Her paralysis lasted less than a couple of seconds. Stifling a wave of nausea, she raced back inside. She needed to close down the dampers in each of the fireplaces to shut off the oxygen to the fire before the heat of the intricate brick chimney caught the walls on fire, before sparks hit the roof.
Her smoke alarms were screeching. She snatched the portable phone as she flung herself at the keeping-room fireplace, smelling the smoke inside now, hearing the crackle of the fire up in the chimney. She had a chimney sweep coming at the end of the summer. He came every year. She knew the dangers of a chimney fire.
She hit the automatic dial, got the dispatcher. "Alice, it's Piper Macintosh. I've got a chimney fire. Ouch!" In her fury to get the dampers shut, she scraped her knuckles on the brick. "It's okay, I'm just trying to—"
"Piper, get out of the damned house. We'll have someone there in five minutes."
Two more fireplaces to go. Piper cut Alice off and raced into the living room, where the smoke was heavier. She dropped to her knees. It'd be worse upstairs. Smoke rose. She'd never make it. She'd collapse. Her eyes stung with tears and smoke, and she reached up into the chimney and hit the damper, trying not to think. My house, my house.
Even on her hands and knees, she was coughing, choking in the smoke. She couldn't make it upstairs. She dropped all the way down onto her belly and half crawled, half slithered out the front door. The fire department would be too late.
Energized by adrenaline, panic, determination, she charged around back. Damned if she'd stand there and watch her house— her dream—go up in flames.
She dragged out her hose, slung it over one shoulder as she clambered up the sturdiest of her trellises. Rose thorns pricked her arms and face. She could feel the trellis giving way under her. But she grabbed hold of a gutter with one hand, the edge of the roof with the other, and hoisted herself up onto the shingles. The wind, which mercifully had abated, was pushing the smoke in the opposite direction.
Hot tongues of flames roared three feet into the air. The fire was still getting enough oxygen from the one remaining fireplace in her bedroom. Crawling to her feet, Piper dragged the hose up the pitched roof. It caught on the trellis. She tugged gently, impatiently, careful not to tear it or kink it or pull it off its spigot. The spigot was on. She'd left it on after watering her tomatoes, after her walk, but before she'd realized Sally was there. She'd meant to come back and give her entire garden a good drink. The sandy soil was so porous.
"Think," she shouted at herself. "Concentrate!"
She could feel the heat of the fire. The house could already be burning under her. In a minute, she could go through the roof.
Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer.
"Piper!"
Clate's voice. Not happy. She coughed, nearly blinded by smoke, her eyes stinging and tearing. She got the hose turned on, the water spraying out at the flames as she moved closer.
"Piper!" Her brother's voice now. Andrew. Furious. "Get the hell off the goddamned roof!"
The stream of water from her hose hardly dampened the flames. If she could only get it straight down the chimney.
She moved closer. Were the shingles hot under her feet? She couldn't tell. Maybe it was just the heat from the sun. Tears streamed down her face, mostly from the irritation of the smoke and soot. She was too caught up in her task to cry.
An arm clamped around her middle, and Clate took the hose. She hadn't heard him on the roof, hadn't even felt his presence. "The fire truck's here." His voice was soft, his drawl melodic. "They'll take care of it."
"My house." She gulped for air. "I keep a clean chimney. I always keep a clean chimney."
"It's all right, Piper. It's all right."
He edged her down the steeply pitched roof onto her ladder, which he'd set against the rose trellis. The fire fighters were already setting up their own ladders, chasing into her house with their axes and hoses. She stumbled on the ladder, half blinded, choking, her knees shaking.
When she landed on firm ground, Andrew dragged her away from the fire fighters. He looked ready to tear her head off. "Jesus Christ, Piper, do you have to do everything yourself? You could have been killed up there!"
She spat something black and icky over the fence into her vegetable garden. "I tried to get the dampers shut first. I couldn't get upstairs."
He inhaled sharply. "Too much smoke?"
She nodded, and Clatc came up. A film oi black sool covered his face, arms, the V at his neck where his black shirt was open. She glanced at her own arms, her shirt, her pants. She was head-to-toe soot. "Dick Van Dyke," she said.
Andrew glared. "What?"
"In Mary Poppins." This from Clate, his tone soft. "He played the chimney sweep. There's a scene where he looks pretty much like your sister does now."
"Christ, the two of you."
Piper had her back to her house. She couldn't see what was happening. Clate and her brother urged her down the yard, toward the marsh. She could hear yelling, talking, urgent sounds of the men and women doing their job, but she couldn't distinguish words. It was as if her mind wouldn't let her understand what they were saying.