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.
But the silence grew.
Chet stood by the window, peering outside.
Am I in trouble? Sparks rubbed his neck. I can’t be in trouble. He sneaked a peek at Naomi. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? The silence persisted.
“How are you feeling?” Sparks ventured.
She twitched slightly. “As w-well as...c-can be expected with—” she swallowed and closed her eyes, then reopened them “—s-somebody w-waking me up every fifteen m-minutes to see if I’m still alive.” If she hadn’t spoken, he might have done the same.
At breakfast, the guys had mentioned that folks were taking bets on whether Naomi would go to rehab if ordered. Had Emma been speeding to see her grandmother when she’d stopped to help him? His respect for her flourished. She’d taken the time to help him, a stranger, while needing to be with family.
“T-to be honest, young man, finances are tight, but you’ll be paid.”
A whoosh of relief left him. “My fireworks always draw a good crowd, so that’ll raise quite a lot of money for the town.”
Summer was on. He only needed one good pyrotechnic event to get back in the game.
As he heard Emma greeting some nurses in the hallway, Naomi wiggled closer, gesturing with a beckoning finger. Sparks hunched forward.
“You’ll be p-paid, but I want you to h-help Emma—coplan with her. But don’t b-breathe a word...until I say so.”
Sparks’s face flushed with heat and embarrassment; his mouth dried so fast he could feel its hinges creak. Help plan the Jamboree?
There were two immediate problems with that edict. First, he didn’t know a thing about planning a Jamboree. Fireworks, yes. But that was it. Second, if he worked closely with the townsfolk and they really got to know him, they would eventually find out he was the type to let them down.
He frowned. Hadn’t the guys at the Dew Drop said Emma was leaving?
* * *
EMMA SWUNG OPEN the door, her back teeth grinding in the old familiar way, ready to tell her grandmother that the nurses said someone would be right in to take the silly tray, when Sparks leaped up and barreled out of the room. She watched him go.
What had caused his face to blush so deeply?
Even though there were more pressing issues, such as Nomi’s rehab and Emma’s own escape, she showed her grandmother the Organic District cinnamon-bomb bread from the tote bag she’d left by the bed. “I forgot. I brought this for you.” Then she looked at the empty chair. “What did you say to him?”
Nomi’s eyes gleamed. “We...were talking about the Jamboree...telling h-h-him...fun.”
This wasn’t the way to stay on track with her goal. This was her grandmother trying to control the situation just like always. “Not for me.”
Emma summoned her courage. Here goes. She took in a big breath. Think new green suitcases, think British Airways.
“Emma...” Nomi’s lips, lopsided now, twisted as she spoke. “You...liked it. Miss F-f-fire...crac...ker...you r-remember?”
Emma did remember and was glad Sparks wasn’t around to hear the tale. What had made him tear off like that?
What had she just been thinking about? Oh, yeah, the Miss Firecracker pageant. Indeed, she did remember. Short the required number of contestants for the kiddie pageant, Naomi had coerced Emma and her best friend Zoo to participate.
As they did every year, a group of townspeople protested this exploitation of women. Required to wear a red, white or blue T-shirt and blue shorts, each five-to seven-year-old contestant sang a patriotic song or twirled a baton to the same sort of tune. No bathing
