Chasing Fire

a framed print of a mountain meadow on a freshly painted wall that matched the washcloths.
    Her father had cranberry walls in the powder room. She might never get over it.
    Dazed, she continued on to the kitchen, and there stood blinking.
    Clean and efficient had always been the Tripp watchwords. Apparently fuss had been added to them since she’d last stood in the room.
    A long oval dish she thought might be bamboo and had never seen before held a selection of fresh fruit. Herbs grew in small red clay pots on the windowsill over the sink. An iron wine rack—a filled wine rack, she noted—graced the top of the refrigerator. He’d replaced the worn cushions on the stools at the breakfast counter, and she was pretty damn sure the glossy magazines in the living room would call that color pumpkin.
    In the dining area, two place mats—bamboo again—lay ready with cloth napkins rolled in rings beside them. If that didn’t beat all, the pot of white daisies and the tea lights in amber dishes sure rang the bell.
    She considered going upstairs, decided she needed a drink first, and a little time to absorb the shocks already dealt. A little time, like maybe a year, she thought as she opened the refrigerator.
    Okay, there was beer, that at least was constant. But what the hell, since he had an open bottle of white, plugged with a fancy topper, she’d go with that.
    She sipped, forced to give it high marks as she explored supplies.
    She felt more at home and less like an intruder as she got down to it, setting out chicken breasts to soften, scrubbing potatoes. Maybe she shook her head as she spotted the deck chairs out the kitchen window. He painted them every other year, she knew, but never before in chili pepper red.
    By the time she heard him come in, she had dinner simmering in the big skillet. She poured a second glass of wine.
    At least he looked the same.
    “Smells good.” He folded her in, held her hard. “Best surprise of the day.”
    “I’ve had a few of them myself. I poured you this.” She offered him the second glass. “Since you’re the wine buff now.”
    He grinned, toasted her. “Pretty good stuff. Have we got time to sit outside awhile?”
    “Yeah. That’d be good. You’ve been busy around here,” she commented as they walked out onto the deck.
    “Fixing things up a little. What do you think?”
    “It’s colorful.”
    “A few steps out of my comfort zone.” He sat in one of the hot-colored deck chairs, sighed happily.
    “Dad, you planted flowers. That’s acres outside your zone.”
    “And I haven’t killed them yet. Soaker hose.”
    “Sorry?”
    “I put in a soaker hose. Keeps them from getting thirsty.”
    Wine, soaker hoses, cranberry walls. Who was this guy?
    But when he looked at her, laid his hand over hers, she saw him. She knew him. “What’s on your mind, baby?”
    “A lot. Bunches.”
    “Lay it on me.”
    She did just that.
    “I feel like I can’t get a handle on things, or keep a handle on. This morning, I thought I did, then it started slipping again. I’ve been having the dreams about Jim again, only worse. But with everything that’s gone on this season, how am I supposed to put that aside anyway? Everything Dolly did, then what happened to her. Add on her crazy father. And the thing is, if he did what they say he did, if he killed her, the preacher, started the fires—and he probably did—why am I more pissed off and disgusted that he ran, left his wife twisting in the wind? And I know the answer,” she said, pushing back to her feet.
    “I know the answer, and that pisses me off. My mother ditching us doesn’t define my life. I sure as hell don’t want it to define me. I’m smarter than that, damn it.”
    “You always have been,” he said when she turned to him.
    “I’m tangled up with Gull so I’m not sure I’m thinking straight. Really, where can that go? And why am I even thinking that because why would I want it to go anywhere? And you, you’re planting flowers and drinking wine, and you have potpourri.”
    He had to smile. “It smells nicer than those plug-in jobs.”
    “It has berries, and little white flowers in it. While that’s screwing with my head, Dolly’s mother’s giving the baby to the Brayners because she can’t handle it all by herself. It’s probably the best thing, it’s probably the right thing, but it makes me feel sick and sad, which pisses me off all over again because I know I’m projecting, and I know the