Page 9 of Embers in Autumn

Dean

It had rained for three days without pause.

Not the gentle kind that kissed the streets and left the air sweet, but relentless, heavy sheets that hammered roofs and turned gutters into rivers.

By the third night, half the town’s basements were filling like bathtubs, and the fire department was stretched thin.

We were out in the trucks from dawn, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour.

Calls came one after the other. Families in rubber boots pointing us to stairwells that reeked of damp, boxes of ruined clothes floating like forgotten ghosts.

We hauled pumps in and out, dragged hoses through mud, heaved water until our backs burned.

Inside the firehouse, the air was a mix of wet gear and stale coffee. Boots left puddles on the concrete floor, radios crackled with new addresses, and the steady whine of pumps echoed through the bays. It was miserable, thankless work, but no one complained out loud. Not much, anyway.

Mike leaned against the side of the truck beside me, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He had twenty years in the service and the sarcasm to prove it. He chewed on something, like always, and gave me a sidelong glance as I wrung out my gloves.

“You look like hell,” he said. “Worse than usual.”

“Appreciate the encouragement,” I muttered, hanging the gloves on a hook.

He smirked. “What’s eating you? Don’t tell me the rookie messed up again. I told you, Connor is like a Labrador. You have to praise him for fetching the hose or he’ll sulk for days.”

“It’s not Connor,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Then what? You’re quieter than usual, and that’s saying something.” He elbowed me lightly. “Spit it out.”

I busied myself with adjusting the straps on my gear, but he just waited. Patient in his own needling way. Finally, I exhaled.

“I met someone.”

His head snapped around. “No kidding.” His grin spread slow and wicked. “Who is she? Where? When?”

“Bookshop,” I said. “Downtown. Took Lana in the other day.”

Mike barked out a laugh that bounced off the truck’s steel frame. “So that’s why you’ve been putting up with Lana’s obsession with books. You’ve got ulterior motives.”

“Ulterior motives would mean I had a plan,” I said dryly.

He folded his arms. “And? Tell me about her.”

I shook my head, the words reluctant. “Her name’s Amber. Runs the bookstore. We had coffee.”

“Coffee,” Mike repeated, drawing the word out like it meant more than it did. “And?”

“And nothing.” I shrugged. “We talked. She’s… different.”

“Different how?”

“Gentle. Sharp. The kind of person who looks at you like she actually sees you. Not just the uniform. Not just the job.”

Mike studied me for a beat, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. “That sounds like a hell of a thing. So what’s the problem?”

I pulled my damp jacket tighter, the memory of Amber’s smile flickering in my mind. “I didn’t get her number.”

Mike groaned, throwing his head back. “Jesus, Dean. What are you, fifteen? You talk about her like she’s got you hooked and then tell me you walked away without a way to reach her?”

“She has a bookstore,” I said flatly.

“Yeah, and?” He spread his arms. “You gonna stand outside like a creep and hope she notices? Go in there. Buy a damn book if you have to.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s exactly that simple.” His grin came back, sly and knowing. “Unless you’re scared.”

I gave him a look that shut most men up, but Mike had known me long enough not to care.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Dean, you’ve been carrying the world on your back since your wife left.

Nobody’s asking you to drop it, but maybe you could share it with someone for once.

If she’s half as good as you say, don’t let her slip by. ”

The radio crackled then, pulling us both back to the work at hand. Another flooded basement. Another address. Mike slapped my shoulder before heading for the rig.

“Think about it,” he said over his shoulder. “And next time, get the damn number.”

I grabbed my helmet, shaking my head, but inside, his words stuck. The sound of Amber’s laugh lingered in my memory, soft and warm, even as we stepped back into the storm.

The day dragged on, one call bleeding into the next.

The rain had turned every dip in the town into a reservoir, and pumps roared in half a dozen basements at once.

We waded through ankle-deep water that smelled of mildew and old paint, hauling boxes onto higher shelves, coaxing panicked homeowners to stay calm.

By the end of it, every one of us looked like we’d been through a swim meet in full gear.

Inside the firehouse, the garage floor gleamed with puddles.

Jackets dripped from hooks, boots lined up in neat but soggy rows.

Steam rose from the dryers running non-stop, a low whir humming like background music.

The air was heavy with damp wool, rubber, and the faint tang of smoke that clung no matter how hard you scrubbed.

“Christ,” Mike muttered as he wrung out his shirt and tossed it into a bin. “I didn’t sign up to be a plumber.”

“You signed up to save lives,” Santos shot back, smirking. “Sometimes that means saving wedding albums from mildew.”

The rookie, Connor, groaned from where he sat on an overturned bucket, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Do people really keep that much junk in their basements?”

“Kid,” Mike said, dropping onto the bench beside him, “half our job is hauling people’s ‘junk’ out of trouble. Get used to it.”

Despite the weariness, laughter rippled through the group. The day had wrung us out, but the kind of exhaustion you shared with your crew always sat easier than the kind you carried alone.

Later, when the last call was logged and gear stowed, we piled into a corner booth at O’Malley’s, the local bar a block from the station.

The place smelled of fried food and beer, the wooden tables carved with decades of initials.

We looked like a pack of drowned rats, but the bartender didn’t bat an eye, just dropped pitchers and glasses on the table.

“Here’s to another day of glamorous hero work,” Mike said, raising his glass.

“May tomorrow be drier,” Santos added.

We drank, and the sharp bite of beer washed away some of the grit.

The conversation turned to the usual—gripes about the rookie, jokes about who snored loudest in the bunkroom, the eternal debate about the best burger in town.

I chimed in when needed, but mostly I let their voices roll over me, steady and familiar.

By the time I stepped out into the damp night air, the storm had softened to a drizzle. I pulled out my phone and called Lana.

She answered on the second ring, her voice bright.

“Dad!”

“Hey, bug. You doing all right?”

“Yeah. Aunt Sarah made spaghetti, and Uncle Andrew let me help close the shop. It was fun.”

“Good,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

After she hung up, Sarah took the phone. Her voice had the warmth of someone who had been carrying me along for years without ever making me feel like a burden.

“You sound tired,” she said.

“It’s been a long stretch,” I admitted. “How’s everything there?”

“Busy,” she said. “The rain had half the town running in for flowers. People must think marigolds will keep the water out.” She laughed softly. “Andrew and I can’t complain, though. Business is good.”

“You’ve always made it good,” I said honestly.

Sarah had been more than a sister. When Lana was two and her mother walked out, it was Sarah who stepped in.

She babysat when I worked double shifts, she cooked meals when I couldn’t, she whispered encouragement when I was sure I was failing.

Without her, I wasn’t sure I would have made it through those first years of single fatherhood.

“Listen,” I said, the words heavier on my tongue than they should have been. “Do you think you could make up a bouquet for me? Something nice. Elegant.”

There was a pause. Then a teasing lilt in her voice. “Dean Bennett, are you telling me you want to send flowers to a woman?”

“Maybe,” I said, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth.

“You’ve never sent anyone flowers.”

“Maybe this one’s worth it.”

The line was quiet for a moment, then Sarah’s voice softened. “ I’ll make it perfect. Where am I sending it?”

“The bookstore,” I said. “Downtown.”

“Got it.”

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and headed inside again. The place was louder now, Friday-night energy. Our table in the corner still held the crew, glasses refilled, laughter rolling like thunder.

Mike spotted me and smirked, leaning back with his arms spread wide across the booth. “Well, well. Look who’s got that faraway look in his eyes. Bennett, don’t tell me you’re smitten.”

I slid into my seat, lifting my glass without giving him the satisfaction of a straight answer. “I’m just tired.”

“Sure,” he drawled. “Tired from what? Carrying buckets or carrying around thoughts of a certain bookshop owner?”

Santos grinned, raising his eyebrows. “Bookshop? Oh, this is getting interesting.”

Connor, bless the rookie, leaned forward like he was listening to the plot twist in a movie.

“Relax,” I said, taking a long sip of beer. “It was coffee. That’s all.”

Mike slapped the table, nearly spilling his drink. “You hear that? Coffee! The universal code for a date-that’s-not-a-date-but-absolutely-a-date.”

“Not everything is a conquest,” I muttered.

“For you, maybe,” Mike shot back, grinning. “Me? I like my freedom. No woman has ever pinned me down, and none ever will. You think I’d trade late-night poker and my couch for scented candles and brunch dates?” He shook his head dramatically. “Not this guy.”

“Maybe you’re just scared,” Santos teased.

Mike puffed out his chest. “Scared? Please. I’m smart. There’s a difference.”

The table erupted with laughter, and even I couldn’t help but chuckle. Mike loved his reputation, wore it like armor. He’d dated more women than I could count, but none ever stuck, and he was proud of it.

“You know what I think?” Mike went on, pointing his beer at me. “I think Bennett here is finally cracking. Took a pretty face and some books to do it, but I see it in his eyes. That man’s a goner.”

I shook my head, but I felt the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Mike leaned closer, smug. “Or is it that for the first time in years, you actually look like a man thinking about something other than work and your kid?”

The words landed sharper than I expected, because they were true.

I didn’t answer, just tipped my glass back again. The foam clung to the rim, bitter on my tongue, but the thought of Amber’s laugh was sweeter than anything O’Malley’s had on tap.

The guys carried on, voices rising over the music and chatter of the bar, but for me the noise dimmed. I was already halfway somewhere else, standing again in a cozy bookstore where autumn light had touched her hair.

And I realized Mike was right, though I’d never admit it out loud.

I was a little bit gone.