Page 20 of Fire and Icing (The Firemen of Waterford TN #1)

Emberleigh

Some hearts don’t open until the rest of the world closes down.

That’s why midnight talks matter.

~ Unknown

The sound of a guitar being strummed floats up the staircase.

I can’t make out the words, but I can tell Dustin is singing.

I need a glass of water, or I’d stay put up here.

I’m still not quite sure how I feel about the kiss he gave me at the bookshop.

I got home and went straight upstairs. I’m admittedly avoiding him until I figure myself out.

My traitorous cheek keeps reminding me what it felt like to have his lips on my skin, his stubble grazing my face, his warm breath caressing my ear as he whispered.

It was just a kiss on the cheek, but tell my cheek that.

I’m thirsty enough to override my embarrassment or confusion or whatever this is.

I wrap a robe around my pajamas and pad downstairs.

Dustin is sitting in a chair, his guitar perched on his lap, and he’s about three feet away from my gran, who is sitting in her recliner, her eyes fixed on Dustin as if Dolly Parton herself just walked through the door and offered to sing Jolene .

I stop on the bottom landing and peer across the hall through the sliding double wooden doors at the sweet scene.

“That’s one I’m still working on,” Dustin tells Gran.

“Well, I’ll be. You’re handsome and you can sing like you’re in the Grand Ole Opry. My Emberleigh sure hit the jackpot, didn’t she?”

“I guess so.”

Dustin looks a little uncomfortable, but only for a split second, and then he’s picking at the guitar, smiling and starting up another song. It’s upbeat, something you’d dance to on a barn floor.

Gran starts clapping her hands, and I figure this is my chance to slip past them, pour a glass of water and make my way back upstairs unnoticed.

I take one step down and it creaks. And not a little.

“Emberleigh?” Gran says.

“Yes?”

“Well, I thought you had retired for the night. Come on in here and listen to Dustin. He’s quite something on this guitar.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there. I just need a glass of water …” and a getaway car . “Do you want anything?”

“I’m good. Thank you for the offer.”

Dustin’s just strumming chords, waiting for us to finish talking. As I walk past the open doorway, his eyes lift and he smiles at me as he starts singing the next song.

I’m not a country music fan. Around here that’s nearly a misdemeanor.

What can I say? I like Funk and R&B. Give me some old school disco any day.

Country sounds like whining to me. Or howling.

Or both. And it’s always songs about trucks and dogs and dirt roads and girls and beer.

That’s not far off from what life can be like around here, but do we need to make a billion songs about it?

I drove my pickup down the long dusty road, my hound in the back, his name was Toad.

Met my friends for a couple of beers, just like we’ve been doin’ for all these years.

Something like that. I chuckle to myself.

Maybe I ought to give Dustin those lines for free.

When I return to the living room, Dustin’s eyes are closed. He’s playing an old John Denver song about country roads. Dirt roads, country roads … same difference. I can’t say I hate this one. But it’s still too country for me.

Gran is mesmerized.

I take a seat on the sofa across from the two of them.

Dustin plays while Gran watches and I take in the two of them. He’s such a massive man, burly and strong, and yet, in the moment, he’s all softness and tenderness. I sold him short after my first impression. I’ll admit it.

He finishes the song and seems to almost come out of a trance, returning my gran’s warm smile and then glancing at me with his brows raised.

“Oh,” Gran says before I have a chance to open my mouth. “Emberleigh doesn’t like country music. Not even a little.”

“I like John Denver.”

“He’s not exactly country,” Gran says with a cluck of her tongue.

“What is he then?”

“Well,” Gran deliberates. “I don’t rightly know. But it’s not country.”

“The song is actually called Country Roads ,” I say.

“Well just ’cause an animal’s got long ears, that don’t make him a jackrabbit. He’s not country, that’s all I know.”

“You don’t like country?” Dustin asks me.

“It’s not my favorite,” I admit.

“Hmmm.” He ponders my response.

“By not her favorite, she means she hates it more than a baby hates his first bite of creamed spinach.”

Dustin chuckles.

Then he surprises me. “Tell me one of your favorite songs.”

“Let’s Stay Together. It’s a song by …”

“Al Green,” Dustin finishes for me. “I know the song.”

“You do?”

“Mm hmm.” He strums his guitar once, twists the key at the top of the neck, strums again and looks straight at me.

“I think that’s my cue to head to bed,” Gran says. “You two have a good night.”

“You don’t have to go, Gran.”

“Nonsense. You’re too old for a chaperone, and I’m too old to be one.”

She stands and walks out of the room and up the staircase. “Goodnight,” she calls down when she’s about halfway up.

“Goodnight,” Dustin and I reply in unison.

And then, we’re alone.

Dustin doesn’t say another word. He starts strumming an instrumental version of one of my all-time favorites. It’s stripped down and different, but still bluesy and soulful. When he starts singing the lyrics, his voice is rich and sweet and filled with emotion at all the right points.

I’m in such a state of shock that I must look just like Gran did, captivated by Dustin as he performs a private concert for me.

I guess seeing him in his element is helpful.

We leave tomorrow for a week of filming the contest. We’re going to be sequestered with the other contestants until the final round to ensure fewer possible leaks of details prior to the show airing.

The more I know about Dustin, the more believable our charade will be.

I cup my water glass in both hands and watch him as he sings the final lines of the song.

When he finishes, he looks at me and says, “Something like that. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. That was rusty as all get out,” I tease. “You really need to brush up on your singing and playing.”

The corner of his mouth tips up. “So you liked it?”

“I actually did. A lot. You did it justice.”

“Wow. Thanks. Want me to play another?”

“Another R&B? Motown? Soul?”

“I know a few.” He smiles warmly.

I tuck my legs up underneath me and lean back into the sofa. “How did you start playing?”

“I always wanted to learn,” he tells me.

“On our island there are sort of two sides … Well, three actually. There’s the old neighborhood where I grew up—that’s where all the real islanders live.

Then, there’s the resort side where all the tourists come in.

And there’s a part we all call the backside. ”

He wags his brows like a junior high boy and I laugh.

“The backside has wild animals from one time when a production company filmed there. They left the animals they had brought over and they populated the backside. We’ve got two species of monkeys, wild emu, zebras and ostriches.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“It’s just life as I know it.”

“And yet you left to come here.”

“I did. I had a chance at an actual job at a station, so I jumped on it.”

“And you’re not far from Nashville.”

“The home of country music,” he smiles.

I don’t know whether it’s the late hour, or the fact that after tonight, we’ll be living in close quarters, the contest dominating every minute of our waking hours, but I want to know more about Dustin, so I keep asking questions …

about his childhood, his family, his passion for music, his experience as a firefighter, his move here.

And Dustin asks me questions … about growing up in Waterford, starting my business, my passion for baking, my gran, and my parents.

My defenses are down. We’re comfortable, as if time has slowed and the world has faded away.

I confide in him about my parents. Besides Syd and Gran, I don’t talk to anyone about Mom and Dad.

“They always dreamt of living in Europe. My sophomore year they heard of these programs where towns with a dwindling population and failing economy pay people to move to their village. My whole senior year they researched and took several trips to explore their options. A few days after I graduated high school, they moved to the island of Sardinia into a low-cost home. All it took was a commitment to renovate the house and to contribute to the local economy. So they’re running a bed and breakfast on the property now. ”

“Wow. That’s courageous.” Dustin’s lips thin. “And radical.”

“It is. I admire them.”

“And, you miss them.” He says it as a point of fact, not a question.

“I do. They’re finally living their version of an ideal life. I’m proud of them. I know what it takes to start and maintain a business that’s your dream.”

“But …?”

Dustin sets his guitar down. He’s still sitting in the dining chair he pulled in to sit on while he played. He shifts around a bit.

“You can sit over here,” I offer, pointing to the other side of the couch.

He stands and settles in across from me, leaning back and repeating his question.

“You know what it took your parents to pursue their dream and start a business, but …?”

I sigh. “But it stings a little that they didn’t stay here. When they left, I was technically an adult. Eighteen is officially the year we come of age, so they did their job. I was on my own. Gran was still here. I have Syd. My other girlfriends.”

“No one can replace your parents,” Dustin says.

“No one can.”

“Have you been to visit them in Italy?”

“When could I?” I answer quickly. “Sorry. That came out more defensively than I intended. My job doesn’t really allow for vacations.

This contest is the first time I’ve had a week off since Syd and I opened.

And we moved mountains to get everything prepped for my absence and covered for the time I’ll be away. ”

Dustin sits quietly, his face etched with compassion.

“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I know my parents love me. I had a great childhood. It could be much worse.”

“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Dismiss your own grief. Your parents moving was a blow. And them being so far without you being able to visit prolongs your grief.”

“I kinda hate grief,” I admit.

“I hear that.” He yawns.

“We should get some sleep,” I suggest. “What time is it anyway?”

He looks around the room, then he slips his phone out of his pocket. “One.”

“A.M?”

He nods and yawns again.

I yawn reflexively.

“We’ve got a big day ahead,” Dustin says. “A big week.” He stands and grabs his guitar. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Me too,” I say. “Thanks for … everything.”

He smiles. “My pleasure, Muffins.”

I pick up a throw pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it with one hand and sets it on the recliner.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says with that grin that weirdly settles everything inside me.

“See you,” I say. And before things have a chance to get awkward, I head upstairs.