Rescue and Redemption: Park City Firefighter Romance

  Chapter

  The day room and dining area at Park City Fire Station 1 was overflowing with people—mostly young couples making goo-goo eyes at each other or parents trying to get kids to put away their phones or iPads and wash up for chow.

  The puppy love in particular made JFK want to puke right into the collard greens he was adding a good amount of brown sugar to. It was New Year’s Eve and everyone had invited their wife, and kids if they had them, to the station to celebrate. Or in Emily’s case, her boyfriend, Dom. The guy was alright, but JFK didn’t know if he could ever forgive him for taking his best friend away. Okay, his only friend, ever since the other two guys on the crew had been hitched over a year earlier.

  It was bound to happen eventually with the three of them being so eligible and all, but that didn’t make it any easier for JFK when he wanted to hang out with someone but they were all too busy making out with their soul mates. The paramedics, Link and Old Guy, had been married with kids as long as JFK had known them, so he’d never really hung out with them much off the job.

  Quad C, the captain, came into the kitchen and asked, “We ready?”

  “It’s not getting any readier,” answered JFK.

  “Can I have your attention, everyone?” Quad C announced. “We’re all so glad everyone could make it. This is the first time we’ve had all of the family members and significant others together. We make an impressive group. I counted nineteen of us.”

  Blah, blah, blah, thought JFK, rolling his eyes.

  Quad C looked over at him. “Now if we could just get one more guy to contribute.”

  “Slacker,” called Powers.

  “He doesn’t want to have to feed another mouth,” joked Emily.

  JFK resisted the urge to flip them all the bird. If only Link’s kids and OG’s grandkids weren’t there.

  Quad C went on. “It boggles my mind how a guy with such impressive culinary chops could go so long without getting snatched up.”

  “Speaking of chops,” said JFK, “it’s food, not a dead body. Stop gawking at it and serve it up. Chow!”

  With guests there, the guys were reluctant to shove forward and fill their plates, so JFK added, “Get moving or I’ll say something about how quiet it’s been today. It’d be a shame if we got a call right now.”

  The threat, no, the act of jinxing their dinner did the trick, and earned him dirty looks from the crew. Served them right for sitting around jaw-jacking while the food he’d spent hours on got cold.

  “Tell us about this New Year’s feast, JFK,” said Quad C, as he handed his Amazonian-princess wife a plate.

  JFK pointed at the collard greens then fried tortellini then the grapes. “It’s a luck meal—greens for money, grains for life, grapes for love.”

  “What luck do pork chops bring?” asked Dom.

  “None for the pig,” answered Emily.

  “First of all they aren’t pork chops,” said JFK. “They’re creamy herbed pork chops. Second, for the benefit of those of you who have never been firehouse cooks, Fire Station Kitchen Rule number two says, ‘No meal is complete without a slab of meat.’”

  Dom accepted the tongs from Emily and asked, “What’s rule number one?”

  JFK replied loudly, “Pump at 150 …”

  The other five firefighters replied, “… Cook at 350.”

  As the eighteen firefighters and their guests filed past and filled their plates, JFK heard many thanks and multiple compliments on the meal. He either grunted in response or said something to the effect of, “Taste it before you make up your mind,” or for a select few, “It’ll make a turd.”

  After everyone had gotten food and sat down, JFK stepped up. There was still plenty of everything left. It was always better to have way too much than not enough, because another Fire Station Kitchen Rule said the cook goes hungry if the food runs out.

  JFK took a giant scoop of collard greens, then let half of the scoop fall back into the bowl before dropping the rest onto his plate. He did the same thing with the fried tortellini then grabbed four creamy herbed pork chops in the tongs and put two back in the dish, two on his plate. There was still a lot of room left on the giant fire-station plate so he filled it with a bunch of grapes. The routine, which he’d been doing for three months now, had led to dropping over 30 pounds. Not that any of the donkeys on his crew had noticed.

  It didn’t matter; that wasn’t why he was doing it. He just … well, he couldn’t really explain why he was doing it and it was a good thing none of them had noticed because it was none of their business that he was a lard a—aaantelope. Same with cutting back on swearing. Well, actually Emily could be thanked or blamed for that one, depending on JFK’s mood at the moment.

  Without really noticing, he’d kind of found himself on the verge of becoming more … eligible, whatever that meant. The 30 pounds he’d dropped, the less frequent swearing, and pretty much only getting wasted on special occasions had kind of come out of nowhere, but he’d made all the changes he planned on making and was still pretty much the same guy. People never really changed after all. Emily had told him the next step would be to give up his home brewery, but that would require an act of God or Congress. And since he did what he could to avoid God or his presence in his life, and Congress wasn’t likely to pass Prohibition again, any further change was pretty unlikely.

  He scanned the room and saw that the only open seat was at the main table between Dom and Poppy. At least he’d be at the same table as Emily, but he wasn’t looking forward to sitting next to Powers’ wife. Ever since JFK had opened his big, fat mouth and made a comment about Poppy’s weight, things had been a tad awkward between them. On his end, anyway. She was nice enough, but JFK still felt like he might owe them both an apology but he wasn’t about to say anything after so long.

  As JFK set his plate down and pulled the chair out, Emily said, “Sitting between two guests tonight. No burping or farting.”

  JFK huffed and said, “They’re in my house. They can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” He fake burped into his hand to make the point. Hey, they were lucky he did it into his hand.

  The meal was delicious, and between all of the interesting lives the significant others lived, JFK was able to put his head down and shovel it in. Poppy Powers ran a no-kill, all-animal shelter in Park City and they were about to double the size of their building and add a dozen new large animal stalls. Sage Compton had won some Teacher of the Year award and couldn’t wait to get back to her little ones after Christmas break. Oh, and she was expecting, which gave the women at the table enough conversation fodder to last for weeks. Dom—last name unknown and uncared about—was an airline pilot and possibly an international spy, the way everyone made it sound so amazing. Seriously, how much harder could it be than take off, sit and stare at the horizon, then land?

  But the food was delicious. And next week it would be back to JFK and the other five guys on his crew without the holiday visits and family meals. The way the firehouse was supposed to be.

  The problem with eating and not conversing was JFK finished eating before anyone else and wanted to go fill his plate again. The food that everyone else was nursing looked so dang appetizing. But there were still the raspberry hazelnut cheesecake tarts he’d made first thing that morning so that they’d set by dinner time. That could be his thing to look forward to.

  “What about you, JFK?” asked Dom.

  “What? Huh?”

  “Got any big plans for tomorrow?” repeated Dom.

  “Yup. I got three cases of chilled JFK Brew waiting for me.” He toasted the table with his water glass and said, “
I’m not going to wake up with a hangover tomorrow, but I’m sure as—Ssslade gonna go to bed with one.”

  That was possibly an overstatement. It had been a while since he’d gotten wasted, but he did have a reputation to uphold.

  “You brew your own beer?” asked Poppy.

  JFK answered, “Ayup. But it’s not billionaire heiress approved. You probably want to stick to champagne.” Powers was sporting a smug little smile, so JFK asked him, “What’s so funny?”

  “Tell them,” Powers said to his cute little wife. Despite what JFK had said about her looks being mediocre at best, she had a smile that any dentist would be proud to have in his advertising.

  “It’s not really dinnertime appropriate,” said Poppy, “but neither is the host.” She elbowed JFK and everyone at the table cackled. “Alright, I was taking care of the horses early yesterday, before sunrise. It was dark, and I hit a patch of ice and the bucket of grain in my hands pulled me off balance and …”

  She looked at Powers who wore a disgusted look on his face but nodded encouragingly.

  Poppy went on. “And I ended up face first in a steaming pile of manure.”

  “No!” screeched the women at the table, covering their mouths.

  JFK was too busy retching to respond. He couldn’t even stand the thought of bodily waste of any kind.

  “In my hair, all over my face, and even up my nose!”

  That was it. JFK almost lost it for real. He had to turn from the table because the retching was uncontrollable.

  “What’s the matter, JFK?” asked Powers, barely able to talk because he was laughing so hard. “She hasn’t even described the taste of it yet.”

  JFK pushed away from the table and stood up. “You people are disgusting. There’s a pregnant woman at the table. What’s wrong with you?” He swallowed down the gorge rising in his throat.

  “I’m fine,” said Sage, stabbing what was left of her pork chop and putting it casually into her mouth.

  “Come on back,” said Quad C. “We’ll behave. Won’t we, Powers?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Powers with an even smugger grin. He leaned to his wife and said, loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, “You should see him when we have a patient with diarrhea or vomit on them. He’s out the door faster than you can ask what that smell is.”

  “That’s why we have you, Booter,” said JFK. Seniority did have its privileges. He sat back down but he was ready to bolt if anyone started being disgusting again. “Besides, the needle fairies can’t get enough of that stuff.”

  Poppy’s phone rang loudly and she reached for it and said, “Sorry, forgot to silence it.” As she slid the switch to silent she glanced at the screen and her face grew worried.

  “What is it?” asked Powers.

  She read for a few seconds then said, “You know that group that gets the elderly together and serves them a meal on holidays?”

  “Yeah,” said Powers, “isn’t it Home for the Holidays or something?”

  “Homecooked Holidays,” said Poppy. “Four of their staff, including the head chef and volunteer coordinator, were in a car accident today. No one died, but a couple of them are in the hospital.”

  “No homecookin’ this holiday,” said JFK. “Sucks for them.”

  Half of the table scowled at him, just the reaction he was looking for.

  “That’s so sad,” said Sage.

  Poppy was still scanning. “They have thousands of dollars of donated food and about 200 seniors who were planning on meeting for the event, but now they have no one to cook.”

  JFK wondered what kind of food they had. Probably not ham, since that was more of a Christmas meal. Then again, if it was donated, it very well could be ham. You’d need about—he did the math in his head—ten ovens to cook them, not to mention ovens and stoves to cook sides and veggies. They better not be planning on using microwaves, even for a bunch of golden oldsters.

  “Hm,” said Quad C, staring straight at JFK. “Too bad no one here has mad enough chef skills and nothing to do tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” added Emily, also staring at him. “Too bad none of us could single-handedly attempt a meal in limited kitchen space for twenty people and pull it off perfectly.” While still staring at him, she ran her finger along her plate and licked it clean.

  The entire room was staring at him. Except for Poppy, who was furiously typing away on her phone.

  “Yeah right,” barked JFK. “I have better things to do with my time than blend up donated scraps for a bunch of people who are too old to chew a dinner roll.”

  Quad C, Powers, and Emily shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Their partners looked shocked and a little offended. Good. JFK didn’t want them to start thinking they knew him.

  JFK asked Poppy, “What are they feeding the old-timers?”

  “Glad you asked, because I just asked.” She tapped her phone. “Looks like ham, cheesy potatoes, veggies, dinner rolls, oh, and cranberries.”

  “Green ham and soggy potato caserole,” said JFK. “As appropriate as that is considering the audience, no thank you. And I hope they have plenty of cranberries on hand, because like I said, dentures.”

  No one laughed. Whenever families came around everyone lost their sense of humor. Poppy was texting away. She better not be planning on JFK because that was the last way he wanted to spend his holiday, especially after cooking all day for all of these firehouse yahoos.

  Emily was staring him down, as if waiting, certain he would change his mind and give in if she was patient long enough.

  “Where’s all the cooking taking place anyway? They’ll need at least seven commercial ovens for the ham alone.”

  Poppy looked up. “It’s at the Summit Centre, so you’ll have all the kitchen you need.”

  “What do you mean ‘you’?” asked JFK. “Do I look like a Boy Scout? I do enough good turns daily at work, but you and Powers have fun. Maybe he can read some poetry to the old people while they eat. Just make sure you read really loud and slow.”

  They didn’t even have a dessert plan. For a fancy dinner with so many people coming, you couldn’t just skip dessert. They’d probably put out a bowl of sugar-free candy and call it good. Gross. “I hope they don’t start rioting in their wheelchairs and scooters when they realize they’re not getting any dessert.”

  Poppy was ready. The feisty little smiling woman quickly said, “Ice cream and brownies.”

  “Gross sheet-cake brownies and generic ice cream out of a giant tub. Good thing their taste buds are all shot.”

  “Two words,” countered Poppy. “Ghirardelli and Häagen-Dazs.”

  It could be a trap. She might be making it up. Either way, JFK couldn’t just agree to do it with everyone in the room watching him. Even OG’s and Link’s families on the outlying tables were staring at him.

  Poppy said, “The Häagen-Dazs alone is enough to convince me to go.”

  “Us,” said Powers, sharing a look with his little bride that made JFK nauseous all over again. He was so stinking whipped, it was pitiful.

  But JFK had never tackled a cooking project quite that big before, especially on such short notice. Still, everyone was staring at him, he wasn’t about to agree to it. Later he’d find a way to let Poppy know she could tell the powers-that-be that she had saved the day and found someone. Maybe.

  “You two have fun,” said JFK, picking up his plate and pushing away from the table. “I think I’ll just go spend ten bucks on my way home and get all the Häagen-Dazs I want. Then go eat it alone.”

  As he walked into the kitchen, Emily called, “C’mon, JFK, just do it.”

  Other people echoed her. “C’mon.” “Please.” “Do it!” One of the kids at Link’s table started clapping and chanting, “JFK! JFK!” The entire room joined in, chanting and clapping like some crazed cult.

  It was the most obnoxious thing JFK had ever heard. The fact that it was his name, well his nickname, made it worse. He didn’t want their attention or cheeri
ng or praise or whatever this was.

  They just got louder and louder. He felt like his head was part of a percussion set. He felt like he was completely out of control of the situation because he had no way to make them stop. The room was spinning a little and his hands were clenching into fists on the edges of his plate.

  “Fine!” he shouted, and the noise mercifully died out. Cheering started to replace it, starting with the same obnoxious kid who had started the chanting.

  “On two conditions,” said JFK loudly, before the cheering could get even more ridiculous. “No cheering. I’m serious, if I hear one single clap or whoop, I’m out. Second, drop off your plates and stay out of my kitchen while I clean this up.” He turned on the faucet and sprayed off his plate.

  Emily was next into the kitchen with her plate. “What happened to ‘The chef cooks and the peasants do the dishes?’”

  The truth was they all had better things to do with their families and spouses and boyfriend there than cram everyone in the kitchen bumping into each other for half an hour. JFK was the only one who didn’t have a guest to entertain. He wasn’t about to admit that he was trying to be nice.

  “I don’t need a bunch of interlopers dropping dishes and putting things away in the wrong place. Guests are worse than A platooners and rovers when it comes to doing dishes.”

  Quad C had come around the huge island into the kitchen as well. “We can’t let you clean all this up. You cooked it all.”

  JFK slid his plate into the dishwasher and reached for the captain’s, but he had it in an iron grip. “You can if you want the geezers to eat tomorrow.”

  For at least ten seconds they stared at each other, both pulling on the huge plate. There was no way JFK was getting it out of Quad C’s hands. The man was as solid as a gun safe with hands like bench vices. But JFK wasn’t above playing dirty to avoid losing.

  “Those are my conditions,” said JFK. Everyone was watching, and one of the men had to back down. On a fire scene or even a medical call, JFK wouldn’t ever go nose to nose with a superior—well, not one who he respected. With Quad C there was no reason to. But in this, he didn’t want to lose because losing the battle over dishes would mean he’d have to back out of cooking for the old folks tomorrow and he was starting to look forward to the challenge.