Page 8 of The Fireman and the Flirt

“I’d like that,” I said with a heavy heart. I kissed her atop the head. “Good night, ladybug.”

“Dad, I’m too old for that nickname.”

“No, you’re not.”

I smoothed out a wrinkle on her comforter and turned on the light on the bedside table. She pulled a thick fantasy novel from the shelf underneath. She was a voracious reader. We used to read together, but she was too old for that now. Another little signal that time stopped for no man.

She let me kiss her goodnight on the forehead, a brief moment where I could still be her big ole dad.

I clicked the door shut and made my way upstairs to Russ’s office, where the pullout couch was set up.

I stripped down to my boxers and looked at myself in the window reflection. I was once muscley and smooth. Now my chest and arms were covered in hair. It seemed that each year I got older, I got more hair on my body and less atop my head.

The exhaustion of the past few days hit me like a snowball that had finally avalanched down the mountain.

I plopped onto the pullout. Just before my head hit the pillow, I spotted the business card Cal had given me perched on Russ’s desk. I grabbed my phone from the floor. Knowing Cal wouldn’t leave me alone about finding a house anytime soon, I dialed Weird Cary’s number.

“Hello! Cary Perkowski here.” Cary chirped into his end of the phone like a squirrel that had guzzled a pack of pixie sticks.

“Uh. Hey.” I wasn’t quite ready for this level of perkiness. I was still jet-lagged from crossing an entire continent. The tiredness seeped into my bones. “I got your number from my brother Cal Hogan,” I grumbled out.

“Derek. Of course. Welcome back to Sourwood.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re looking for a house for you and your daughter.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s wonderful. Fantastic. People think that this is a sleepy time to buy, but the market’s been surprisingly robust. Now that means there will be more competition, but it also means that more sellers are choosing to put their houses up for sale. Ergo more inventory available. I choose to look on the bright side.” The words tumbled out of his mouth at lightning speed. He reminded me of those uber-chatty morning talk show hosts that my late wife would constantly watch. How could people just talk and talk for three hours straight on live television?

“Uh…good.”

“Excellent! Very, very excellent. Or as they say south of the border, excellente! In Alaska, when people say south of the border, do they mean the regular United States? Or Canada? Or maybe they don’t use that expression. Don’t you say ‘the Lower Forty-Eight?’”

“Yes?” I was trying to keep up, but I regretted not having a cup of coffee after dinner.

“I know Sourwood isn’t Alaska, but it’s still a beautiful place. Different from when you were living here, more built up, but still a great town. Great schools, perfect for families.”

“You don’t have to sell me on Sourwood. I’m already here.” I cracked a smile at his boundless, borderline-chaotic energy. I was glad to see he hadn’t let his freak flag fizzle out in adulthood.

“Right. Well, we’re happy to have you back here. And by we, I mean the collective we. Sourwood never forgets one of its own, right? That makes us sound like a cult, doesn’t it? Anyway, we should schedule a meeting to talk through what you’re looking for, and then I can start putting together a list of houses for us to tour.”

“Sounds good. I’m around tomorrow. I’m still adjusting to being back.”

“Get yourself a sub from Deli Street Main and you’ll feel right at home.”

“Shoot. They’re still open? They haven’t been swallowed up by Subway?”

“Big Sandwich hasn’t gotten to them yet.”

Originally, they were Main Street Deli, until another place in Massachusetts sued them for copying their name. So they flipped it. They had the perfect crusty bread, toasted just enough. Nice and crispy. Alaskan cuisine couldn’t hold a candle to the places of Sourwood.

“They were my favorite. Especially their homemade chips,” I said.

“I remember.”

“You do?”

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