He considered, shook his head. “No.”
“Well. Then we’ll just—”
“I’d like to take
He loved watching the way the smile bloomed on her face. “That sounds great. I’m just going to go freshen up first.”
She got up from the table, moved toward the restroom.
The minute the door closed behind her, she did a high-stepping dance in the bold purple peek-toe pumps she’d bought that afternoon.
On a foolish giggle, she walked to the sink, studied her giddy face in the mirror. “Let the adventure begin,” she said, then took out her lipstick.
A few years before, she’d wondered, worried, all but assumed her life was essentially over. In a way, it had been, had needed to be to push her to start again.
So far, the new life of Ella Frazier brimmed with interesting possibilities.
And one of them was about to take her to dinner.
She nodded to her reflection, dropped the lipstick back in her purse. “Thanks, Darrin,” she declared to her ex-husband. “It took that kick in the teeth to wake me up.” She tossed her hair, did a stylish half turn. “And just look at me now. I am wide awake.”
Rowan resisted calling or texting her father’s cell. It struck her as a little too obviously checking up on him. Instead, she opted for his landline at home.
She fully expected him to answer. She’d waited until nine thirty, after all, busying herself with her paperwork. Or trying to. When his machine picked up, she was momentarily at a loss. She had to grope for the excuse it had taken her nearly a half hour to come up with.
“Oh, hey. I’m just taking a quick break from writing up my reports and realized I didn’t get the chance to tell you of my brilliance as fire boss. If I can’t brag to you, who can I brag to? I’ll be at this for another hour or so, then I’ll probably take a walk to clear the administrative BS out of my head. So give me a call. Hope your meeting went well.”
She rolled her eyes as she clicked off. “Meeting-schmeeting,” she muttered. “A drink with a client doesn’t go for two and a half hours.”
She brooded awhile. It wasn’t that she thought her father wasn’t entitled to a social life. But she didn’t even know who this
A daughter held a solemn duty to look after her single, successful, naive and overly-trusting-of-women father. She wanted him to get home and call her back, so she could do just that.
Maybe she should try him on his cell, just in case—
No, no, no, she ordered herself. That crossed the line into interfering. He was sixty, for God’s sake. He didn’t have a curfew.
She’d just finish the stupid report, take that walk. He was bound to call before she’d gotten it all done.
But she finished the report, sent it to L.B. She took a long, admittedly sulky walk, before going back to her quarters and taking twice as long as necessary to get ready for bed.
Annoyed with herself, she shut off the light. During a brutal mental debate about the justification of trying her father’s cell after midnight, she fell asleep.
Voices woke her. Voices raised outside her window, outside her door. For a bleary moment she thought herself in the recurring dream—the aftermath of Jim’s tragic jump when everyone had been shouting, rushing. Scared, angry.
But when her eyes opened in the half-light, the voices continued. Something’s wrong, she thought, and instinct had her out of bed, out the door before fully awake.
“What the hell?” she demanded as Dobie pushed by her.
“Somebody hit the ready room. Gibbons said it looks like a bomb went off.”
“What? That can’t—”
But Dobie continued to run, obviously wanting to see for himself. In the cotton pants and tank she’d slept in, Rowan raced out in her bare feet.
The morning chill hit her skin, but what she saw in the faces of those who hurried with her, or quick-stepped it toward Operations, heated her blood.
Something’s
She hit the door to the ready room in step with Dobie.
A bomb wasn’t far off, she thought. Parachutes, so meticulously and laboriously rigged and packed, lay or draped like tangled, deflated balloons. Tools scattered on the torn silks with gear spilling chaotically out of lockers. From the looks of it, tools, once carefully cleaned and organized, had been used to hack and slice at packs, jumpsuits, boots, damaging or destroying everything needed to jump and contain a fire.
On the wall, splattered in bloody-red spray paint, the message read clearly:
JUMP AND DIE
BURN IN HELL
Rowan thought of pig’s blood.
“Dolly.”
With his hands fisted at his sides, Dobie stared at the destruction. “Then she’s worse than crazy.”
“Maybe she is.” Rowan squatted, slid a hand through the slice in silk. “Maybe she is.”
Extended Attack
A little fire is quickly trodden out;
Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench.
11
Every able hand worked in manufacturing, in the loadmaster’s room, in the loft. They spread through the buildings, making Smitty bags, ponchos, finishing chutes already in for repair, rigging, repacking. Under the hum and clatter of machines, the mutters, Rowan knew everyone’s thoughts ran toward the same destination.
Let the siren stay silent.
Until they repaired and restocked, rerigged, inspected, there was no jump list.
Nothing in the ready room could be touched until the cops cleared it. So they worked with what they had in manufacturing, running against the clock and the moods of nature.
“We could maybe send eight in.” Cards worked opposite Rowan, painstakingly rigging a chute. “We can put eight together right now.”
