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The flames in the largest center panel swirled upward, an awe-inspiring tornado, the colors dancing. The smaller panel, farthest to the left, showed only a single lick of flame, spouting from a glossy puddle of blue-tinged gas. The second was an amorphous cloud of whitish smoke, dense enough to look silky to the touch. On the other side of the center panel was black smoke. The final picture was a maze of embers amid blowing ash.
Shades of gold, yellow and red, white, gray and blue. Even some green. Though photographs, they’d captured the complexity of the element like a painter. Her mother would say there was no greater artist than God, and fire was one of His elements.
His master bedroom doubled as a home office, a desk and chair in one corner by a window. Folders were arranged in a stand beside his laptop. A notebook was open to show ballpoint scribblings. The pen lay across the page. It was the other pen she’d had in her hair, that day he took her to dinner.
When she moved to his desk to touch it, she noted a stress toy shaped like a football. It required a strong grip to squeeze it, which she was sure Brick’s hand was capable of doing.
The wall behind his desk was painted a light brown sugar color, a contrast to the other white walls, though the curtain picked up that sandy color. A bookshelf to the right of the window was crammed with fire and building code texts, plus volumes on arson investigation.
Framed photos were on the brown wall above the shelves. A group firefighter shot in front of the Richmond firehouse, probably the station he’d served before he became an arson investigator. He also had one of him posing with her town’s fire department. They stood in front of their pride and joy, a glossy red fire engine. Fairhope, North Carolina was printed in gold and black letters on the door.
Her fingers closed over the cool metal of the badge charm on her neck, and the cross with it. He was a teenager in the picture, but at the age she’d been then, there was no denying a romance with him had been a child’s fantasy.
Yet it had survived, to become far more adult and real.
She was surprised to see a picture of her own family. Her heart lurched, recognizing the scene.
A few months before it was taken, her father had taken them to the Georgetown Wooden Boat Show. He’d brought home the plans to build one of the boats. The photo showed the sunny summer day when he, Rory and Thomas had worked on it in the backyard. Brick and a couple of other boys had come over to watch and help.
Mrs. Carlton had taken the picture, Les remembered. A friend of Les’s mother, she’d stopped in to chat and see what they were up to that lazy Saturday afternoon.
Her mother had brought out a pitcher of iced tea and a pyramid of cold ham biscuits left over from breakfast, to feed the always hungry boys. Les remembered her patiently listening to her dad’s enthusiastic explanation of what they were doing. Thomas had been leaning against the back porch stoop. He had his arms crossed over his chest as Rory worked next to their father, chiming in on the explanations.
Thomas had often done that, giving Rory the opportunity to learn what their father had already taught him about tools and building. Even in this picture she could see the growing isolation in his eyes. Already knowing he was different, standing apart, not sure how to reconcile what he knew about himself with what his parents thought he was or expected him to be.
Les sat on the other side of the stoop, her finger holding her place in a book. She’d paid close attention, wanting to learn about boat building, too. When she asked to help, Rory had scoffed. “Girls don’t need to know how to build things. That’s what boys are for.”
Before she could retort and set off one of their many squabbles, her father had given them the look that pretty much put an end to it. At least in his presence.
He showed her how to use the drill, carefully instructing her in its use. “Men are better at some things, women are better at others. That’s why they can form such good partnerships. But both of you can do something like this.”
A twinkle went through the gray-green-gold eyes she’d inherited. “So if you do ask a man to do something you can do, let it be because you want to give him the opportunity to do something for and with you. That’s pretty important to men who love their women.”
The look he’d directed toward her mother was one Les hadn’t been old enough to understand, but she remembered Elaine’s face softening under his attention.
Les brushed her fingers over the picture. Only a few years later, so many things would change. The loving look in her mother’s eyes would be replaced by the lost and grieving expression that hit a kid hard, the first time they saw their parent that vulnerable. Despite Thomas’s private struggle with being gay, in this picture he didn’t have the careworn look he’d had in the months after their father had passed, the weight of the family on his shoulders. And Rory was walking. Soon to become a popular high school athlete, as well as routinely outmatching her in the wrestling matches his jerk-face behavior so often initiated. In her opinion.
It had been a good day. They hadn’t known how good.
Things were much better now, she reminded herself. After trying to deny the most important parts of who he was, her oldest brother was now a successful artist, and married to the man he loved. Her other brother was in a wheelchair, yes, but Rory no longer let that be an excuse to keep him from pursuing his own desires. He was devoted to Daralyn, who helped him operate the farm supply store business their parents had started. Rory had taken over its management so well their small community had given him a citizenship award for it.
Their mother had grieved hard for the man she’d built their family with, but now Elaine had a full and satisfying life, well knitted into the community. She loved her three children and was proud and supportive of them.
Why did she let herself get so bogged down in the past? She should be well past it, too. Pushing the sad feelings away, Les slid her gaze to Brick in the picture. He’d been standing near Thomas, but looking toward her. Though the profile told her nothing about what he was thinking, and the direction of his glance was likely inconsequential, she wondered why he'd framed this particular photo.
Maybe because it showed his best friend before a tractor rolling over him put him in a wheelchair? Or because it was time spent with her family, Brick’s home away from home, before his family moved back to Virginia?
She went into the bathroom. She didn’t meet her gaze in the mirror. Her first look of the day was when she usually spoke her mantra. She wasn’t up for that, either.
Then she thought of Brick’s stern admonishment to straighten up. He was right. She shouldn’t hide from herself. She lifted her gaze and chose a new affirmation. “I’m a grown woman. Act like one. Get dressed, brush your teeth. Eat some breakfast, even if you have to choke it down. You don’t get to stop functioning. You haven’t earned the right to fall apart.”
That last part was an awful truth to face. But because she didn’t deserve the luxury of falling apart—any more than she already had—she also didn’t deserve to wallow. Life had to go on, and she had to live up to what it required of her.
She wasn’t sure about facing Brick after…everything, but short of escaping through the second floor window and hot wiring her car, there was no getting around it. She’d eat breakfast, have a cup of coffee, offer a dignified thank you, and head back to school, to handle whatever she had to.
No matter that the thought made her want to throw up the lining of her empty stomach.
He'd set out toothpaste and an unopened toothbrush, plus the comb and brush. She ran an experimental hand over her buttock. No hint of soreness. Lifting the hem of the sweatshirt and twisting around, she looked for marks, wondering why she was disappointed not to find any.
