They were still learning their way around each other. Maggie had invited her half brother, Patrick, to stay with her when he graduated from the University of New Haven in December. Armed with a new degree in fire science, he was anxious to add experience to his résumé and had taken a job as a private firefighter. The company maintained contracts in thirteen states, so Patrick spent most of his time away, using Maggie’s house as a home base in between assignments.
They had just found out about each other in the last several years. Maggie’s mother had kept her father’s infidelity a secret for more than twenty years. Likewise, Patrick’s mother had told him only that his father had died a hero. There had been no mention, no hint, no clue that a sister existed, half or otherwise. It was an agreement the two women had wielded after the man they both loved died suddenly, leaving each of them with a child to raise on her own.
So here they were, two fatherless children, now adults, learning to be siblings.
“You mind if I have some of this pizza?” He pointed to the box he had been reaching for on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
“Help yourself.”
Maggie knew it wouldn’t be easy. She had become an intensely private person. She actually liked living alone, and she liked—no, it was more than that—she craved solitude. So it wasn’t a surprise when she and Patrick began an ongoing battle almost as soon as he’d arrived. The surprising part was that it had nothing to do with typical issues of sibling rivalry or even territorial roommate disputes. Not about money or food or dirty socks in inappropriate places. If only it could have been something that simple.
No, Maggie didn’t approve of Patrick’s new employer. Worse than that—she questioned the ethics of the Virginia-based corporation and she couldn’t understand why Patrick didn’t.
Braxton Protection sold high-end, expensive insurance policies—the Cadillac of policies, offering protection for elite homeowners who could afford it. Part of that special protection included a private crew of firefighters if the need arose. In other words, Patrick had chosen to be a sort of mercenary. Instead of a gun for hire, he was a hose for hire.
Maggie wasn’t sure why she couldn’t just shut up and pretend it didn’t matter. Patrick wanted the accelerated experience. What was wrong with that? Why wait around a real fire station for a fire when you can dive right in to monster wildfires threatening catastrophes? And if people could afford it, why shouldn’t they be able to purchase special protection? Or so their arguments, or rather their discussions, went.
“So what happens,” she had countered, “when you have to drive around a house that’s already engulfed in flames to go hose down a house miles away?”
That’s when Patrick would shrug and give her a boyish grin that reminded her of their father.
And right now he looked like a twenty-five-year-old who was exhausted and hungry. He must have come directly from the fire. Soot smudged his forehead and lower jaw. His hair was still damp with sweat from his helmet. The cowlick—their father’s cowlick, even on the same side—stood straight up and Maggie fought the urge to reach out and smooth it down, just like she did every single time she dreamed about her father in his casket. That’s what had sent her spiraling into the nightmare. She had smelled smoke. Patrick reeked of it.
“Did you drive directly from the site?” she asked, trying to remember where he had been this past week.
“Yeah.”
He left the open box of leftover pizza on the island countertop while he popped open a can of Diet Pepsi. He slid onto one of the bar stools, suddenly stopping and hopping off like the seat was on fire.
“Sorry. I guess I smell bad.” A slice of pizza in one hand, the Pepsi in the other, he looked back to see if he had gotten the bar stool dirty.
“Don’t worry about it. Sit.”
Maggie grabbed a slice of the pizza and took a seat next to him, waving at him to sit back down.
He hesitated and Maggie hated how tentative and how polite he still was around her. Almost as if he were waiting for her to change her mind, change the locks. She blamed herself. There were twelve years between them, and she was supposed to be the mature one. What a joke that was. She had no idea how to do this family thing. She purposely kept people at a safe distance. She had lived alone a long time and hadn’t shared living quarters since her divorce.
Other than Harvey and Jake.
That’s when she bolted off her bar stool.
“Where are the dogs?”
The panic from her nightmare returned, showing itself in her voice.
“I let them out in the backyard.” But Patrick was already on his feet again.
In three steps Maggie was at the back door, punching in the security code and flipping on the patio light.
“Jake’s been digging out.” She tried to calm herself. “One of the neighbors threatened to shoot him if he finds him in his front yard again.”
“You’re kidding. That’s crazy.”
But Patrick was beside her as she flung open the door.
Both dogs came loping out of the dark bushes, white and black, side by side, tongues hanging out, noses caked with dirt.