“Well, if we’re doing this, we’re going to do it right,” she says finally. “In a way that doesn’t land us both in the slammer for Christmas. I don’t think my book club friends will understand when I send out a card that says, ‘Merry Shiv-mas.’”
“With the stuff y’all read, I think they might. Didn’t you read some prison-themed romance last year?”
“Oh, shut up,” she says. “When are we doing this?”
“We?” I ask. “What do you meanwe?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?”
“Fine, but how are we going to meet him, since you vetoed the fall idea?”
“The old-fashioned way,” she says. “With baked goods. ’Tis the season to take our first responders some delicious goodies to show our gratitude, don’t you think?”
“Yes! Of course!” Something sparks in my chest, like a pilot light being turned on for the first time in years. “So, when are we doing this thing?”
“I’ll meet you for lunch Wednesday, and we’ll take them to the fire hall.” I can practically see her rubbing her fingers together like the evil genius she is. “And tomorrow night, we bake!”
Rose arrivesat my house a little after six Tuesday evening to find me in the kitchen, already working on the brown butter brownies.
“I’ve got good news.” Rose smiles as she helps herself to a cookie from the jar on the counter in the kitchen. “Oliverisworking tomorrow.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I posed as Sharlene fromThe Loving Herald,” she says in a thick southern accent through a mouthful of snickerdoodle. “Said I was doing an introductory piece on the new hire and asked if I could schedule a time to speak with him tomorrow.”
I gasp. “You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.” There’s a mischievous glint in her forest green eyes as she reaches her hand, adorned with red-lacquered nails, back into the jar. “The receptionist tried to grab him for me tonight, because apparently he was there.”
“Did youspeakto him?” We haven’t even put our plan into motion, and already she’s blowing our cover.
She waves her hand as though she’s swatting away a fly as she dawdles over to the fridge, in search of a drink. “No, of course not. I hung up when they put me on hold.”
I’m starting to get anxious. So anxious that when I move to take the butter off the stove, I trip over my own feet, sending the majority of the butter sloshing over the side of the pan and onto the floor.
I toss the pot onto the counter and crouch to dig some cleaning supplies from the cabinet under the sink. “Rose, can you grab me some more butter,” I ask over my shoulder. “And don’t step over here, all right? I spilled the?—”
Rose’s scream pierces the air, followed by a loud thud. I nearly give myself a concussion whipping my head out of the cabinet.
“Rose!” I shout. “Are you okay?”
I turn to find my sister on the floor, turned toward me on one side, moaning like a whale.
“Oh my God, Rose!” I rush to her side and help ease her onto her back.
She starts to slowly move one limb at a time, stopping with a yelp when she gets to her left foot.
“I can’t move it,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “I think it’s broken. You’ve got to call for help.”
“Don’t move,” I say, rising to dig my phone out of my purse on the counter. The adrenaline pumping through me makes me so jittery that the damn thing nearly slips from my hand. I pause mid-dial and gasp. “Oh my God, Rose, what if Oliver comes?”
“Great, I hope he does,” she hisses. “You can interview him while he peels my ass off the floor.”
“Right. Sorry,” I say. I dial 911, and the dispatcher answers on the second ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Um, hi. Yes.” I clear my throat. “I need help. Well, it’s not me. It’s my sister. She’s fallen, and she can’t get up.”
