her tongue.

It was the first shortbread she’d eaten in almost three years, and as the moist, flaky cookie melted in her mouth, she knew when it became sweet. The heat from the oven triggered a chemical reaction between butter, flour and sugar. Heat and time worked on dormant ingredients to make something new. Different. Delicious.

She chewed and swallowed around the lump in her throat. Ronan watched, his face gentle. “Up for another piece?”

Temptation personified offered her a treat. She looked up into hot blue eyes and nodded. The second bite was as delicious as the first. After she swallowed, Ronan bent his head and kissed her. When his tongue rubbed against hers she tasted shortbread and coffee, the kiss sweet in so many ways. As his mouth lingered on hers, she lifted her hand to pat hesitantly at his chest, then her fingers curled into his uniform shirt. His breathing hitched, then one hand wound into her hair to hold her mouth still for his.

“You okay?” he asked.

She thought about lying, but up until now she’d been honest, almost brutally so, with Ronan. She wouldn’t compound their troubles with a lie.

“No,” she said. “I’m not okay.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek as he considered her. “Come over tonight,” he said quietly.

“I’m terrible company.”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “At least you won’t be alone.”

“Aren’t you working?”

“I’m off at six. On for twelve hours on Christmas Eve, covering for another lieutenant who’s got a family thing, then off for the rest of the week.”

His voice was a little rough. Thea remembered how for years he’d come into the city to help his beloved Uncle Lance decorate his tree on Christmas Eve. Maybe the dark side of the season, the short days and long nights, got to Ronan, too. “When will you go home to see your family?”

“Not until Christmas Day.”

She didn’t ask any more questions. He, thankfully, didn’t ask any either, just studied her. A thought bubbled up from her subconscious. What if it was Ronan? What if he was right, and what they felt when they were together was some unique chemistry specific only to them?