Waiting for Sparks
“Can’t Naomi’s husband plan the Jamboree?” Sparks asked.
The three men looked at him as though he’d thrown a pitchfork of manure into the conversation instead of a question. Then they chuckled.
“Be hard for him,” Ray said. “He’s been dead for almost two years.”
Duff jumped in. “By the way—” he gestured to Sparks’s plate “—you don’t want to eat that medley.”
“Right.” Sparks restrained the overcooked vegetables from contaminating the rest of the meal. He didn’t see the problem with who ran the event—it was a small-town Jamboree after all. The problem he saw was his summer slipping down the drain if someone didn’t step up. He put another bite of meat and potato into his mouth. He hoped this Emma would show up, and soon.
Willard seemed determined to drive home his morose observations. “I’m telling you, Emma is gone. I was at the funeral that day.” All eyes were on him. “Emma and Naomi might have been in the kitchen but most of the US of A heard them, even if everyone pretends they didn’t to Naomi’s face.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It was a knock-down, drag-out fight, likely to raise Raymond from the dead.”
“Emma’s usually so quiet.” Ray didn’t sound convinced. “I wasn’t able to pay my respects till later. Naomi seemed fine then, like always.”
“Quiet around her grandmother, maybe,” Duff interjected. “She didn’t used to be that way. Older she got, less you heard from her.” He swirled his coffee.
Sparks squirmed. Add a hair dryer or two and this could be the Hattie’s Dyed and Gone hair place he’d noticed down the street. Emma, trained by Naomi, would be a clone of the fire-breathing Naomi. He tried to imagine a younger Naomi. No nonsense. Barking orders and expecting obedience every step of the way.
“Why don’t one of you plan it if Emma doesn’t show?” he asked.
Ray choked on his last forkful of pie. Willard looked as though Sparks had suggested he strip naked and run down Main Street, and Duff started laughing until tears ran down his face.
“Nobody but Naomi has done the Jamboree since Moses was in preschool,” Willard replied.
Looking down at his plate, Sparks leaned back. “Well, bigger fireworks will bring in more people who will then spend money.” Although the budget she had faxed fell miles below his usual, he knew the results would still knock the socks off anyone attending this small-town celebration.
Willard opened his mouth, but after catching the expressions on his friends’ faces, he reddened, snapped his lips shut and stared at the table. Sparks frowned. What didn’t Willard’s friends want him to say? Sparks watched the faces close up, wondering if everyone in town knew everyone’s business or if they saved energy and focused on The First Family, the Chamberses.
Not having a family, and with traveling so much, people only knew what Sparks told them; nothing more, nothing less. Some things people didn’t need to know. Some secrets needed to stay buried.
Looking at his watch, Duff sighed and slid out of the booth, turning a weary face to the remaining men. “Gotta get back to the store. Missus was holding down the fort for me while I went for coffee break.” He checked the watch again and headed to the cash register, bill in hand.
Ray inclined his head toward Sparks. “Room okay?”
With a contented expulsion of breath after finishing his meal, Sparks sipped his third Coke. “Yeah, other than the phone doesn’t work and it’s decorated like a time warp, everything’s good with me.”
Willard snorted as he held his stomach while Ray slapped his hand on the table and hee-hawed.
“Phones over at the Safari don’t ever work.” Ray wiped his eyes, then brought the mug to his lips.
Sparks raised his eyebrows. “The sign out front says phones in every room.”
Ray explained that there were phones in every room; they just didn’t work. When Lynette had bought the place back in the early seventies, they didn’t work. She’d just left them there so she wouldn’t have to redo the neon sign.
Ray punched Willard on the shoulder. “Move. I gotta get.”
The two men hitched out of the booth.
“Gotta love vacation,” Sparks said, no longer annoyed at the lack of phone service at the Safari. It was a great summer story.
Halfway to the cash register with his tab, Ray turned back toward Sparks, an enigmatic expression on his face. “You think you’re here for vacation?” He snorted.
A tall, thin man with a big smile and short white hair sprouting up on the top of his head pushed open the door and strode into the Dew Drop, scanning the diners.
He approached the booth. “Son, you Sparks?” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Chet. Naomi wants a meetin’ with you.”
Despite the older man’s warm voice and kind gaze, Sparks shivered. It was like a summons to visit the queen.
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER A SHOWER, and pulling on shorts and a T-shirt, Emma headed for the ancient Bunn coffeemaker on the turquoise kitchen counter.
The “trouble” her grandmother had talked about last night as well as the heavy breathing when Emma had opened the door turned out to be a black-and-white border collie. Trouble was printed on the side of his dish. His favorite place seemed to be under the kitchen table.
One more problem to solve before she left town—who would take care of the dog? And why did her grandmother even have a dog? She’d easily ignored all of Emma’s pleas for a pet. Trouble seemed keenly interested in her every move, which was probably why her grandmother liked the mutt.
Out of habit, she glanced over at Beryl’s window, the way she had while growing up. When a curtain twitched, as it had last night, she wondered if Beryl had witnessed the ambulance picking up her grandmother and what evil thoughts of glee the bellicose woman had had. No one, including Emma, knew why the two were such enemies.
Not for the first time Emma thought of the blond guy she’d picked up in the canyon and hoped that he was feeling okay. From what he’d chattered about, he’d sounded wistful, looking for a hometown for the summer. The neighborly-grudges aspect of small-town life would not be on his bucket list. If he was lucky, he might go all summer and not meet Beryl.
Emma opened the back door. Trouble dashed to attend to his duties and seemed to be checking for any sign of intruders since he’d last patrolled the yard. She watched him, tail flagging over his back, joy in every movement. Had she ever felt that free? No need to analyze that. No, she hadn’t. She’d always been “poor Emma” to the townsfolk, although she could never figure out why. The Chamberses had money, position.
Holding the door for the dog as he raced back in, Emma shut it and headed to the kitchen. She sat at the round table and stared into space. What would the doctor say about her grandmother? Trouble hitched closer until his nose lay on her lap. An almost snort escaped Emma’s lips. Her grandmother must have needed something to replace Emma’s presence, although sometimes Emma could still feel the leash.
The dog’s nose bumped her knee, and his amber eyes bore into hers. A walk. They both needed fresh air. At the front door, she snapped on the leash and it unloaded the equivalent of a four-shot espresso into an already caffeinated canine. “Okay, okay, a walk along the beach. You sniff, I’ll think. But only a short one. I need to get to the hospital.”
The doctor would say something that Emma would have to deal with and rapidly. The quick-thinking gene, so lavished upon her grandparents, had skipped her. If she took as long to solve Naomi’s health issues as she did her other problems, England would have given up the monarchy by the time she arrived.
Maybe she needed to check out home health aides? Would her grandmother allow a professional caregiver in the house? Would she even need one?
Trouble strained at the leash in the opposite direction from the beach, ears up and engaged.
Emma caught the sound of applause the same moment the dog began to drag her down Seraphim. They were almost at the intersection of Cherubim and Seraphim.
In a normal small town, a street like this one might carry the same name as the school that was located at the southern end. Or it might even be named the quintessential Maple or Pine Street. But no, that wasn’t the case here. Decades ago, the town fathers—before Nomi’d gained a stranglehold on the mayor’s job—had decided it would boost tourism to rename the streets to match the celestial nature of the town’s name. Tourists found it charming. It had just made spelling in fourth grade more difficult.
On the football field, a bunch of students were facing someone tall and blond and beautiful, who was waving his hands and pointing to various pieces of—artillery? Mr. Blue Eyes! The guy who had rescued her from rescuing him. A rush of gladness swelled her chest. He was okay—at least he seemed okay—flashing a megawatt smile and gesturing as he explained something.
She was happy he had recovered. His nonchalance about a possible head injury had made her nervous, but she couldn’t have done much to make him go to Regional. He now was moving as though all his joints worked. The blue eyes above the cut on his chin came to mind. So very blue and with deep questions inside.
Trouble made his way along the outskirts of the group, startling a rear end here and there. She found it a pleasure watching Mr. Blue Eyes. Maybe she’d just stand there for a bit. She’d sidled to the back of the group when the idea of a man moratorium jogged her memory.
Oh. Right.
Better to head home and then to the hospital.
“Hi, Miss Chambers! When did you get back in town? How’s your grandmother? Who’s going to plan the Jamboree?” A cute brunette with a belly shirt and low-riding jeans grinned up at her as she petted Trouble.
When had she arrived? It seemed like both forever and a breath ago. Emma answered the girl vaguely and greeted others as a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.
“What’s going on?” she asked one of the kids.
“Fireworks stuff. The dude doin’ them on the Fourth is giving us a demo ’cause it’s Friday and the start of Memorial Day weekend.” The kid bobbed his head.
Each time she thought she had mastered a shift in Heaven’s universe, another shudder hit it. What was going on here? Her grandmother had never deviated from the Black Binder of Jamboree Procedures in Emma’s lifetime or anyone else’s.
Historically, Nomi had the Jamboree organized the day before the Memorial Day weekend started. The parade would be Monday. She wondered who’d taken over the helm, and pitied them.
A murmur went through the crowd that it was almost “time,” however, Emma, righteously holding to her no-man policy, had lost interest. She was more concerned with seeing her grandmother and moving on with her new life. Tugging on Trouble’s leash, she towed the dog away from the crowd. She would cut across the football field, reach the house in record time and climb in the Omni for the trip to the hospital, and then the ninety-minute drive to Salt Lake. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long to get things sorted at Regional. She’d have to arrange for care for her grandmother, the house and, oh, yeah, the dog and...
Should she collect a few personal items for Nomi before she left the house? Good thing her grandmother’s place was only a couple of blocks away. Although everything was only a couple of blocks away in Heaven—good for the feet and the Omni, which had been making death rattle noises coming up the canyon. She had planned to run the thing into the ground and worry about a vehicle when she and Brad—when she—returned. Dramamine. She’d have to get some Dramamine for the flight. Thinking of the trip helped her keep her goal in mind. A new life.
It wasn’t as if she was abandoning her grandmother, she thought, picking up speed as she crossed the expanse of the football field. Her cavalier compartmentalizing washed up some guilt. Was she selfish for running off? She halted those thoughts. Why scold herself for selfish—why not see it as the travesty it would be to put herself on hold while Nomi took priority again? The fireworks guy with his amazing eyes and the bump on the head could have this hometown. She wanted Europe.
Naomi had always purposely gotten in the way whenever something wasn’t her idea. Like when Grumpa and Emma had planned this European trip to celebrate her high school graduation. That was the year town volunteers had put in the boardwalk by the lake, and Nomi had insisted Grumpa would have to assist. Or the time after college graduation... Well, that had been due to Emma’s distracted involvement with Professor Sleazeball, but, she amended hastily, there had still been a myriad of other times when Emma’s life was restructured to suit her grandmother.
If that way-beyond-beautiful fireworks designer was to know Naomi, he’d change his view of this small town.
She had a stroke, Emma. That was hardly in the same category as Nomi conscripting her to plant flowers on Main Street in junior high. Emma set her jaw.
A stone had worked its way into her arch, kicked in by her quick pace. Limping, she continued to trudge along. She was infinitely tired of dealing with how she felt about her grandmother. From behind her, she heard a yell and a thunk from the first firework shell being launched.
Her curiosity piqued, she turned and collided with a broad expanse of white shirt. Her head snapped back and her feet left the ground. Trouble yipped. The chalk of the end zone rushed to fill her nose. Emma lay still, mentally counting the screams in each appendage. Good. Nothing broken. Then, while she was trying to decide how best to eject the dirt and such from her nose, large hands cupped her waist and, with a whoosh that tickled her insides, she landed gently on her feet. Still dazed, she thought it awfully convenient that Heaven’s volunteer firemen had such great timing. She shifted onto her back to smile and say thanks when she saw that fireworks designer looking at her like she had looked at him in the canyon. Questions.
“You!” With the single word, the scrapes on her forehead and chin widened and began to sting.
“I did yell. I knew it was you.” His grin looked satisfied. “I remember your backside—er, the back of you from last night.” He gestured at the field. “You were just about to walk right through my rocket landing zone.”
Snorts and giggles greeted that comment and looking further, Emma saw the crowd of teens watching the show.
“Your landing zone? Of all the irresponsible—” Now she noticed the orange cones with the yellow caution tape fluttering in the warm breeze, the ends tugged free from their moorings. Great. It wasn’t even his fault.
Thinking about her grandmother, she’d wandered into no man’s land.
Trouble pulled on the leash. He wanted attention from the crowd. She wanted to say much more, but the dirt in her nose was making it hard to breathe. She wanted it out. With this audience, how was she going to do that?
Sparks faced the crowd and yelled for a tissue and after a pause, a young man parted the crowd and handed her a wrinkled packet of tissues. “Allergies,” he whispered.
She grabbed a tissue, muttered her thanks and blew her nose hard. A quick check of her watch told her she’d now have to speed those ninety minutes to reach her grandmother.
She sensed him before he touched her shoulders. His large hands were warm and reassuring. He was such a...such a...problem.
“Let me make it up to you,” he said. He tugged her toward him so that she could see him, a crooked smile in a sun-reddened face, and a shock of too-perfect hair falling over his wide, tanned forehead. “I’m really sorry. Uh...how ’bout going for food?” Blue eyes stared into hers. More questions lingered in their depths. What?
Emma straightened. She needed distance from this man whose gaze gathered her close. Too close. “Man moratorium! Irresponsible— Undependable— I—I have an urgent appointment!” Her voice, intended to be strong and off-putting, wobbled and squeaked.
His eyes widened. “Appointment? Oh, I...uh...” He instantly released her and fled across the field, scattering students in his wake, who looked disappointed that the show was over.
Never in her wildest expectations had she anticipated how good a defense this man moratorium would be. It was a little sad, actually.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NAOMI STARED AGHAST at her granddaughter as she blew into the hospital room—late, mind you—to join her, Chet and the neurologist. The child had bits of yellowed grass in her hair along with streaks of dirt on her face, hands and T-shirt. A couple of the facial and knee scrapes were oozing blood. What on earth had Emma been doing?
Soon, Chet, Emma and the doctor, who looked young enough to be one of Emma’s students, were watching her eat as if she was some freak exhibit at the state fair. What she would give for a Dew Drop kitchen-sink omelet, hash browns with cheese and a strong cup of coffee, heavy on the cream.
Since the tubes in her nose didn’t help the eating process any with what passed for food here, she pushed at the tray. Emma pulled the rolling table away from the bed.
“Are you in pain, Nomi?” Emma’s brows furrowed, perplexed most likely at Naomi’s swift change of expression.
No, dear, she wanted to say, that had been a smile on my face at seeing you here in town, where you belong. Drat it. Would the girl never pick up on one of her cues? She sighed.
The girl probably didn’t understand she was talking about either the dog or Sparks last night.
Though seeing Emma here now set some of Naomi’s world to rights. Getting on with the Jamboree would stabilize everything. Now, what she needed most was for that charming young man to arrive, so Naomi could let them know how it was going to be for the summer. Then she could work on getting out of this terrible place and supervise the rest of the event details from home. Home.
Chet put an arm around her shoulders. “Relax, Naomi. You have to depend on others this year.”
How did he read her mind, and more important, had he also lost his? Who did he think could pull off the town’s biggest moneymaking opportunity, especially this year when the event was do or die? She turned her head so she could see her granddaughter full-on. Only Emma could be trusted with organizing the Jamboree, and then, only with Naomi’s assistance.
Emma understood tradition, or at least had, until the two of them had had a misunderstanding at Raymond’s funeral. Emma had made too much of it.
“I’ve seen worse strokes,” the neurologist was saying to Emma, as though discussing cuts of meat. He lounged against the bathroom doorway, one hand resting on the monitor, the other loosely in his pants’ pocket. Naomi thought his bedside manner needed work. After several more minutes of being treated as though she was invisible, Naomi struggled to get words out, ignoring Chet’s pressure on her shoulders. “You can t-t-talk to me, d-doctor. I—I’m not dead.”
The doctor’s face reddened and he shifted over to face Naomi. “The stroke has affected you a great deal, Mrs. Chambers. Due to the trauma to your left side, you’ll need six to eight weeks in a rehabilitation center to regain the use of your hand and increase stability. Therapy’s essential.” He slipped the stethoscope from around his neck and checked his watch.
Naomi wanted to snort, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She’d never neglected a thing in her life. Except—the sting of the secret burned—neglecting that one thing Emma needed to know.
“She’ll recover completely, though, won’t she?” Chet asked.
She wanted to cheer; someone was finally asking a decent question. The next one should be, “When can she be discharged?”
Emma was chewing on her little finger like she always did when thinking deeply. Naomi had never broken her of the habit.
The doctor glanced at the time again.
Straightening, Emma tugged at the hems of her scruffy shorts. She looked at Naomi, and then at the physician. “She’ll get there,” she answered, determination clear in her voice.
Naomi cocked her head. She’d been racking her brain to think of a way to get Emma to come home and give up the silly trip Raymond was always encouraging her to take. Had something good come out of this horrendous event?
The doctor nodded. “She’ll be ready to go, most likely, in a day or two.” He typed in notes on his tablet. “I’m writing orders for eight weeks’ on-site physical and occupational therapy at an extended-care facility. Garden Terrace is good.”
An old folks’ home? Naomi about lifted straight off the sheets. If any of them thought she was going to an old folks’ home, they had beets for brains.
Where was Sparks?
What had happened to Emma’s face?
Someone had better start doing some talking, and fast.
* * *
WITH HIS STOMACH reminding him how close lunch was, Sparks dashed up the wide steps of the hospital two at a time, sweating in heat more typical of Las Vegas than Colorado. He wanted Naomi to confirm one thing: yes, his contract was a go.
He’d been having too good a time so far, he chastised himself. He would have to stay focused. His job was everything to him.
Still, it’d been easy to get caught up in the charming flavor of the town. Besides knowing he would enjoy Monday’s parade, there were the barbecue invites from Duff, Willard and Ray and their families, and fun at the lake with new friend Ben, owner of Washed Ashore Marina.
On the heels of that enjoyable thought came the image of Emma. Yes, from the kids at the football field he knew that he’d flattened “poor little Emma,” who was Naomi’s sidekick and had been a favorite teacher at Heaven High. That bit of a woman who’d saved his life and looked as though she had too many heavy concerns weighing on her mind... She was the miracle the town was waiting for? His gallant tackle had delighted the crowd. Her, not so much.
He winced, remembering the laser stare and the knifelike words—irresponsible, undependable—as they’d left her rosy lips. They were taking turns saving each other, he thought, and wished he’d said that when she was telling him, among other things, that she wasn’t a tackling dummy.
Forcing himself to slow to a trot, he strode through the hospital room door that he’d been directed to. There lay Naomi Chambers, mayor of the town, glaring at him; Chet; the doctor and— His breath caught. Dirty, bloody and gaping at him wide eyed was his summer girl. Hopefully.
The doctor nodded to Sparks on his way out. Chet stepped over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming, son.”
Son. Something deep inside stirred, melted a bit.
“L-late,” said Naomi, closing her eyes as though his tardiness was too much for her to bear. “Emma, go f-find out when someone is coming to t-take this tray.”
“I’ll take it, Nomi.” Emma moved to pick up the tray, but Naomi waved her off.
“You d-don’t g-get paid to do that. They d-do.”
Emma’s face froze and she abruptly left the room.
Wow. Growing up under Naomi’s thumb suddenly made him traveling the world alone not seem so bad.
Naomi waved again; this time a royal sweep of her hand drew him to the chair beside her bed.
“Mrs. Chambers...” No matter how far he’d travelled or who he met, the manners he’d been taught by Mother Egan would always remain with him. He leaned in. “I don’t want to bother you. I just want to make sure everything is still a go for the fireworks.”
Now, up close and personal, he drew in a breath.
Light from the window showed every line, all the gray folds in her face and neck. Word at the Rexall soda fountain was that Naomi Chambers was “too stubborn to die.” Judging from her pasty complexion, death had nearly succeeded.
Naomi drew the covers up to her shoulders with her right hand, while Sparks waited for her to continue.