A Frost Family Christmas/
Frost Family & Friends
Book Five
by Roxy Boroughs
Zack Jones jumped off the running board of Fire Truck 1 before the vehicle came to a complete stop. His heart sank as black smoke drifted from the building and flames spiked—bright and orange as a second sunset against the late November sky.
“There goes my paycheck,” he muttered, as he masked up and secured his helmet.
Who’d have thought volunteering with the fire department in Carol Falls, Vermont, would bring him here? To Billy Boy’s, where he worked as a full-time bouncer, filling in as bartender whenever Billy wanted time off.
Apparently, they’d both get vacations now. Unplanned ones. At best, the place would need repairs. At worse, it would end up in ashes along with a couple of his fellow firefighters.
Zack readied the thirty-pound hose, carrying it on his shoulder as he scanned the upper level. Mrs. Trivett lived in a small apartment above the bar. Not the most suitable spot for an elderly lady, but the rent was cheap due to the loud music. Which didn’t bother Mrs. Trivett once she removed her hearing aids. She usually played euchre Wednesday nights, but a recent hip operation cramped her card-sharking fun.
He spied movement at the door to the fire escape and handed off the hose to another member of his team. Zack sprinted to the stairs—his hundred-pound protective gear weighing him down, adrenaline lifting him up.
As he hit the bottom step, he saw Mrs. Trivett above him, urged from the burning building by her grandson, Connor. The young man wore jeans and nothing else—no shirt, no shoes. The wind whipped red welts on Connor’s thin chest, and sent the elderly woman’s nightgown beating against her bare legs.
She eyed the drop to the ground below and froze.
Zack pounded up the stairs, reaching the pair as a window on the lower level shattered from the heat inside.
“I’ll take her,” Zack yelled to Connor through his mask.
He lifted Mrs. Trivett in his arms and carried her down the stairs, Connor sticking close.
Zack breathed a sigh of relief when he saw police cars blocking off the area. He also spotted several members of the Ladies’ Auxiliary arriving on the scene. He recognized Sylvia Frost from her silvery-blond bob. She huddled in conference with his dark-haired mother, Diane, and Linda Boychuk, the sister-in-law of the building’s owner.
Once Zack got his charges to safety, the ladies swarmed around Mrs. Trivett and her grandson, giving comfort in the form of blankets and hot beverages. That left Zack free to sidle up to the fire chief, Ian King, and hear their next move.
“Can’t see in the building,” Ian reported. “Smoke aside, there’s a half inch of grime on the windows, and plastic Christmas wreaths, too—all blocking visibility.” His green eyes locked on Zack. “You know the layout better than anyone. You lead.”
Zack nodded and crouched low as he made his way through the entrance, his buddies clinging to the hose as they followed. The water they used to douse the structure bubbled to a boil at their feet.
Blinded by smoke and dripping with perspiration, Zack relied on memory and instinct to maneuver his way through the maze of tables and chairs. The heat and noise from the inferno grew as he approached the fire’s source, his breathing apparatus making him sound like Darth Vader.
One more step and flames appeared, rolling up to the ceiling. He couldn’t see the main counter for smoke. Couldn’t see the wall in front of him. Or the photograph he knew hung there, of a smiling Billy, his staff and…one waitress in particular. A certain blonde, with the saddest smile Zack had ever come across.
He aimed the hose and made a pact with himself. He’d fight to save the bar and reclaim that photo, no matter the odds. The building provided a home to Mrs. Trivett and much-needed jobs in the town.
And the picture was the only shot he had of the one, unforgettable woman from his past.
Heather Connolly grabbed the railing and hauled herself up the next flight of stairs to her third floor apartment. After a double-shift juggling pints of beer, while balancing in high heels, she could barely feel her baby toes. Her insteps, however, were on fire.
Traipsing through the snowy parking lot had helped cool the pain, and the faulty heater in her car had kept the vehicle cold enough that she felt she’d driven home wearing icepacks on her feet. Thank goodness she’d switched to sneakers before hopping into her car.
As if.
There’d been no actual hopping involved at the end of this evening. Limping was more like it. At thirty-four, she was one of the older cocktail waitresses at the bar, and the wacky hours tired her. She felt the wear and tear on her knees—not to mention the hands on her derriere. The Hopportunist, Burlington’s trendiest new bar, serviced an extremely tactile male clientele.
Heather chuckled. Even the place she worked had a hop in it.
And, in half a flight more, she’d be a hop, skip and a jump from her apartment. And the precious soul asleep in it.
There was no bitterness in her laugh now, only a sweet ache in her chest as her heart expanded—thankful she had another chance with her six-year-old daughter.
For Lottie, Heather would happily endure all the pinches and foot throbbing life had to offer. The job gave her a steady paycheck and good tips. She even liked the staff. Though she didn’t feel the same sense of belonging she’d had in her last job, in the last town.
But she’d made a mistake there...hurt people…and could never go back.
A familiar tightness started in her throat and worked its way to her stomach. She freed her hair from its clip and let the long, blond strands fall, hiding her face from the world. True, the bad thing she’d done in Carol Falls was for Lottie, but that did little to ease the shame. Doing bad things for a good reason never ended well.
At least, not for Heather.
She yanked the fire door to the third floor, stepped through and gulped the stale hallway air. Ambrosia, after the climb.
While searching for her apartment key, she heard her phone beep. She pulled it from her purse, read the text message and frowned. It was from her sister, Fern. Another bid to take Lottie. This time, on a shopping trip to New York.
Over Christmas.
Fern meant well, attempting to give Lottie what Heather couldn’t. Pretty dresses, a trendy new toy, maybe a front row seat to the latest Broadway musical. But there was no way Heather was going to endure a second Christmas without her daughter. Not when the two of them were so excited about spending the holidays together.
They’d already started on the decorations, creating a colorful wreath made of leftover bits of wrapping paper, and a life-size cardboard fireplace from which they’d hang the striped stockings Heather had knitted. They might live in a humble apartment, but it was theirs, and it was home. That made Heather richer than any Rockefeller or Onassis, regardless of her bank statement.
She jammed the phone into her purse, found her keys and unlocked her apartment door. Opening it, Heather was surprised to find her daughter dancing.
Dancing when she should have been in bed and asleep. Hours ago.
Lottie looked like a winter princess, dressed in a silver gown, her long blond hair trailing behind her. Sky blue makeup covered her forehead and cheekbones, with sparkly white snowflakes painted on top. Lottie’s lashes glittered, too.
“Do you like my costume, Mommy? I’m a snowflake.”
“I can see that. You look fabulous.” Heather leaned down and embraced her daughter, while shooting her babysitters a questioning glance.
Lottie’s grandmother, Ruth, stood at the ironing board pressing shiny, green material—her careworn face weighed down by shoulder length salt and pepper hair. Ruth’s daughter, Wenda, a college-bound eighteen-year-old, was easily Lottie’s favorite aunt. She sat on the second-hand couch, an array of makeup set out on the scarred coffee table in front of her.
“Another bad dream,” Ruth whispered, responding to Heather’s silent question.
So that’s why Lottie was awake.
Again, Heather experienced that tightness. It was the third nightmare this week—far too many for a little girl to bear. And the reason why Heather always declined her sister’s offers to take care of Lottie.
How could she explain Lottie’s night terrors? Or her extreme shyness. Fern’s hubby, a beefy golf enthusiast, and a reasonable guy normally, didn’t understand why Lottie withdrew into herself every time he came near. At first, he’d tried to gain her affection with bribes of dolls and ice cream. When those tactics failed, he grew indifferent. A cool, six-foot-two iceman. The last thing Lottie needed. But tonight…
Tonight, Lottie was the smiling center of attention. She twirled on her tiptoes, glowing in the company of her regular sitters—the mother and younger sister of Heather’s ex-husband. The handsome, charming, angry man who’d brought them all together.
Heather kicked off her sneakers, stuffed her gloves in her coat pocket, and chucked the lot in the hall closet, shutting the door on them. Along with her fears.
“Wenda and Grandma are putting on a play, Mommy. Can we go see it?”
“We’re just helping with it,” Ruth clarified, while Wenda muted the evening news program they’d been watching on the 20-inch TV—a hand-me-down from Heather’s sister. “It’s a spoken-word version of The Nutcracker for the Winter Recital. There’s no ballet in the script at all. Though, a couple of the Belmont kids are doing a jazz number.” She waved a hand, as if erasing the introduction of that side topic, and got back on track. “Rehearsals started in October, but they didn’t call on us for help until now. It’s going to be so exciting, and will give everyone something to do along with Frosty Frolics.”
Remembering the latter event from the previous year, Heather’s cheeks heated. Every December, the Frost family held the community celebration at their maple syrup farm in Carol Falls. There was singing, good food—even a visit from Santa.
If only she’d stayed away last year.
Lottie tugged on her arm. “Can we go to the play, Mommy? Please?”
Carol Falls was the last place Heather wanted to revisit. Maybe Ruth and Wenda would take Lottie for a sleepover.
A good idea. If it weren’t for those nightmares.
“Actually,” Ruth began, “we were hoping Lottie could be in the play.”
In it? “You said rehearsals started in October.”
“Yes, for the adults and teens. They’d always planned to bring in some younger children, Lottie’s age, to be snowflakes, mice and toy soldiers. They’re small non-speaking parts, and don’t require a lot of rehearsal. Also, they didn’t want the young ones getting bored. Or overtired.”
And Lottie never slept well.
If that weren’t enough to squash the idea, the registration cost would. Community theaters generally charged a membership fee. Likewise, children’s drama camps needed tuition money to run. Surely the organizers weren’t relying on ticket sales to recoup their upfront expenses for sets and costumes.
About to decline, Heather caught her daughter’s eye. The flicker of excitement in them turned to anxiety. Heather’s own eyes watered as the girl then dropped her gaze in defeat, as if she already knew they couldn’t afford it.
A six-year-old shouldn’t be so wise. Or meek. Maybe a play would help build Lottie’s confidence.
“I’m volunteering my services as a seamstress,” Ruth continued. “But for Wenda, it’s a paying gig and will look good on her résumé. Everyone else is donating their time, and several of the local businesses are acting as sponsors in return for a mention in the program. It’s a real community affair.”
Sounded like a golden opportunity for Wenda, who planned a career as a professional makeup artist—for stage, film and TV. Though, oddly, she rarely wore makeup herself. Mannishly dressed, the tall, artsy young woman reminded Heather of a train—with drive and determination to spare. Boxy attire squared-up Wenda’s feminine curves and thick, black hair billowed from her head like smoke.
“They’re really desperate for more little kids, even if they don’t live in Carol Falls,” Wenda added. “I asked if I could invite one of the children from my family, and they said that’d be great. They meet on weekends, and the first day for the young kids is next Sunday. The dress rehearsals and performance happen the week before Christmas.”
As a child, Heather had enjoyed a couple of small roles in school plays. More than performing, she’d relished the sense of community, of being part of the group. Maybe Lottie would, too. But what about the repeated drives back and forth to Carol Falls?
She supposed Lottie might nap in the car. Or she could take the girl out of school early, rather than see her overtired. Lottie was bright and at the top of her class. An extra-long holiday might do her good, and give them some added time together after the trauma of last year’s separation.
She ran her hand along Lottie’s chin. “Would you like to be in the play, honey?”
Lottie’s smile was all the ‘yes’ Heather needed. She’d vowed never to return to Carol Falls, but she wasn’t going to let her child down. Somehow, she’d find a way to see Lottie’s performance, without alerting anyone else in town to her presence. Maybe a scarf and dark glasses would do the trick. Heather rolled her eyes at her own dramatic thoughts.
“Can I be a snowflake in the play, Auntie Wenda? Can we both be snowflakes?”
Wenda slathered cleanser on Lottie’s face. “Only little kids get to be snowflakes, but we can dress up together another time. Either as snowflakes, or…maybe we can go as Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.” Wenda looked Heather’s way and smirked. “I went out as Oliver for Halloween and none of the kids in my drama class had ever heard of him.”
“Who’s Olive Oil?” Lottie asked, gazing at her aunt with big, innocent eyes.
“Oliver,” Wenda corrected. “Oliver Hardy. And it’s okay that you don’t know, because he made funny movies a long, long time ago—way before you were born. I found his photo in a book of old film stars. I’ll bring it next time we get together.” She wiped the remaining blue makeup from Lottie’s face with a baby wipe. “Now, you go wash up properly, little snowflake.”
Lottie scrunched her nose in protest.
“I’ll help you as soon as I say good-bye to your grandmother and aunt,” Heather promised. Apparently satisfied with that, Lottie gave both her sitters a kiss and a hug, and scampered to the bathroom down the hall.
Wenda packed her makeup kit, as Ruth folded her newly pressed material and slipped it into her sewing bag. Heather was sorry to see them go.
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t want any reminders of her ex in her life. But Ruth and Wenda had been such a huge help, willing to drive the hour round-trip from Carol Falls to Burlington to babysit whenever needed.
That’s more than Heather’s own parents were prepared to do. When she’d married and had a baby before her older sister—heaven forbid!—good ol’ Mom and Dad had rejected Heather for upsetting their outdated notions about the timing of such things. Perhaps they’d lighten up once Fern produced a ‘valid’ grandchild.
Until that time, Heather would concentrate on her own kid, and associate with only the people who truly loved her little girl. She accompanied her guests to the door and retrieved their coats. “Thanks again for looking after Lottie.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Ruth replied, wrapping a knitted scarf around her neck. “I’m grateful you allow us to spend time with her…especially after what happened between you and Chase.”
The older woman croaked out the last few words, then turned away. Heather choked up, too. They’d both loved Chase. Both been betrayed by him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Heather sang out, to lighten the mood.
“Tomorrow it is,” Ruth agreed.
Heather thanked them again, closed the apartment door and locked it. She gave herself a moment to put away the ironing board and don her game face. Sad eyes were the last thing Lottie needed to see, so Heather practiced a smile as she made her way through the living room, turning off lights as she went.
She reached for the TV remote, her finger poised over the red OFF button, and looked up in time to catch the headline across the bottom of the screen: BAR FIRE IN CAROL FALLS.
Pictured above was the place where she used to work, smoke rising past its blinking Christmas lights and curling into the night sky. Heather sank to the couch and turned up the volume.
“…Billy Boy’s earlier this evening,” the male announcer said, caught in mid-sentence. “The volunteer firefighters of Carol Falls, with assistance from the department in neighboring Waterbury, extinguished the blaze, preventing extensive damage. Zack Jones proved himself a hero—saving two tenants, one elderly, who lived in the second-floor apartment.” A picture of Zack, wearing his bulky uniform, flashed on the screen.
Heather felt a flutter in her chest—part worry that he’d volunteered for such a dangerous job. Part…something else. Even with soot and sweat staining his face, the man looked mighty fine. Dark hair curled over his forehead. Warm, brown eyes gazed out at her like pools of rich chocolate. And his mouth…
That mouth left her breathless as she remembered how he’d caressed her with it on the one incredible night she’d spent in his bed.
They’d started as friends and ended as lovers. Until it all ended that evening.
Story over, the newscaster switched to the weather report, droning on about a winter storm on its way, while Heather remained on the couch, transfixed.
So, Zack Jones was the hero of Carol Falls. No surprise there. The guy definitely had the right goods—killer smile, loyal to a fault, and a six-pack that made Gerard Butler’s warrior king, Leonidas, look like a wuss. All these things Heather knew firsthand.
Because, for a time, she’d fooled herself into believing Zack could be her hero, too.