Page 2 of Up In Flames

“I was airing out my bedroom.”

“Didn’t you secure him first? You know what he’s like.”

Great. Judgment. Just what I need.

I grit my teeth. “Of course I secured him. I put him outside the room before I cleaned, just like I always do. I don’t know how he got back in.”

“I told you not to take out those old screens.”

“They were rusty and gross. I couldn’t stand them another minute. Look, can you just call someone to get me down? I’m stuck.”

“Yeah, and half your ass is hanging out of your jeans. Good thing the branch covers the most important parts of you. Didn’t your mama teach you never to go bareback in case you have to go to the hospital?”

That’s Mari. Always focusing on the thing I don’t want to think about.

“Mar, so help me…”

“Yeah, yeah. I got this. Keep your shorts on.” And she bursts out laughing at her unintended joke. She’s still laughing as she connects to what I guess is emergency services on her cell, because she spills out her address and tells them about her neighbor up the tree. “And Mr. Mittens is up there, too. He’s the one who should be rescued first, since Nina has better balance. I’ve never met such a clumsy cat. If someone doesn’t get to him soon, he’ll splatter on the pavement. The tree is right by the sidewalk. Can’t miss it.”

It is, too. And—shit—there’s a crowd forming all along the concrete pathway. And cars—they’re pulling to the curb of the sleepy, barely two-way-wide street. Everyone wants to see what Mari and Nicholas are looking up at.

Great. Because I wasn’t embarrassed enough. Maybe I’ll be featured in the Global Records book as being the only overly-plump writer to die twice of mortification while perched in a tree with her ass hanging out.

Yay for me. See? Overachiever all the way.

“Five minutes,” Mari says. “They’re sending over a couple of firemen with a ladder. You’re in luck. The squad’s doing exercises in Regent’s Park. Full uniform and everything.”

Regent’s Park is just around the corner. It’s a wide swathe of green lawn and walking paths, a duck pond, and jungle gyms. There are pedal boats that people can rent by the hour, and a refreshment stand, too. The Mossburg Fire Department, or MFD to the locals, spends a lot of its time putting out grease fires inside the stand since the refreshment franchise only hires high school kids who don’t know the first thing about either safety or cooking.

But that’s pretty typical in Mossburg, North Carolina. We’re all about teaching the young to fish rather than giving them a trout or two. It makes for great adults—eventually—but it’s hard as hell on the current crop of already-grown citizens.

A sudden snapping sound gets my attention. There’s a guy with glasses and a combover holding an old-fashioned camera that shoots real film.

“Hey! Quit it, Dale!” I yell. “Mari!”

“On it. Hey, Dale, you hand over that roll right now, or I’ll shove it down your throat, you feel me?” Mari ploughs her way through the crowd toward the Mossburg Gazette’s finest, and only, photojournalist, but he just takes off at a run. I watch him disappear down the street of small Victorians and cottages.

Fine. I’m here to make certain that Harris Adams’s ignoble demise on the toilet is not the worst ignominy to be visited upon the Adams family. I knew there was a point to my existence.

“Sorry, Nina. Can’t run after him right now, since it would mean leaving Nicholas. Plus, I have brownies in the oven. I’ll have to take them out in a bit.”

“Thanks anyway, Mari. Don’t worry about it.” Half the town is getting the live view, anyway.

They’re all busy gossiping and sending me looks every so often to make certain I note their disapproval. In the space of a few minutes, a party has broken out. Sure, there aren’t any beverages except for the occasional take-out cup of coffee, or a random environmentally-conscious water bottle, but everyone below is having a high old time. No one except Mari even bothers addressing me.

“Ooh, the firemen.” The way Nicholas sounds, it’s like he’s seeing some famous Hollywood actors. He’s a big fan of firemen, and has several representative plastic figures, not to mention a fully equipped truck, complete with an annoying siren. I know. I’ve gotten a headache from it often enough.

“This way, boys. Hey, Pete. Hey, Sampson. Miss Adams is up the tree with her cat, Mr. Mittens. You’ll want to take care of him first. Bit of a clutz, you know?”

I recognize Mayor Bowzer’s steely and dulcet tones. Last on the scene, first to give orders, that’s our silver-fox mayor.

But my thoughts only half-form, because Pete isn’t the problem. Pete is a sweetheart. He’s married to Darla, and they have three beautiful kids. He makes mean pancakes at the holiday breakfast every December. Pete is bound to have an extra sweater, shirt, or something to cover my ass.

But Sampson is another story.

If I grit my teeth any tighter, they’ll wear down to stone roots in a day.

Sure enough, I glance down to find a pair of green eyes laughing up at me from beneath shaggy auburn hair just waving into curls. The top of his head reaches the branch on which I perch, meaning I must be close to nine feet off the ground. Over eight, anyway.