The story continues. You can find the start of the story here:

Chapter Four

“Folks… Folks seriously shut up.” The man at podium shouted and the crowd laughed before slowly growing quiet. He straightened his suit coat, smoothed back his short, gray hair and spoke into the mic again. “I swear you get louder as I get older.” Another laugh. “Tonight’s pretty special. The last couple of years have been tough ones for the community. We’ve had to learn some hard lessons and mourn a few good souls. Too many good souls.” He finished slow and quiet. Owen steeled himself, knowing what was coming.

“Three years ago my niece…” The man paused, tried to start again and shook his head. He looked down at the floor and Owen followed suit, taking a deep breath to push out the ache in his chest.

Tonight was the dedication of the new fire station built after the death of the man’s niece. A drunk driver went off the highway and plunged into the woods on the West side of town. At nearly the same moment, an old triple-decker with non-working smoke alarms burst into flame on the East side. A trick of fate had the call for the crash come quickly enough that responders were already there before the fire on the other side of town was called in. The house was fully engulfed before a single piece of equipment could get there.

“I remember that night.”

Owen looked up and at the mic was the fire chief, Charlie, speaking.

“I remember the neighbors who got a ladder to the second story and got two of the kids out. I remember that the others who garden hoses and tried reach the third story.” Charlie stopped.

Owen knew why. The room, stuffed with people, grew silent because they all knew what happened next. Stuck on the third floor with the house burning all around her, Becky Dalton had crawled out on the window ledge in an act of desperation. Perched there she held her baby to her chest, trying to escape the flame and smoke for as long as she could. The fire trucks from the next town arrived a minute later. When the fireman ran towards the house, they found her neighbors standing below the window in a tight semi-circle, one of them kneeling beside Becky, all trying to shield her older kids from the sight.

The paper called her the “hero mom” purposely falling on her back, giving her baby the best chance to survive. After the funeral the town hired additional staff, recruited more volunteers and tried to allocate enough funds for a new, centrally located station, but it wasn’t enough. In the time it took to get the town to okay the new funds, the materials costs had soared and the contractor backed out. That’s when his dad stepped in and donated Caldwell Construction’s services. His dad spent weeks on the job site, coordinating the build, but working alongside the crew too. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say he built the place himself.

Owen had always thought it was a calculated move on his father’s part. Few people loved a developer and his dad wanted less friction with the boards and committees in town. It worked. Their company met with little resistance when they built the Cottages complex. That project had a ton of people up in arms over an open meadow being turned into an apartment block, but it went sailing right through approval anyway. That was the father he had known; shrewd, unemotional, all business. Not this guy, the do-gooder Charlie was extolling from the podium.

“If it hadn’t been for John Caldwell, we would not be standing here. We would not have this building, the systems, or the equipment to ensure that there will never be another mom on a ledge deciding between life and death because we’re stuck on call on the other side of town.” The applause was loud and long. Charlie motioned for silence and then resumed the ceremony. Mercifully it was over in a few minutes and the crowd headed to the reception at the VFW.

The second Owen walked through the doors Charlie made a beeline for him. Holding out his hand he thanked Owen for coming. “Means a lot to have you here.” He steered him off to the side and leaned in to be heard. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while now how much your dad is missed, not just by me and the department, but by the whole town.”

Owen heard the same kind of stuff from others after the funeral, but it hadn’t really registered. He was still in shock then so there wasn’t much that got through the fog, but what did sounded like the words you’re supposed to say when someone died. Charlie’s words were different. The familiar, tight sensation filled his chest, the one that came with any conversation about his father. He hoped the man would stick to the basics and leave it there.

“If it wasn’t for your dad…”

Okay, he’s not gonna. Better brace.

“That station stands because of his commitment. In fact, if you scan the crowd here, you’d be hard pressed to find someone that didn’t owe him one. Your dad has a real legacy. Any time, day or night he was there to help his friends and neighbors. That means something.”

Owen nodded at this, but he was a little surprised. He knew his dad was always busy with work, but he didn’t realize the man was some hero of the community. His dad did ‘forget’ a lot of invoices though. It used to drive Owen nuts when he’d do the books.

“I don’t know if he ever told you, but he was proud of you.”

Please don’t. The tight feeling was now in his throat. He couldn’t respond to that even if he wanted to.

Charlie didn’t seem to notice “And he’d be prouder to know how you’ve handled it all. We’ve been watching.” The chief nodded to a bunch of older guys grouped together at the side of the room. Owen recognized a few of them as friends of his dad, volunteer firemen and tradesmen. “We considered your dad a brother. We look after our own. If you need anything, come to us, okay?” Charlie slapped his shoulder in a fatherly way.

Owen nodded his head again, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t have a coherent response either. Normally he was good with people, able to win them over or at least tell them what they wanted to hear, but his brain was using all its power to keep him from freaking out and bolting. This was right on the line of way too much.

The chief pulled him over to the group of men all around his dad’s age and started introducing him. Owen shook hands, knowing full well he wouldn’t remember any of their names. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t absorb any of this. The storm in his head was making him stupid. He wanted to go but knew he couldn’t. Not yet anyway.

One of the guys turned to Owen and smiled. “Your dad was a legend; son of an immigrant, built his company from nothing, gave away his cash, saved widows and orphans.” They all laughed.

“Seriously though,” Another man continued. “I’m sorry we never got to do this while he was alive. He wouldn’t take more than a thank you, and barely that.”

“No Kidding! Just try to get him to take money for fixing something, wouldn’t have nothing to do with it.

“Wouldn’t let you pick up a check. I think once I got him to let me buy him a beer.” A tall guy added and they all laughed again.

Owen tried to feel proud of his dad or happy that he was so well thought of, but all he felt was pain and the deep desire to make an excuse and go. Then the guilt flooded in. How could he not want to be right here hearing how his dad was this great guy that everybody respected and loved? Because I didn’t know that guy.

The men all patted him on the back, said how sorry they were his dad had died and the group of them migrated to the bar to order a round, pulling Owen with them. There they toasted his dad’s memory and got down to swapping stories of their own.

As the men talked, Owen thought about his own reputation – rich boy who had a fortune land in his lap and would probably blow it. It was crap. No one knew that his father’s personal wealth was nothing immense, that he had reinvested almost everything over the years, or that Owen inherited a company at the worst possible time for its industry. Their worth was tied up in properties, most of which would have to be sold if business didn’t pick up. All they saw was the self-made man, the tragedy of his early death, and the questionable son left to pick up the pieces.

The bar was now crowded with not only the firemen and the Knights of Columbus or whatever civic organization these guys were from, but also with the half the town that had showed up for the ceremony. It was the older half for sure as he looked out over the sea of mostly snowy heads. He could see a few people his age like pastor of Coventry Parish, Greg Carson. But he tried to dodge Carson when he could. The pastor was trying to get Owen to come to his office and talk ever since the funeral. Owen didn’t need or want to talk to anyone, much less a man of the cloth who would probably have a bit to say he didn’t want to hear.

Owen scanned the crowd at the far end of the hall and spotted a tall blonde in a short, black dress weaving through it; Renee. Crap. He’d hadn’t called and she was the type to care. There was nothing for it, he was trapped now. He’d have to hope she wasn’t ready to start some drama. He sat back sipping his scotch, expecting the worst but hoping it would at least be brief. The knot of men around him parted for her as she approached with sly grins on their faces and winks at Owen. If they only knew.

“There you are.” She smiled at him. Renee was summer people. He had no idea where she lived the rest of the year, but as soon as the weather grew warm enough, she’d show up with the rest of her family at a rambling old place right on the water. It was a mansion masquerading as a summer house. He’d been there once or twice for a party over the years, and they’d hooked up a few times since. But she was chaos and complication.

            “Here I am.” Owen motioned to the bartender “Can I buy you a drink?”

“No. And I don’t think you need another one either.” She was smiling, but there was an edge in her tone. One of the old guys overheard this and raised his eyebrows looking amused and turned away. He heard one of them mutter ‘Lucky bastard’. There would be no help from that quarter. They were clearly going to abandon him.

            “Why don’t I need another drink?” Owen wondered where this was leading.

She leaned in close to him so that her mouth was next to his ear. He could smell her perfume as her hair swung off her shoulder and dangled forward, brushing his cheek. “Because you and I are going to get out of here.”

He pulled back to give her a puzzled stare. She took the drink out of his hand and set it down on the bar. “It’s not like you want to be here and neither do I. This stuff is for the Qtips.” She nodded at the sea of white-haired patrons around them. “And the night’s still young.” She turned as if to go and threw him a look over her shoulder that was both an invitation and a straight-up dare.

It was a huge mistake to go anywhere with Renee. After one drink and some disinterested flirting a week ago at O’Neil’s she had texed him five times. She was all kinds of wrong, but right about now it was either go with Renee for whatever she had in mind or stay here and continue soul-searching. Owen never liked soul-searching.

He pushed off from the bar to follow her much to the notice and amusement of the men crowded near. Renee showed no hint she saw that or cared. She led him down the hallway past the restrooms where the exit sign illuminated the back door and as soon as they were out of sight, she leaned into him forcing his back against a wall. She kissed him then and there and the voice at the back of his head shouted a warning about fires and getting burned, but he stopped listening.

Owen reached for her and spun her around, so it was her against the wall and returned her kiss. It was definitely hot, and not especially skilled. He broke off and stood away from her. She was breathless and gave him a long look. “So are we going?”

He just nodded.

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Image credit: Marvin Meyer via Unsplash