Page 9 of Burn this City

Another text:How far is this place?

He tapped out an answer:No rush, just follow the directions. How do you feel about lasagna?

Fifteen minutes later, the fire was burning nicely—flames danced between the logs and spread that cozy living heat that had nothing to with hot water gurgling through pipes or hot air being pumped. He’d always found himself hypnotized by fire and its utter lack of compromise. Open flame was never civilized. It was only banked by material that couldn’t catch fire, like stone tiles and concrete, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

After a quick glance in the mirror, he ran fingers through his hair and gave himself a side eye. The offer he was going to make was good. He didn’t allow himself to think further than that this time around.

The phone rang in his pocket, and he answered. “Yes?”

“Jack? I’m down at the gate.”

“I’ll buzz you in. Gimme a sec.” He walked to the front door and peered at the security panel. There she sat, alone in her beaten-up, bright yellow Toyota, and his stomach flipped, not at seeing her, but at what he’d set out to do. He buzzed the gates open and watched her drive through, then pressed the button to shut the gates behind her.

He opened the door, arms crossed against the evening chill while he watched Beth park her car next to his, then all but jump out and hurry up the path and stairs to him. Considering they’d met when she’d been a wispy bleached blonde, that had been the image he’d had of her for a long time, even when she’d cut off all her hair and let the bleached strands grow out. It suited her liquid brown eyes much better. No more perm either, but he noted she’d started to wear makeup again after about a year without any.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Without hesitation, she hugged him, a friend’s hug, neither lingering nor powerful, but surely comfortable.

“Not your fault. Sorry for making you drive all the way here. Can I take your jacket?” She wore a biker-style black leather jacket with a few spikes and studs. On her small frame, it looked a lot more like borrowed toughness than real attitude.

“Sure!” Once inside, she handed it to him and stopped to take in the house, and that made him smile, but she also looked fidgety in her tight blue jeans and hoodie. “Can I use the bathroom?”

“Of course. Just that way and then left.”

“Great, thanks!” She dashed off, leaving him to hang up her jacket near the front door. He checked on the lasagna, but while a promising aroma was emanating from the oven, the timer said the food needed at least another twenty minutes. He poured the Chianti and set out a small bowl of olives, then laid the breakfast bar as a table. He wasn’t in the mood for a more formal setup in the dining room on the other side of the house. The kitchen and living area around the fireplace were much cozier.

She returned and climbed onto the stool opposite, took her wine glass and offered it to him. He lifted his glass and gently touched them together before taking a sip. “I’m liking the hair.”

“Right?” She shook her ponytail at him with a grin. “And look at you.”

“Look at me?”

“Ageing very gracefully, oh yes, sir.”

He chuckled into his wine. “Thanks to my mom. She had the good genes in the family. I was lucky.”

She paused and regarded him. “I don’t think you’ve ever talked about your family.”

“Not much to tell, to be honest. They’ve both retired to a small village in the Mediterranean. We have roots in that region.” He shrugged, speared an olive with a toothpick and began to scrape the flesh from the stone with his teeth, which bought him a few moments. “How have you been? It’s been, what, five months since we caught up?”

“Something like that.” Her light faded a little, as she grew more thoughtful. “I dropped out of culinary school.” She lowered her gaze and drew her lower lip between her teeth. “It wasn’t for me. I’m sorry.”

“Any particular reason?”

She took a deep breath, but still didn’t make eye contact. And yet again, Jack wished he could get his hands on her ex. That fucker had gotten off way too lightly. “I started work as a cook to see if I liked it, but …” Now she pressed both lips together. “Seems I can’t cope with it.”

Ah yes, the well-known rudeness and shouting behind the scenes. Jack could have fixed that. If he’d had a word with Gino’s owners, provided some background, sat down with them and explained Beth’s special circumstances. But the truth was, he didn’t want her anywhere near Gino’s or any of the other Italian restaurants in town.

“It’s a tough job,” he murmured and reached out to place a finger under her chin.

When she raised her head, her brown eyes were brimming with tears, and that catapulted him back to the night they’d met. She’d looked like a shot deer, still alive but unable to protect herself, waiting for the killing blow.

He walked around the bar and pulled her into his arms. Now she clung to him, sniffling against his chest, and he ran a hand over her hair, but did nothing else. That night, he’d put his coat around her, feeling her wracking shudders through the heavy wool when she’d finally calmed down enough from the worst of it, her body almost violently clinging to life.

“I’m very proud of you,” he said, conjuring up the deepest, warmest layers of his voice. “It takes a lot of strength to know what’s bad for us.”

“You think? You’re not disappointed?” She looked up, still holding onto him.

“You said you were interested in culinary school, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. That’s all we can do. Trial and error. Sometimes it doesn’t work out.” She’d seemed so alive when she’d presented the idea to him, a wild “one day I will” dream, an ambition that had seemed out of reach then, but she was willing to strive for, and he’d enjoyed seeing the hunger in her. It’d taken courage to even make the attempt after everything she’d been through.

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