IT WOULD TAKE TIME, Roman realized the next morning, to get used to the silence. Silence that only gave way to the ocean at the bottom of the hill. He finally gave up any hope of sleep just after 4:00 a.m. and, after flipping on the anemic coffeemaker on the side table in his room, changed into his workout clothes and checked, as he always did first thing in the morning, his email and voice mail.
One thing he’d noticed—and appreciated—when he’d taken a leisurely self-guided tour of the firehouse yesterday after Chief Granger left, was that meticulous care and attention had been paid to the makeshift workout room just off the kitchen. The space included a weight bench with a good selection of free weights, an elliptical, bike, various toning machines and two treadmills that may have been enhanced by NASA, given their video challenges and advanced settings.
He poured the dark roast into a chipped mug that had been hanging beneath one of two cabinets and drank half of it before his foot hit the bottom stair. Ten minutes later, he had settled into an easy pace on the treadmill, the news on the small flat screen nearby. When his blood began pumping and the sweat began beading, as his muscles fell into their welcome daily routine, he actually sighed in relief.
All the knots inside him from the past few days began to loosen. Driving across country with nothing more than satellite radio for comfort gave a man a lot of time to think. About the future. About the past. And about his impulse to take a job in a town no larger than a pinhole on a map when his dream job had fallen through. He’d always known leapfrogging his way into the federal arson investigator’s office would be a challenge, and the odds of him getting a job after his first interview were slim, but that didn’t lessen the disappointment of not being chosen. Hopefully making a noticeable move and a big change would work to his benefit next time around. If there was a next time.
There were plenty of qualified people from ATF, the FBI and other law-enforcement organizations to fill the rarely open position, but none of them wanted it as badly as he did. He’d made a promise to do better, to go farther, to reach for the brass ring that had evaded his father’s determined grasp. Don’t fail like I did, son. Don’t surrender. His father’s voice, even after three years, still echoed clearly in Roman’s head. Don’t give up until you get to where you need to go.
He would not, Roman had vowed the day his father died, leave this world without having accomplished everything he wanted. Every thought he had, every decision he made was to get him closer to that goal of ticking off every box on his to-do list. If that meant spending months or maybe even a few years in Butterfly Harbor to reset his life, so be it.
His former commanding officer in Boston had been the one to suggest Roman beef up his résumé with something unexpected, something that showed future interviewing committees that he was willing to go wherever the job took him. He had three top-ten city fire companies checked off, complete with high-level recommendations, commendations and awards. The contract he’d signed with Butterfly Harbor was for six months. A short amount of time to Roman’s thinking, and a little odd, but it also came with an option for another six should all parties agree. After that...who knew? Six months, maybe a year in this quaint oceanside town should round out his experience, perhaps with bonus points for thinking outside the box.
And so, his first full day in Butterfly Harbor began.
He ticked up the incline on the treadmill, increased the speed and kicked his morning into high gear. Soon, all he heard was the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the mat.
When a door slammed in the distance, he didn’t miss a step. Roman glanced over his shoulder in time to see a shadow drift close to the open door. A very feminine shadow. His stomach tightened, just enough to remind him that it was important to get his and Frankie Bettencourt’s professional relationship off to a good start. Well, a better start than he’d managed yesterday.
Tension snapped through the air like a downed electrical wire when she stepped into the room.
“Good morning.” He flashed a smile, ignoring the irritated glint in her big green eyes. “Great space. You’re an early riser, too, then?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes flashed. “Too much going on in my head.” She set her bag on the floor by the door and unzipped the oversize gray hoodie she wore.
Roman glanced away, but not before he received confirmation that Frankie Bettencourt was in amazing shape. Her shorts and sports tank reminded him of the sunset, yellows and oranges blending into a rich fire red. The muscles in her arms, her legs and her stomach hadn’t left much room for anything else. She had curves everywhere a man like him preferred. She was oh, so...healthy.
Roman blew out a breath and focused on the readout on the treadmill. Yeah, healthy. That’s how he needed to think about her. Besides, he had the feeling if he even thought the word knockout she’d return the favor with a right hook. “I’ll be off this in a few minutes.”
“Take your time. It’s my elliptical day.”
Given the clock had just hit 6:00 a.m., he chose to attribute her clipped tone to the early hour rather than his usurping her promotion. He kept focused straight ahead, but out of the corner of one eye he could see her stretching and warming up before climbing onto the one machine he preferred to avoid.
“Great space.” Roman rolled his eyes.
“So you said.”
So he did. Normally he could talk to anyone about anything, but for some reason, finding a comfortable topic to break the ice with Frankie eluded him. “Good to know the mayor recognizes the importance of firefighters keeping physically fit. He authorized some great equipment.” He could hear her snort over the whir of her machine and the beeps of programming. “What?”
“The only thing Gil Hamilton recognizes is the importance of his own existence.”
“Meaning?” Was this attitude part of the small-town mentality Chief Granger had warned him about?
“Meaning Gil didn’t authorize funds for any of this. It’s mine.”
“Yours?” Roman nearly tripped and, deciding to hold onto his dignity, eased up on the speed and incline. “All this is yours?”
“Some people collect snow globes. I like exercise equipment. Keeping it here instead of my spare bedroom forces me to get up in the morning. No excuses. I’m happy to let any of the volunteers use it. Not a lot do, other than Ozzy Lakeman. He usually comes by in the afternoon after his shift at the sheriff’s station. I hope that’s something you’ll continue to allow.”
“Yeah, sure. Makes sense.” He slowed the treadmill a bit more and took a deep breath. “It’s a good idea. Is there a gym in town?”
“No. There was a while back, but it closed. No one’s thought to reopen. There’s another workout room at the Flutterby, and some basic equipment at the youth center, but not many tourists think about exercising during vacation, so.” She shrugged. “This is it.”
Roman stepped off the treadmill and reached for one of the hand towels he’d brought from his bathroom. He watched her, swinging her way to nowhere on that machine, sweat popping out on her face, her long, wavy ponytail bobbing behind her.
“Am I right that you all stick to the usual twenty-four hours on, forty-eight hours off schedule?”
Frankie shrugged. “That’s always been the idea, but it’s difficult with only two full-timers. Bud’s let me do twenty-four on, twenty-four off. But you can always get ahold of me on my hours off.”
“That’s a tough schedule.”
She shrugged. “I’m used to it. It’s a necessity, mainly, since we don’t have as full a company as we used to.”
“More retirements?”
“Budget cuts,” Frankie corrected.
“You all being pretty efficient doing your jobs probably made the powers that be assume you could get by with fewer people.”
“More like the powers that be don’t have any idea what the job actually entails.”
That made more sense. He’d seen his share of politicians who thought they knew what was best when it came to budgetary needs for infrastructure they had no practical experience with. “I didn’t see Mayor Hamilton’s name listed as a volunteer.”
“No.” Frankie smirked. “You didn’t.”
Interesting. “Chief Granger mentioned something about dispatching through our cell phones.”
“That’s for when we get calls when we’re already out of the station on another run.” She gave a quick nod, her gaze shifting to the phone she’d placed in one of the cup holders. “Otherwise it comes through the old-fashioned way.” She pointed up to the ceiling as if indicating speakers found in other rooms.
“Why not have an on-site dispatcher as backup?”
She didn’t break stride, not even when she pinned him with a look that, had she been Medusa, would have turned him to stone.
“Right. Budget cuts.”
“We aren’t Chicago. Or Boston. The needs of Butterfly Harbor don’t exactly fit any predictable pattern. In fact, predictability is the one thing in this job you will never have. Each day is an adventure. Would a dispatcher be great? Maybe. But we manage with what we have. The system that’s in place works well.”
Having exhausted his current list of questions, he begged off. “I’ll just head up to shower and change. Then I thought I might take a walk around town. Seeing as I don’t start until Monday.”
“Getting the lay of the land would be a good place to start. Butterfly Diner serves a great breakfast. Casual. Flutterby Dreams won’t be open until eight, but they’re your go-to if you want something a bit fancier.”
“Got a favorite breakfast?”
Her eyebrow arched in a way that told him she knew what he was doing; small talk was the best way to break through the ice of any situation. Or fledgling relationship. “At which place?”
“Either. Both.” Given he’d finished up his trail mix and protein bars for dinner last night, pretty much the only thing he’d eaten in the last week, he was ready for some actual food.
“Jason makes amazing lemon ricotta pancakes up at the Flutterby.”
“And the diner?”
“Good old-fashioned bacon and eggs. Home fries. Side of pancakes. And if you’re splurging, go with the handmade sourdough bread or a scone. Holly’s got a touch with those.”
“Sounds like I’ll be needing another workout after breakfast.” When Frankie didn’t respond, Roman headed for the door. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Great.”
Was it his imagination or had she picked up speed? Maybe pretending she could run him over on her elliptical?
“Frankie?”
“Uh-huh?” She was panting now, but she flicked him a glance.
“I’m sorry you lost out on the job.”
She flinched but didn’t break stride. Even from across the room, he saw her jaw tense. “Thanks.”
What else could he say? He supposed it could have gone worse. Before he took a wrong verbal turn, he grabbed his now-cold coffee and headed upstairs.
HER HOME AWAY from home had been invaded.
Frankie had known, even before she parked Dwayne, the oversize, fully supplied SUV, in front of the engine house, she’d find that her new boss had taken up residence in one of the mini apartments on the second floor.
Didn’t mean she had to like it.
The gossip mill, even for Butterfly Harbor, had spun into overdrive once word got out about their new fire chief. Only in a smalltown would people bring food over for the loss of a promotion. She’d spent a good chunk of her evening portioning out freezer meals, then packaging up containers to bring to the firehouse, where it was clear they wouldn’t have to cook for at least a week.
She knew what any rational person in her situation would do after losing out on the job they’d been counting on: they’d leave. Look for another job, a better job. There had to be other towns, some not too far away, in need of an experienced firefighter. It wouldn’t be a chief’s position, obviously, but she could start to make her way up the ladder again. Start over. And she might consider it if not for one thing.
None of those places would be Butterfly Harbor.
She turned off the TV and, using the remote she’d swiped on her way in, turned on the speakers and soon had classic rock booming through the entire first floor.
Frankie continued pumping away on the elliptical for another forty minutes, listening to the whining pipes and plodding footsteps overhead. When she heard Chief Salazar head back downstairs, she cranked up the volume, part of her hoping he would come in to complain so she’d have an excuse to snarl at him. No such luck. He left without another word.
Feeling suitably energized, Frankie brought the elliptical to a stop and, after turning the music down, changed to the calming tones of classical, the gentle sound of flutes and strings seeping into her warm bones. She ducked into the unisex bathroom just off the workout room, where she showered and changed, and was dragging her hair into its trademark ponytail when she heard the front door open again.
“Hey, Frankie!” Her brother Monty’s relaxed voice drifted above the music just before the aroma of fresh-baked doughnuts hit her nose. She found him in the kitchen, prying open the large pink bakery box and examining the selection with more attention than was due.
“You keep looking at those doughnuts that way and I’m going to call the sheriff.” Frankie slipped her phone into one of the thigh pockets of her black cargo pants on her way to the coffee machine. “You want a cup?”
“Is the sky blue?” Monty grinned before stuffing a cruller into his mouth. Frankie leaned over to look out the kitchen window.
“It’s more an overcast gray, but sure.” Able to load the coffee machine in her sleep, she did so quickly and efficiently. She hated those pod machines—such a waste given she went through coffee like water. She couldn’t abide the drip, drip, drip of a solitary cup. “Lucky for you I did an extra twenty minutes this morning.” Ah, he’d gotten apple fritters. “Gran’s favorite.” Every Monday morning without fail, their grandmother would walk the three blocks to Chrysalis Bakery and load up on apple fritters, chocolate old-fashioneds and maple bars. Biting into the sweet, sticky treat filled with chunky apples and swirls of cinnamon made Frankie miss both the bakery and her grandmother.
“Your favorite, too.” Monty turned his eyes to the sputtering coffee machine. “You couldn’t have turned that on sooner?”
“Could have,” she mumbled around a bite of fritter. “Got distracted. How was your scouting trip?”
“Meh.” Monty shrugged. “Haven’t found the right boat yet. I will, though. I’ve got a lead on one out of the Seattle area. Owner’s thinking of putting it up for sale sometime next year. He said he’d call me when he decided for sure and give me first shot.”
“Just how many boats does a chartering service need?” And what was it with the Bettencourt twins with the abnormal collections? Her with her exercise equipment and Monty with his boats.
“The more services I offer, the more boats I need. Three’s working out pretty well right now, especially that catamaran I got hold of last year. It’s perfect for whale watching, snorkeling and diving. And the occasional fishing trip.”
Frankie shivered. Just the idea of snorkeling in Butterfly Harbor Bay froze her from head to toe, which was why water rescues were by far her least favorite calls. On the water, so much could go wrong in such a short time. It wasn’t like they were the tropics in central California, and this time of year especially, one had to be pretty reckless to head out into the bay and dive in the water. But people did just that, which was why Monty’s charter company WindWalkers was, after six years of struggling, finally in the black.
“I’ve got two charters this afternoon. One burial at sea and another client just wanting to head up to San Francisco. He paid double for me to stay and bring him back Sunday, so I’ll miss out on Saturday Mexican Train.”
“Saving yourself the humiliation of losing?” Frankie heard the insistent gurgle of sputtering coffee and went to fill their mugs. “I can never understand how a smart guy like you constantly loses at dominoes.”
“It’s not my fault,” Monty insisted, shrugging out of his jacket and reaching for another doughnut. “Oscar cheats.”
“Give me a break.” Frankie rolled her eyes. “How can someone cheat at dominoes?”
“He has help. Myra lurks, and I think they have a code. I swear.” He held up a sticky hand and gave his Boy Scout salute. “You watch them. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you that new coffeemaker you’ve had your eye on.”
“Deal.” Never one to pass up a bet with Monty, she grinned. Her brother might be one of the most decent, honest guys around, but one thing he was not was good at winning bets. If anything, his bets only assured her winning, which always improved her day. “Harvey can order one at the hardware store and probably give you a break.”
“Don’t count your coffee beans just yet. So.” He looked down at the steaming cup of coffee, then up at Frankie as she sat across from him, curling one leg under her butt. “You didn’t get the job.”
Frankie decided to scald her tongue on her coffee rather than let loose with the colorful commentary she was storing up about her new boss. She knew it was petty. Childish, even. But maintaining a good mad at him was safer than aiming her anger at the right target: Gil Hamilton. That attitude, the Goody Two-shoes angel on her shoulder sang in her head, was no doubt what put her in this sorry situation in the first place. “Nope.”
“I’m sorry, Frankie.”
Frankie’s heart went all gooey at the sympathy she saw on her brother’s face. A face that was more prone to smiling than hers. She might be three minutes older, but there were times he excelled at the big-brother role. This was one of those times. Francesca Roxanne Bettencourt didn’t take sympathy or pity from anyone, except her exceptional twin. “It is what it is.” But not what it had to be. She had options. She must. She just needed to explore them.
“Word is Gil’s responsible.”
“Uh-huh. It’s not the first time he’s messed things up for me.” She pinched her lips together so hard they went numb. Then, throwing caution and calories to the wind, she reached for a second doughnut, this one a plain cake with just a modicum of vanilla frosting and fall-colored sprinkles. “Could be the last time, though.”
Monty set his own doughnut down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know.” Seemed like an appropriate moment to test the waters concerning a new job somewhere else. “I’m just feeling—restless, you know? Hearing they’d hired this Salazar guy out of the blue just took everything out of me. Like when we were kids and I used to go around popping all the party balloons? One minute everything is perfectly fine, and the next bang!”
“You made your little brother hide under the bed,” Monty grumbled. “Fun times.”
Frankie chuckled. “I’d forgotten about that.” The laugh bubbled up from where the pain of failure and disappointment had settled yesterday. “How long did it take you to regain the courage to crawl out?”
“I’m still working on it. It’s normal, Frankie. To feel restless. Not to hide under the bed.”
She couldn’t help it. She kept laughing. Mainly because she was afraid that if she didn’t, she might start crying. This place, this job—it was her life. It had been for as long as she could remember. It had never, not once, crossed her mind that she wouldn’t be named chief. And it hurt. Far more than she could bring herself to admit. And, as things stood, she had two people to blame for that: Gil Hamilton and Roman Salazar. “Maybe I need to take this as a sign.”
“Not getting the job?” Monty shook his head, his sun-kissed brown hair falling over one eye. “Or needing to rid the town of Gil Hamilton?”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “That’s an odd thing to say.” Her brother seemed suddenly interested in everything in the room other than Frankie’s assessing gaze. “And it’s not the first time I’ve heard it. What do you know?”
“Not a lot. People have been ticked off with him for a while. That’s no secret.”
“Not ticked enough that anyone ran against him in the election. Guy just skated to a second four-year term.” There had been talk of a challenger, of course, but given the power Gil Hamilton wielded in this town, and how any business owner or resident with plans to make significant changes to their homes needed the council’s approval...yeah. No one had stepped up.
“I feel confident when I say that should the need for another election arise, I think there’s someone willing to run against him.”
“Who?” Suddenly her lack of professional advancement didn’t seem so important.
“That I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” And hadn’t she and Holly had this same discussion with Ursula yesterday at the diner?
“Just let it unfold, Frankie, and stay out of it. Don’t go pushing any buttons yourself. You not getting the chief’s position is already a recognized strike against him.”
As much as the idea of Gil Hamilton being brought to his political knees appealed, once again she found herself reluctant to be the named cause. “I’m sure he had his reasons for not picking me.”
“I’d be interested to hear what they are. Everyone knows you’ve been in line for the job ever since Bud announced his plans to retire last year. Bud recommended you. Most of the council approved you. The two who didn’t had to abstain because they consider you family. The town loves you.”
And she loved the town, but apparently that hadn’t been enough. “Maybe everyone just needs to let this go.” Everyone including herself. Maybe she should be thinking about moving on. She chewed on her lower lip. Maybe.
“Is that what you’re going to do? Or will you let this goad you into a decision you wouldn’t normally be making?”
The doughnut turned to glue in her mouth. “What makes you think—?”
“We spent nine months wrapped together in our mother’s stomach, Frankie. I know how you think. You’re thinking about leaving, aren’t you?”
Frankie sipped her coffee, swallowed the bitterness in her throat. “Actually, I don’t know what I’m thinking.” Remembering the promise they’d made when they were kids never to lie to one another, she held up her hand, knowing he was poised to challenge her. “Okay, okay. It’s crossed my mind. I do want to be chief. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since I stole Dad’s dress uniform hat and pranced around the house with it for days. It can’t hurt to consider my options, right?”
“Consider? No.” Monty cringed. “It would hurt if you left, though. A lot. Not that I’d blame you. I would guess exploring outside options is more appealing than tracking Gil down and finding out why he didn’t give you the promotion.”
Not to mention easier. Which was part of what really irked her. She never took the easy way; it was so much less fun. Right now, Frankie wasn’t sure if she could even be near the good mayor without wanting to do him bodily harm. The idea of leaving Butterfly Harbor left a sick feeling in her stomach. And leaving Monty? Monty wasn’t just her twin, he was her best friend. Starting over in another town would be as if she’d jumped overboard off one of his boats with nothing more than a deflated life preserver.
“Don’t get ahead of this,” she said when it was clear Monty was waiting for a response. “At this point I don’t care why Gil didn’t give me the promotion. It’s probably best if I avoid him altogether. Roman Salazar is already here. He’s qualified, if a bit naive. Life moves on. That being said, if I happen to run into Gil...”
“If you can give me some advance warning and let me sell tickets, I can buy a whole new fleet of boats.”
Frankie managed another laugh, this one a little strained, and finished her coffee. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks for the doughnuts. And the talk. Both helped.”
“I hope so. Ah-ah-ah!” He reached over and slapped at her wrist. “Get your hands off that lemon-filled one. It’s mine.”