Home Fires (37 page)

"Oooh, let me pick the numbers." Kris snatches a coupon and grabs a pencil stub. "We can use our birthdays. Pete, what month and day were you born?"

I squint at the plastic beer clock 3-D display over his shoulder. I’m due at the hospital in ten minutes, plus I still need to drop Kris off at the
Journal
office. "Just give me what you've got."

"One easy pick, coming right up." The machine spits out a ticket, which Pete presents me with a flourish. "Big jackpot drawing Saturday night. Sixty-five million dollars."

"Thanks, but I won’t hold my breath." I trade him a smile for my ticket and change, and throw them in my bag where they settle in the mess pooled at the bottom.

"Don't forget to check your numbers, Lucy," Pete calls as we head out the door. "Who knows? You might get lucky."

Me, lucky? I'm still laughing as I drop Kris off downtown, then head for the hospital. People like me have two chances of winning the lottery. Slim and none. Like Grandma always said,
the only sure bet is the one you make on yourself
.

I'd like to bet that I'll make it out of this town someday, but so far the only thing I've ever won is that partial scholarship. One journalism degree later, my hometown connections landed me a job on the
Journal
staff. Being back in James Bay working for the local daily isn't the career fast track I intended, but it keeps me near Grandma and plus, it's a job. Lots of people my age with college degrees flip burgers for a living. And while being a journalist might sound important, I doubt it pays much better than a stint behind a hamburger counter.

Winning the lottery? Maybe other people have time to sit and around dream about hitting the jackpot, but I need to hustle faster than someone slinging hamburgers if I want to keep my job. With the internet and cable news available 24/7, newspapers are becoming paper dinosaurs, headed for extinction. But until that happens, I've got things to do.

Like make today's interview on time.

Like finish my latest article on the re-zoning of Loon Lake.

Like visit Grandma at the nursing home.

Talk about a reality check. Each time I visit, it get harder to force myself to walk through the door. Grandma took up permanent residence at Whispering Pines six months ago and she won't be going home. A flashy
For Sale
sign decorates the front lawn of the modest house where she raised me. I dread the day the sign comes down. Blessing or curse, it will mean the house is sold and mark the end of everything important in my life. But I've run out of options. The monthly bill from Whispering Pines averages seven thousand dollars and Grandma's savings account is almost tapped out. The balance dwindles with every statement and it's nearly disappeared.

Just like Grandma's mind.

"You girls want another beer? More iced tea?"

Kris hoists her empty beer mug and salutes our waitress. "No thanks, Nettie. I've got a date with a camera and eighty high school seniors, and my eyeballs already feel a little loose." She slides me a sideways grin. "That would make quite the story in Monday's
Journal
.
BOOZED UP REPORTER BASHES BACCALAUREATE
. Detailed coverage, see page three."

I stir up a smile with my straw, then drain my iced tea as I conjure up a mental picture of the
Journal's
managing editor, scowl firmly in place. "Who knows? If it helps circulation, Charles might give you a raise."

"Like that's going to happen." She shoves her mug aside. "Two beers are my limit, but somebody ought to buy Charles Kendall a six-pack. That man needs to lighten up."

I lose my battle fighting off the giggles. My own life lightened up earlier this year when Kris joined the
Journal
staff. She covers the crime beat, court docket and schools, while I focus on municipal and non-profit groups.

"Whoa, Lucy, check out the guy at nine o'clock." Her eyes disappear in a deep squint. "He looks familiar. Do we know him?"

Chuck's Tavern and Grill is standing-room only for a Saturday night. I scan the crowd. "Where?"

"Halfway down the take-out line." She nods toward the cash register. "Definitely your type. Baby-faced, casually dressed, up-north appeal."

"I'm not interested in dating tourists," I say with a sniff. Summertime in Northern Michigan means warm sunny days and crisp cool nights. Those of us who live here year round have some names reserved for these eight to ten weeks of summer.
Pure heaven
.
Tourist hell
.

"No, I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I think he lives around here. See the guy I’m talking about? Blue jeans, brown hair, white polo shirt."

I crane my neck and swivel in my chair, but the only thing in my line of vision is a crowd of hungry strangers jostling for take-out.

"Wait, I've got it," Kris crows in triumph. "Remember the interview I did last month about that kid's camp on Loon Lake?"

Her words alone are enough to raise goose bumps on my arms.

"Please do not mention that place in my presence." The last thing I need on my night off is hearing about Loon Lake. Bad enough Charles forced me to cover the rezoning issue for The Journal during working hours.

"That guy is their new camp director. His name is Max Graham. And Lucy, he is perfect."

"Perfect for what?" I ask, though I already suspect I won’t like what I hear.

"For you, naturally. You’re two of a kind. Just look at the poor guy, all alone, ordering take-out on a Saturday night.” Kris leans closer. “We should ask him to join us."

"No, I don't think—"

"Come on, Lucy, loosen up. You’ll never know unless you ask. I bet he says yes." She aims a high beam smile directly at the take-out counter. "Will Lucy Carter find love and happiness in the arms of a stranger ordered up from the take-out line? Talk about a terrific feature story."

"Don't you dare!" I grab her arm mid-air. Kris is always sniffing around for the next splashy feature that will get her name above the fold, but I'm not putting my reputation on the line as a romance guinea pig to further her career. "I am not interested," I hiss.

"You're never interested." She slumps back, throws her hands in the air. "You drive me crazy, Lucy, you know that? I swear, if you weren't my best friend... " She shakes her head. "Girl, you need to get a life."

"I have a life, thank you very much." My voice sounds as stiff as my spine.

"Could have fooled me. When's the last time you went out on a date?"

"I don't remember. Besides, when do I have time? I've got a job—one that keeps me busy most nights."

"My point exactly," she says. "You're way too busy taking notes in the back row at those boring commission meetings. You're missing out, Lucy."

"That's not true."

"No? Turn around and take a long hard look at Max Graham. The man is living proof. Go on, I dare you."

I sit and stare at her in stony silence.

Kris's eyes hold a challenge. "Or maybe you're scared to face the truth?"

"My life is perfect the way it is, thank you very much, and I don't need any distractions. Especially the male variety."

She lets out a long sigh. "I'm only trying to help."

"What makes you think I need help?" I ask, chin tilting higher. Sometimes my stubbornness amazes even me.

"You're twenty-five years old and having dinner with a girlfriend on a Saturday night." She rolls her eyes. "How pathetic is that?"

"Speak for yourself." I fling my straw across the table, missing her nose by a good inch.

"I'm happily involved, remember? And if I wasn't, you'd do the same for me. Isn't that what friends are for?"

Kris is right, of course. But then, she doesn't need my help finding dates, since she’s been involved in a long-term same-sex relationship since college. I've never met her friend Toni, but I've heard all about her.

"Don't you dare write a story about this," I mutter as Kris waves Max over. There's no escaping the inevitable. I've been taken prisoner in a crowded bar and grill.

Or maybe not. I straighten as he nears the table. Tall, lean build, warm brown eyes, engaging smile. Definitely a 7.5. Maybe even an 8. I note the slight limp slowing him down.

"Kris Henderson, right?"

"Nice to see you, Max." Her voice oozes charm. "This is Lucy."

He turns a 120-watt smile on me and sticks out his hand. "Max Graham."

Warm handshake, firm grip. My fingers tingle at his touch. "Hi. I'm Lucy Carter."

His eyes widen slightly. "Lucy Carter from The
Journal
? The Lucy Carter covering the Loon Lake issue?"

I squirm under his heated gaze. Being a reporter in a place like James Bay makes you small-town famous. Which can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the reader's politics and/or point of view. "That's me," I admit.

His smile broadens. "Nice to finally meet you. I've been reading your by-line all winter. I’m one of your fans."

I'm guessing my face is as red as the grease pencils we use to mark up the
Journal
. When I envision my reading public, it's not people like Max who jump to mind. More like Pete Kelly and the gas station crowd.

"You're doing a great job on the rezoning story," he says. "Let's hope the County Planning Commission notices."

"Thanks." I swallow down the compliment. Max hasn't quit staring since Kris introduced us and it's a little unsettling. I feel lost without my notepad. Call me a control freak, but things are much more comfortable when I'm the one conducting the interview.

"There’s something different about you, Max." Kris eyes him thoughtfully, then brightens. "You shaved your beard."

"It itched." He scratches his chin and grins. "Plus, camp starts in a week. I don't want to scare the kids."

I blink. Nothing about Max Graham could be conceived as scary. Beard or no beard, he would attract kids.

And women.
Definitely
women.

He turns to Kris. "I've been watching for your article about camp, but I haven't spotted it in the
Journal
yet."

"It's scheduled to run on the feature page soon."

"I appreciate that. We could use the publicity." He brushes a hand through thick brown hair grazing his collar. "We still don't have a full roster yet. Hopefully if enough people read the article, we'll fill up for the rest of the summer."

"I'll talk to our editor and see what I can do," she promises. "Look for it next week. I'll get you some extra copies." Kris flashes me a pointed smile. "I'm sure Lucy would be glad to deliver them personally."

My mouth drops open. There's a fine line between helping things along and blatantly promoting, and my ex-friend Kris just crossed it. I stare at my empty glass, kicking myself for not taking Nettie up on her offer of more iced tea. I could use some cooling off.

"Lucy’s great, very accommodating," Kris continues. "She's always willing to help out. Isn't that right, Lucy?"

Subtlety isn't one of my colleague's most endearing qualities and being put on the spot isn't one of my strong points. But with Max watching, there's not much I can do but acknowledge him with a gracious smile.

And glower at Kris when he's not looking.

"Sure, I'll be glad to play delivery boy," I mumble.

"Thanks. I suspect I won't get into town much once camp is in full swing." He steps aside as Nettie pushes past him and gathers our empty plates. "I'd better get going."

Kris grabs his arm. "Why don’t you sit down and eat here? We'll keep you company. Right, Lucy?"

That's a maybe, depending on if she plans to stay. Kris grew up with three brothers and she’s a natural when it comes to chatting with the opposite sex. Unfortunately, I am not Kris. And since I’m an only child, I have no brothers. Plus, no dad. When it comes to men, I operate best armed with notepad, pen and a long list of questions.

Nettie levels Max with a dark scowl. "I've got people lined up waiting for tables. If you're eating, find yourself a chair and make it quick."

"Take my seat, Max. I've got to get going." Kris grabs her purse. "Lucy will keep you company. Oh, and could you give her a ride home? I've got eighty high school seniors in caps and gowns waiting for me to immortalize them for the
Journal
archives. God knows how long that will take." She throws some bills down, tosses us a brisk wave and scoots out the door.

"Is she always like that?" Max asks as he settles in her chair and scans the menu.

"You mean, bossy?" I say, watching with an evil eye as my ex-friend departs.

One corner of his mouth turns up. "I was trying to be polite. But seeing how you mentioned it, bossy works."

"It goes with the job. You get used to not taking
no
for an answer." I fiddle with the paper wrapper off my straw and keep my eyes low. It's safer that way. As I told Kris earlier, I don't need distractions. And Max’s warm steady gaze providing heat across the table is a distraction. A very tempting distraction.

"Know what you want?" Nettie is back, armed with check pad and pen, and a pointed glare for Max.

"I'll have the fish and chips." He hands over his menu and shoots me a smile. "How about you?"

"I already ate, thanks."

He eyes my empty glass. "Buy you a drink?"

"Nope, I'm good." I squirm in my seat, simultaneously cursing and missing Kris. If he plans on ordering a big meal, this could prove a long night.

"I don't like to drink alone. At least let me buy you a glass of wine."

"I already said no." The words come out flat and firm, faster than I expected, and immediately I regret them. Max seems like a nice enough guy. There’s no need for me to play defense. "I don't drink," I add softly.

"Okay. Sure, sorry." He sits back slightly, uncertainty registering in his eyes. "Would it bother you if I do?"

Now I'm the one surprised, not to mention impressed. Nobody’s ever asked my permission before. Usually they press me for the reason I don't drink, why I've never touched alcohol, why I never will.

I have no desire to end up like my mother.