you tell ’em,” a voice drawled from the front of the truck.
She jumped. “Oh! I’m sorry.” The apology popped out automatically. “I didn’t know there was anyone in here.”
The driver smiled at her. “Holding down the fort.”
Hope finger-combed her rain-flattened hair. Because when a woman is caught running around one of the swankiest bits of Chicago lakefront in nothing but a shirt and underpants, she should try to look her best. “God, what an awful night.”
“Spring,” the young man answered laconically.
Hope stopped fiddling with her hair and pulled the blanket tighter around her. “I bet you’ve had a busy night.”
“Beats watching HGTV.”
She turned to look at him, puzzled. “HGTV?”
He waved the question off. “The captain’s got a thing for home improvement shows. They drive me nuts.” He peered through the windshield toward the house. “Who cares what color pillows they put on a couch built out of plywood and an old mattress? No one’s going to sit there, anyway.”
He fell silent, and Hope had the impression she was supposed to make some kind of response, but her thoughts were logy and she hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about. She wasn’t a television viewer, for the most part. “Right.”
She let her head fall forward. Tangled strands of hair lashed her cheeks, but she didn’t have the energy to fight with them. Her feet throbbed. She moved beyond teeth chattering to full-on body shakes. She checked the space behind her to see if she could stretch out. Settling into the space, she jumped when the female firefighter appeared in the open doors.
The name GRAHAM was written on the breast of the heavy coat she wore. A reassuring smile curved her lips and crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You were right. Electrical fire. Looks like a small one. Burned itself out.” She wrinkled her pert, upturned nose. “I’m afraid we may have caused more damage than the fire itself, but we had to check inside the walls.”
Hope had no idea what she meant by the part about the walls, but she wasn’t worried about the mess. She needed to sweep up the pieces of the shattered mug, anyway.
“Your wiring is messed up. You’ll need a good electrician.”
“There she goes, drumming up business again,” the driver said in a teasing tone.
Confused, Hope tried to make heads or tails out of what they were saying, but gave up. She was too muddled. “Pardon me?”
The first firefighter shook her head. “Never mind.” She reached inside her oversized fire coat and pulled out a quilted black bag. “I hope you don’t mind. I grabbed this and your phone as I was checking the second story.”
Hope stared at the bag for a long moment; then recognition kicked in. Two interlocking C’s. Chanel. Her purse. The young woman had brought her purse. “Thank you.”
She clutched the bag. In a way, the leather satchel was her most precious possession. Her passport was in there. Her wallet. Credit cards. Cash. The plain platinum band John slipped onto her finger many years ago.
She rarely wore the ring but always carried it with her. Usually, she kept the band in the blown glass bowl they bought in Venice, but her pretty glass bowl was safe in France. Here, she opted for her travel default and slipped the ring into the side pocket of the bag.
After plunging her hand into the opening, she closed her fingers around the simple circlet. He’d wanted to buy her something big and flashy. A ring “befitting her station” as his wife. She never wanted to be any man’s wife, and she told him if he wanted her to marry him, they’d have to do things her way. She wore her wedding ring in those horrible days when he lay wasting away, then removed it the moment the last of the mourners left the Chateau.
“May I see some identification, Ms. Elliot?”
Some stubborn, snotty part of her wanted to correct the girl’s form of address, but she squashed the impulse. First, this was America. The woman wouldn’t know a Baroness from a barrette. Second, she never liked the honorific, even when used correctly. After all, she was an American, even if she was twenty-plus years removed, and titles sounded phony to her. Until she met John, she thought only characters in stage plays actually used them.
She pulled out her blue U.S. passport. The young woman squinted at the name printed inside. The American aversion to titular grandeur allowed her to use the name she preferred, Hope Winston Elliot. But the moment Diana and her friends got hold of her, they’d insist on hand-lettered place cards with nothing short of The Right Honourable Hope, Baroness Ashford. Of course, they’d leave the U out of Honorable. Americans were always tripped up by their Americaness. John had often teased her about her own.
“Ms. Elliot, is there someone you can call for a place to stay?”
Hope looked at the mobile phone the young woman held. Her mobile. Or, rather, the temporary phone she bought to use while she was in the States. Diana. Her sister’s was the only phone number saved to the directory. But the last thing she wanted was to rouse her high-strung sister from her bed in the small hours of the morning.
“I can’t stay here?” Like a child, she asked the question, even though she already knew the answer.
“No, ma’am. We shut off the electrical service to the house in case power is restored. Until you can have the wiring checked, you don’t want to risk running any voltage.”
“Right.”
Looking at the phone in her hand, she ran through her options. Staying with Diana and Richard was not one of them. Though she loved her sister, they were very different people. Like their parents, Diana approved of little Hope said or did. And her brother-in-law was even worse. All his life, Richard’s friends had called him Dick rather than one of the many other derivatives of the name. Hope suspected the nickname wasn’t entirely affectionate.
“I’ll check into a hotel. Can I gather some of my things?”
Firefighter Graham hoisted her heavy-duty flashlight. “I’ll take you up.”
Glad to have an escort, Hope slid down from the shelter of the truck. The rain had stopped, but the tree leaves showered the earth at a steady pace. She winced when her left foot touched down, and the younger woman caught the grimace.
A hand clamped on Hope’s forearm. “Ma’am, are you injured?”
Shaking her head, Hope tried to wave her off. “The thunderstorm startled me. I dropped the mug I was holding and stepped on some of the pieces when I was trying to get out of the house.”
Without another word, Firefighter Graham grabbed her by both arms and propelled her back into the truck. “Get off your ass, Bobby. We need a medic.”
The young man in the driver’s seat sprang into action. Hope craned her neck, watching as he practically launched himself from the front seat. The slam of the heavy door made her cringe. Seconds later, he appeared in the bay doors, a flush staining his smooth cheeks. “You’re injured?”
“Only some cuts on my feet.”
Firefighter
