"Thanks for coming, ladies and gentlemen. Before I turn this over to Reed, I wanted to thank you all personally for giving this program a shot." In his southern drawl, Fire Chief Chase Talbot addressed the thirty or so smoke eaters assembled in the academy classroom, the smile on his face warm and affectionate. As Delaney watched him, she noticed his easy manner.
Almost self-effacingly, he concluded his comments and introduced Reed. "Most of you know Reed Macauley, the brains behind the idea."
"All right, all you clowns, listen up," Reed said, joking when the guys razzed him about Talbot's comment. A pleasant June breeze blew in from the window and ruffled his dark hair. The sun highlighted a sprinkling of gray at his temples.
Delaney had never seen him as one of the guys before. He fit right in, easing a hip onto the front desk, squarely facing his audience. She'd spent the greater part of the week since Tommy's funeral with Reed and other RFD personnel, organizing the implementation of FAN. In an effort to get the badly-needed group off the ground quickly, she and Reed had worked countless hours. Together. In such close proximity that she could smell his aftershave. It had been hell.
And paradise.
Today, he drew the crowd in with that unique I'm-your-friend charm. “The Family Assistance Network will function both proactively and reactively." Reed flashed the two words on the screen from a computer. "Who knows the difference?"
Mumbles around the group. Finally, Eric Scanlon raised his hand. Blond and beautiful at nearly fifty, he'd asked Delaney out after bumping into her several times at the academy. Finally, she'd said yes.
"Reactive means responding to a situation, as in taking steps after something happens." Eric's voice was a deep bass, his whole demeanor confident. “Proactive means taking action before something goes wrong, preventing the situation if possible, preparing for it, if not."
"Way to go, professor." This from Joe Santori, who sat in the back.
"Screw you, Santori." Scanlon winked at Delaney. "Pardon my French, Dr. Shaw."
Reed stiffened at the byplay but continued.
"Good definitions, Captain Scanlon." Reed called up another screen, which explained his first point. "Reactively, the RFD already has several things in place. I'm available to meet individually with anybody who needs to talk after a traumatic event. If it's far-reaching, like Tommy's death, we'll have more extensive sessions, or we'll set up programs if necessary."
Mention of the Leone family quieted the crowd. The joking stopped and faces sobered. Reed exploited the moment. "We're having in-house counseling for Tommy's group at Seventeen tomorrow. On-duty personnel will be taken out of service for the morning."
"They want that?" a big guy in the back asked. The question was logical, as firefighters normally played things close to the vest.
"They admit they're hurting, Duke. They don't know what to do with those feelings. I offered to come over and shoot the breeze with them."
And do a lot more, Delaney knew, if he could get inside their heads a bit. Reed braced his hands on the edge of the desk, the action stretching the white captain's shirt across his chest. "Tommy's group needs to talk. Nobody can keep all emotions inside and expect to heal."
Hypocrite, Delaney thought. Dr. Reed Macauley was very good at getting others to open up to him. Apparently, he'd never heard the saying Physician heal thyself.
“Besides, talking to me isn't mandatory," Reed clarified.
"That means they wouldn't have no choice, Santori." This from a young officer down front.
"Stuff it," Joey called out congenially.
"But I'm hoping they'll all participate. Just like you guys. By the way—" Reed's gaze darted guiltily to Delaney "—the traumatic incident doesn't have to have happened recently. I know some of you have gone through rough things in the past. I'm available to sort that out, too."
Sheesh, he couldn't describe his own situation better.
"Proactively, we have several things in mind." Reed fiddled with the computer. She watched his hands dance lightly over the keys, remembering what they had felt like on her body. Damn, she wasn't going to do this. He told them about his office hours for anyone wanting to talk, and he mentioned some support groups for partners. "Wives, husbands and partners have trouble with our lifestyle, ladies and gentlemen. We have to acknowledge that."
There was a rumbling in the group, which the leaders had expected. Firefighters didn't like to admit to weakness. Up on the screen, Reed flashed a six-part test. “See if I'm right. Mentally check off the situations that apply to you."
The group read the screen, growing more and more silent as reality set in. The list starkly capsulized the life of a firefighter.
Delaney scanned it.
Are any of these stress-causers in your life?
You cannot leave your job to pick up a sick child, coach soccer games or fill in for a sick spouse at home.
Your schedule is erratic, four days on, four days off, three nights on, three nights off. You often suffer from sleep problems.
You seek out high-risk activities like flying, riding motorcycles and skydiving.
Your spouse is often forced to play both mother and father, do all the basic child-rearing duties like attending school functions and carpooling.
In some ways you are closer to your group than your significant other. You certainly share more of your job with them.
Firefighting is both physically and emotionally draining. Humping hoses and climbing out on roofs, as well as staring death in the face, depletes you by the time you get home.
Silence.
Reed nodded to the side. On cue, two non-RFD people rose and came to the front. "If you don't believe me, I'll let you hear all this from people in the know."
Diana Cordaro stepped forward, looking stunning in a lilac pantsuit with chunky amethysts at her ears and neck. Her blond hair framed her face in soft curls. "I'm Diana Cordaro, Ben's wife." She smiled at the back of the room where Ben sat with Francey. A quick glimpse at the chief’s stony face told Delaney this was not easy for him to witness.
Diana continued, "It's no secret what went on in my life. I left my family years ago because I couldn't handle the firefighter's lifestyle. It was the worst mistake I ever made, and I have nightmares remembering that separation. If I'd had counseling, if I'd had a group like Reed's set up, I might not have missed out on so much of my children's or Ben's lives. I can't tell you what that regret feels like in here." She rested a delicate hand, gleaming with a gold wedding band, over her heart. "Encourage your wives and husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends to at least try these sessions." She bit her lip, and Delaney could feel the testosterone rise in the room. Firefighters were a protective lot. "Don't let what happened to Ben and me happen to you."
Before anyone could react, Alex Templeton stepped up to Diana. Abruptly, Joe Santori stood and strode out of the room.
Alex, looking very confident, smiled at Diana and slid an arm around her. "Looks more like my sister than my mother-in-law, doesn't she?"
The laughter broke some of the tension. Alex knew how to work a group. "I'm Alex Templeton, for those of you I don't know. And Diana saved my life."
"Thought your wife did that, Templeton." This from one of Francey's group.
Smiling easily, Alex said, "Francesca did rescue me, physically." Diana eased to the background and Alex straightened. "But Diana helped me emotionally. I was a basket case. You guys, and ladies, have no idea what it's like to think about somebody you love walking into a burning building." He tugged down the sleeves of his lightweight Armani suit and adjusted his cuff links. His eyes were sad. "I can't handle the emotions on my own. I've been part of the RFD's significant others support group for a year. It's starting up again this summer, and I'll be there. All of you should encourage your spouses to attend and to take part in the family-oriented activities FAN will provide." He smiled to the back of the room at Francey. "The anxiety is worth it to be married to you heroes, but the whole thing isn't easy."
"Thanks, Alex." Reed turned to Delaney after Alex took his seat.
From the table where she sat, she rose and joined him.
"As many of you know, this is Dr. Delaney Shaw. She's a noted child and adolescent psychologist in town, and she's setting up individual counseling and group sessions for your children."
"Can I come with my kids?" a rookie asked. "Please."
Choruses of "Me, too" and "I wanna be in Delaney's group" echoed around.
"How come we get your ugly puss, Macauley, and the kids get her?" Duke asked.
Though Reed laughed along with the others, she saw something dark and dangerous in his eyes. "Calm down, you animals. You can't be trusted in the same room with her."
After more razzing Reed introduced Beth O'Roarke, who outlined a physical fitness program that would be offered for three groups at a time. Delaney had suggested she help out in the kids' classes and use the opportunity to get to know them better.
Then Dylan O'Roarke hobbled to the front. On crutches, he took grief from his co-workers.
"Hey, gimp, how you doin'?"
"That’s what you get for bein' a freakin' hero."
Dylan smiled boyishly and his blue eyes twinkled. "You wouldn't gloat so much if you knew the TLC I was gettin' from my wife, guys."
A chuckle. Delaney saw Beth, off to the side, roll her eyes.
"I'm in charge of the fun," Dylan told the crowd.
"Now, why aren't we surprised?" Reed joked.
Dylan ignored the jibe. Soberly, he said, "The family that plays together, stays together. I've got a whole laundry list of ideas, but I want your input." He flicked a list of activities on the screen. Bantering back and forth with the audience, he encouraged them subtly to give their input.
After Dylan finished, Reed wound up the session with a plea. "Remember, we need each other in the crazy world of firefighting we live in."
He put up a quote on the screen. "This is a line from F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think he meant it for all you smoke eaters out there. Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy."
When people started to file out, and Reed faced the desk again, Delaney caught his eye. "Someday, Doc, you should practice what you preach," she said.
And then she turned to find the handsome Eric Scanlon behind her.
* * *
Reed stalked to his office. Once inside, he breathed deeply, went to the window and yanked it open. He sucked in air like a rookie on his first air pack. It didn't help. This wasn't a PTSD attack, either. What he experienced was pure male jealousy, something he'd never felt before. He could still see Scanlon's hand close around Delaney's arm. Still see her smile up at the guy.
Still hear her make plans for a date with him tomorrow night.
In the privacy of his own space, Reed swore vilely. He hadn't expected this emotional sucker punch.
Think about something else. How you're going to help Joey Santori. He left the meeting when—
A brief knock on his open door.
As he pivoted, Delaney stepped into his office. Chic and sophisticated in a short white skirt and matching jacket, she wore her hair tied back in some kind of knot. Gold glistened at her ears, throat and wrists and she wore high heels, making her legs look incredible. No wonder all the guys drooled over her.
"It went pretty well, don't you think?"
Feeling claustrophobic, he turned back to the window. "For the first session, yeah."
"Some of those guys have real problems, Reed. I could see it in their faces."
"I know."
"I hope we can help them."
"Just stick to the kids, Delaney. I'll work with the guys." His voice held more edge than he intended.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He faced her. She'd perched her cute little fanny on the end of his desk. "I just don't think it's a good idea for you to get involved with…" He drew in a breath, knowing he shouldn't go there. "Never mind."
For a minute, she didn't respond. Then she said, "You're like the dog in the manger, Reed. You don't want me, but you don't want anybody else to have me."
He gave her a scathing look. Her comparison infuriated him. "Scanlon's old enough to be your father." Nastily, he added, "Or is that why you're going out with him?"
He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. The comment was an unconscionable betrayal of trust. Once, when he'd talked to her without fighting, she'd told him about her mother's two marriages to restless men who were rarely home. One was Chelsea's father. One was hers.
Temper lit her eyes. They gleamed like the blue flame of fire. "That was a low blow. And very unkind of you, especially since I took this job because you asked me to." She straightened. "I'll be leaving."
He reacted without censoring his response and bolted across the room as she reached the door and got it part way open. Pushing it shut before he could stop himself, he moved in close. Her back was to him. The scent of her hair, lemony and sweet at the same time, teased his nostrils. They flared, and his body hardened. "I hate you seeing him."
"He's a nice guy."
"I don't care. The thought of you with another man makes me crazy." He swore, more vehemently than he should in her presence. "Damn it, Delaney, I can't control my reactions when you're around."
She pivoted to face him. His hands came up and squeezed her shoulders. "That's the whole problem. I make you lose control."
"Yes." He drew her to him. Kissed her hair. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
"I know you are." She straightened. "But your apology doesn't help, Reed."
His grip tightened. "Will seeing other men help?"
"I've got to get on with my life," she said raggedly.
The words chilled him like water seeping into a Nomex hood in the winter.
Her whole body was rigid. "I'm not trying to make you jealous, Reed. But let's not forget that you pushed me away. You still refuse to—" She broke off, clearly having said more than she intended to. "Look, I'll be careful not to flaunt my dates. But I won't become a nun just because dating others bothers you." She tossed back her head. "Now, let me go, and I'll try to keep my love life from you."
Oh, that helped. But what could he say? Stepping back, he fisted his hands on his hips. "Go ahead, go."
She did, without a backward glance.
* * *
Reed arrived at the Broad and Allen Street firehouse at eight-thirty on Saturday morning. He'd given the group—the guys who rode the pumper with Tommy and the firefighter who was replacing him—time to do chores, have coffee and shoot the breeze in an effort to prepare themselves for today. Duke had been right yesterday. These guys were wary of a counseling session, and probably only agreed to let him come down because things were so bad around the firehouse.
He didn't blame them. Wrenching emotions were not pleasant. After all, Reed had been avoiding them for eight years.
That’s how you lost Delaney.
Don't think about her, he ordered himself as he pulled open the bay door, the unique smells of the garage assaulting him. Gasoline. Burned rubber. The acrid hint of smoke. Sometimes he missed being on the line. Sometimes he longed for the adrenaline rush, the spiked tension that accompanied running into a burning building.
But mostly, the smells tended to trigger memories and he had to make a conscious effort not to react. Summoning up that stamina now, he headed for the living quarters. Like most stations, the house sprawled in a one-story layout of kitchen, exercise room and TV room to the right, bunk room and showers to the left.
"Hi, guys," he said as he entered the kitchen.
Three men were seated around a large picnic-style table, one reading the newspaper, one studying a form, another leafing through a manual. Sam Leone was nowhere in sight. No surprise there.
Reed received a few lukewarm hellos. He dropped the doughnuts he'd bought on the table. "Thought you might like some of these."
Carl Roncone gave him a half smile. "Bribes are always welcome."
Returning the grin, Reed joked, "Hey, I need all the help I can get. I know this is tough for you."
"Maybe we shouldn't be doin' it, then." This from Jim McCann, the lieutenant on the shift.
After drawing a cup of coffee and taking out a cherry Danish that he didn't want, Reed sat down next to Jim. "You know you gotta get some of this grief out if you want to function, Jimmy." He glanced around. "Where's Sam?"
"In the bunk room." Jimmy nodded to the back of the firehouse. "He won't do this."
Reed shrugged. "I'm not surprised." Sammy and his family had not come in to see him this week. Since Saturday's session had been planned, Reed decided to wait until afterward to try to convince the grieving man he needed help. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't talk, though."
Absolute silence around the table.
"If it's any consolation," Reed went on, "I know exactly what you're feeling right now."
"Yeah?" Carl asked sincerely. "You ever lost anybody in your group when you were a firefighter?"
Reed felt the familiar chill take over his body. It invaded him like an alien virus every time he talked or even thought about what had happened that evening so long ago. Still, he went on. "Yeah. I have. And I know how lousy that kind of loss feels. I also know that if I'd been able to talk about my reactions, I wouldn't be where I am today." His statement was the most he'd ever said about his past to anybody in the department. But if his screwed-up life could help these guys…
"I hear ya," Carl murmured.
"Me, too," Jimmy put in.
From the far side of the table, the third member of the group, the new guy, the one who had replaced Tommy, looked on silently.
"What about you, John?" Reed asked.
John Wanikya's chiseled face didn't change a bit. He held himself still and straight. "I can see the need here. But maybe I shouldn't be involved. I didn't know Tom Leone very well."
"You have to deal with his crew and there'll be a lot of fallout. I'm hoping you'll take part in this session."
"I'll try."
Reed nodded to the doughnuts. "Eat first."
Everybody took doughnuts. They chowed down, sipped coffee and chatted. Jimmy picked up a paper from the table. "Hey, Doc, you can maybe buy our cooperation by helping us with Scarlatta's trivia game questions." He smiled. "They're all psychological and we don't ever win."
Thank you, Jake. Everybody was doing their part for FAN, Reed thought. "Okay, shoot."
Jimmy squinted at the paper. "After the Oklahoma City bombing, the divorce rate among smoke eaters rose by what?"
"Three hundred percent." Reed had studied the cases documented since the tragedy.
"Emergency responders in the bombing have experienced how many suicides?"
"Six."
"No shit?" Carl said.
"Firefighters suffer from how many more divorces than the general population?"
Again Reed knew the answer. One and a half as many.
"Last one. A study done in 2015 shows what as the leading cause of death among firefighters?"
Without hesitation, Reed said, "Heart attacks, usually caused by emotional stress and physical overexertion."
When they finished with the game, Reed reached into a briefcase he'd set on the floor and pulled out some papers. He passed them around.
"I'd like you to take a few minutes to fill these out. Your responses will give you a chance to think about what you're feeling." He smiled. "Jake's questions should make you understand the need here even better."
"How come we ain't hearin' the calls?" Jimmy nodded to the PA system in the ceiling, which broadcast all the city fire alarms. Its ubiquitous background noise was obviously missing.
"Since your engine has been taken out of service for the morning, I asked to have the announcements turned off," Reed said easily. "Didn't want you jumping out of your seats every time you heard a call."
The three men attended to the paper he'd handed out. When they were done, Reed spoke again. "All right, we'll go around the room. Feel free to elaborate on any point. Jimmy, will you start?"
The lieutenant, who'd been a teacher, answered the first question, How do you feel right now? "Right now I feel like a jerk."
"Care to explain?"
"I hate these things." He rapped his knuckles on the paper. "We had a principal once who was into this touchy-feely crap and it drove me nuts to have to participate."
"Then I appreciate all the more your cooperation."
Jimmy blushed. "Okay, okay. Right now I feel like somebody ripped out a piece of me."
"In a sense," Reed said, "somebody did. Carl?"
"I feel sad…I miss Tommy."
"We all feel sad, Carl. And sometimes it seems impossible to deal with that sadness." He gave the man a sympathetic smile. "John?"
"I feel resented," he confessed in a strained voice. "Like I felt all my life." As the only Native American in the entire fire department, John Wanikya had warmed up to the others considerably during his stint in the academy, mainly due to Dylan O'Roarke's dogged attention.
"You aren't, man." This from Jimmy. "It's just that you're sleepin' in Tommy's bed, ridin' his position on the truck."
"Doesn't feel any better to me than to you," John answered. "But I can see how you'd resent me."
"We resent Tommy being gone. Not you."
They talked for a long time. Each question revealed more and more of the men's emotions. Their pain was a tangible force in the room.
As he'd admitted earlier, Reed knew exactly how they felt.
* * *
Sam thought he was gonna bust right out of his skin as he made the twenty-minute drive from the station to his house. Rummaging on the dash for his shades—the goddamn summer sun almost blinded him—he found them and stuck them on his head. He lit another butt. His lungs burned from smoking. So what? Maybe it would kill him.
He'd rather be dead than listening to that bullshit with Macauley, so he'd holed up in the bunk room till he heard the guy leave. Nobody knew how he felt. Nobody could possibly know. Tommy was part of him. Sam had buried some of his soul with his little brother.
Briefly he thought about going to a bar and getting smashed. Then he remembered Terry, crying as he turned his back on her again last night. Please, Sammy, she'd begged through her tears. Talk to me. Touch me. Don't shut me out.
Wanting to bawl like a baby, he'd feigned sleep. He had a good marriage, he loved his wife, adored his kids, but hell, he couldn't share this with them. What was inside him was too big, too black to let out. If he did, he wasn't sure he could control what he'd do. And control was important.
A jazzy red Eclipse was parked in his driveway. He wondered if that lady shrink was here—what was her name, the one the kids kept talking about? They said she had a sports car.
Maybe he wouldn't go inside.
Nah, it'd be just like Macauley to call, and then Terry would be worried if he didn't come home. The shrink had come to the bunk room before he left, tried to talk to him, but Sammy had clammed up. God, he felt closed in. Suffocated. By Macauley. By his crew, who'd played Benedict Arnold and spilled their guts to the psychiatrist today. By his family who kept looking at him as if he should fix things, should fix himself.
Pulling in next to the Mitsubishi, Sam got out of his car and strode into the house through the garage side door. What he found in the kitchen made him see red.
His wife was there, in a cozy little chat with his ex-sister-in-law, the one who had dumped Tommy. She wants a divorce, Sammy. I can't believe it. She says she hates her life…I found a letter from another guy. She's been cheating on me…I moved out today. I wanna die.
Sam slammed the door. "What the hell is she doin' here?" he roared at his wife.
Both women jumped. Terry glanced at the clock. "What are you doing home? I thought—"
He cut her off. "Macauley cut us loose early." He stalked over to the table and braced his hands on the surface. Towering over Jeanine, he said, "Get out of here, you bitch."
Jeanine's perfect face paled. Her baby blues, which Tommy always said could make him crawl on his hands and knees, filled with tears.
"I said get out."
"Sammy, please." Terry grabbed his hand.
Ruthlessly he shook his wife off.
Jeanine stood. Stepped back as if she were facing a rabid dog. "It's all right, Terry. I'll leave."
Drawing away, Sam clenched his fists. "Don't ever come back here again." He straightened to his almost five-ten height. "You won't like the consequences if you do."
Tears ran from Jeanine's eyes, Terry started to cry, and Sam felt like a bully. Jeanine gathered her purse and rushed out the door.
The only sounds in the house were the clock ticking from the living room and the soft weeping of his wife. The wife he'd sworn to love and protect. The wife who only wanted the best for him. The wife he was destroying.
It was too much. Losing Tommy. Everybody battering at him to talk about his feelings. And hurting the girl he'd loved since he was sixteen. The pressure cooker inside him was about to burst.
To avoid the explosion, to control it, he turned and strode to the basement door. He had a workshop down there. He'd go pound some nails, maybe put some time in on the hope chest he was making Marcy for her birthday. Whipping open the door, he had enough sense to slide shut the inside latch he and Tommy had put on to keep the kids out when they were finishing up Christmas presents.
Sammy took the stairs quickly. The storm swirled menacingly inside him. He needed to…
When he saw it, he stopped still. He hadn't been down here in a while. The last time had been with his brother. He'd forgotten what Tommy had been working on. Crossing to the table, he gently fingered the hand-carved jewelry box Tommy had been working on for his mother. It was made of light oak, and Tommy had struggled to get all the compartments just right inside. They'd been joking before he died about how Ma would cry when she saw his gift.
He picked up the box. Smelled its cut-wood scent. Pictured Tommy's grin when he'd said, Ma's gonna love it, Sammy boy.
The pressure cooker erupted. Sam hurled the box across the room. It struck a clock on the wall. Sounds of shattering glass split the silence.
And then Sammy took the rest of the basement apart.
* * *
"Dr. Shaw?"
Delaney heard the quivering voice on her cell. It was a miracle she'd even answered—her phone had been in her bag, which she'd just now retrieved after her dance class.
"Yes, who is this?"
"Marcy Leone." Tears. Sobs, really.
"Hi, honey. What's the matter?"
"You said to call. You gave me your number if I needed you."
Delaney's heartbeat escalated. "What do you need, Marcy?"
"It's Daddy. He's gone wild."
Slipping a short black skirt over her leotard, Delaney slid into shoes as she talked. "Wild?" She headed for the door.
"He locked himself in the basement. Mom's hysterical, knocking on the door, trying to get him to come up. I found her screaming and crying when I came home from my job."
"Give me your address."
Between sobs, the girl relayed the information.
"I'm on my way, Marcy. Hang in there."
"Hurry. T.J. will be home soon from baseball practice. He’ll freak if he sees my parents like this."
Delaney rushed out of Dance Dimensions to her car. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Just hang on, Marcy. You don't have to deal with this by yourself."
"Okay."
With a few more words of advice, Delaney clicked off. And immediately punched in Reed's cell number.
Please, please let him answer.
"Macauley."
Thank God. "Reed, it's Delaney. I just got a panicky call from Marcy Leone. I'm on my way to her house now. Sam's locked himself in the basement and, to quote Marcy, is going wild. Theresa's hysterical and Marcy's crying."
"I'll get right over there, too. I'll take the fire department Jeep. Use the siren."
Relief swamped her.
"We'll handle this, honey."
"I know we will."
She felt better until she arrived at the Leones'. She flew through the open front door and found two sobbing women pounding on the door to the basement.
And from below, the sound of glass shattering, the thunk of furniture and the growl of pain reverberated up the steps.