Strike the Match

STRIKE THE MATCH

by Diane Moody

Chapter 1

“Keri! The Bradford cabin is on fire! Get over here. Now!”

Keri McMillan strained to see her alarm clock. Three-fifteen in the morning. “No, no, no! This can’t be happening!” she shouted into the phone. She threw back her covers and jumped out of bed.

“Carson, did you call the fire department?”

“They’re already here. Hurry, Keri!”

“On my way.” She flew into her closet, grabbed her clothes and dashed into the bathroom. A minute later she was dressed and rushing outside into the frigid Oregon night.

Oh God, no! Please let them save it!

Tires squealing, she stomped the accelerator and headed for the construction site, consumed with dread. The Bradford’s cabin was her dad’s latest design, intended to be a high-end showcase for his log cabin company. Perched high atop a bluff overlooking the Pacific, the luxury home was just one week shy of opening its doors to the new owners. The perfect Christmas gift.

Keri’s mind raced, a storm of thoughts and emotions swirling in her head. She’d only been home from school for three days, returning from her second year at New York University. With dwindling funds, Keri decided to move home for a year, work for her dad, and stockpile every penny she earned. She was determined to fill her savings account then head back to complete her degree in journalism.

As she pulled up to the raging fire, she couldn’t help but think her dreams were going up in smoke before her eyes. Fire trucks flanked the back of the house, their hoses attempting to douse the flames that licked the sky from the two-story structure. Keri’s heart pounded as tears burned her eyes.

I’ve got to call Dad.

As she reached for her phone, someone banged on her window. Keri jumped then pushed open the door.

“Carson, you scared me half to death!

“Sorry, Keri, I was just—”

“What happened? How did it start?” She stepped out of her vehicle.

“Don’t know yet.” Her dad’s construction chief rubbed his face with his hands. “A neighbor called the fire department, then Bill called me first chance he got. He knew this was one of ours. It’s bad, Keri. Real bad.”

Keri wrapped her arm around his thick waist. Carson had been with her dad from the start when they first launched McMillan Log Homes twenty years ago. She wanted to comfort him but couldn’t think of a thing to say. He hung his arm around her shoulders, releasing a long, tired sigh.

“We called the Bradfords, but all we got was their voice mail. Apparently they’re still in Idaho. We’ll keep trying.”

“Carson, I’ve got to call Dad. He needs to come home.”

“I know. I was just hoping the guys could put this out before any major damage was done. Too late for that now, I guess.”

She looked at the shell of the massive home, sickened by the sight of it. The lump in her throat hindered a response. Keri climbed back in her car, pressed the auto-dial number for her dad’s cell phone, and closed her eyes.

* * *
Grant Dawson hit the brakes on his SUV and grabbed his camera. His windshield reflected the blaze before him, roaring against the black December sky. His mind began framing the best pictures, the captions jumping around in his head. He could see the bold print on his front page. NEW OCEANSIDE ESTATE DESTROYED BY FIRE. No, too blah. DREAMS SHATTERED BY MIDNIGHT BLAZE. Too cheesy? Maybe—

“Grant! Over here!”

He couldn’t help but smile. Luby Sanders, in all her glory. Pink foam curlers wrapped with her bright white hair peeked out beneath a wool scarf. Green satin pajamas flashed from beneath her winter coat, tucked into oversized yellow galoshes. He was tempted to snap a picture just to get a rise out of her, but it hardly seemed appropriate at a time like this. When he moved here six months ago, Luby was the first person in this tight-knit coastal town to befriend him. She and her gaggle of friends had welcomed him with uncommon hospitality, taking him in like one of their own.

He pressed his lips together to hide the smirk. “Luby, what brings you out on this beautiful night?”

She whacked him on the arm. “The fire, you big lug! I live across the street there and heard all the sirens.”

“Aunt Luby!”

Grant noticed the young woman approaching Luby as they made their way toward the inferno, immediately doing a double-take. He’d never seen her before. The blustery wind whipped a mass of light brown curls around a face etched with worry. Her skin was flawless, and her eyes sparkled with tears in the surreal glow of the blaze. He forced his gaze away from her, afraid she might look his way and see something in his countenance. What, he wasn’t sure.

This must be the niece Luby’s been babbling about so much. The journalism student, home from school and none-too-happy about it. No-doubt a Christiane Amanpour or Ashleigh Banfield wannabe.

Weeks ago, Luby had broached the subject, batting her merry eyes at him. “Grant, couldn’t you just tell her a thing or two about the business? Show her the ropes? She’s so disappointed about having to come home. Maybe you could hire her part-time to help out with the paper.”

Since then, every time she’d brought up the subject, he’d envisioned some pimple-faced, gawky coed wearing black-rimmed glasses, nipping at his heels, bugging him to death with a million questions. What was her name? Sherry? No, Carrie. That’s right. Carrie. Like the freak from the Stephen King movie. Sheesh, I hope she doesn’t destroy Waterford Bay with her telekinetic powers.

He watched Luby hug her very un-Sissy Spacek niece, then moved away from them, anxious to avoid the inevitable introduction.

* * *
“Sweetie, did you call your father?”

“Yes. He’s on his way home. He’s devastated. He actually broke down over the phone, Luby. You know Dad—he never does that. I can’t even imagine what he’ll do when he sees what’s left of this.”

Luby pulled her close, hugging her tight. “Honey, he’ll survive. He always does. I stood beside him, holding you in my arms when you were just five days old as we buried your sweet mother. If he can survive that, he’ll get through this. God will see him through.”

Keri took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts from her mind. “C’mon, let’s see what Bill has to say.”

They tromped through the mud, stepping over water hoses. The local fire chief watched as his men took control of the blaze. Keri was relieved to see most of the flames almost extinguished, despite the waves of smoke still billowing into the air. “Bill, any idea what started it?” She covered her nose and mouth with her knitted muffler.

Bill Franklin shook his head. “We won’t know until it’s out and we can investigate. The structure was fully engulfed by the time we got here. Good thing the neighbors called when they did. With this wind and all these trees around here, we could have lost a lot of homes tonight. Where’s your dad?”

“He’s in Sacramento for a conference, but he’s on his way home now. He should be back early this afternoon.”

Luby coughed. “If he doesn’t get stopped for speeding. Mercy, that brother of mine has a lead foot.”

Bill gnawed on his signature toothpick. “Oh, he’ll be here by noon, if I know Mark. You can count on that, Luby.”

A loud crack ripped through the night air.

“GET BACK! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!”

As the warning cut through the chaos Keri felt herself propelled backward. Bill shoved her and Luby away from the house with startling force as a sickening crash exploded behind them. All three landed in the mud beside Keri’s car. Bill scrambled away from them, barking orders and demanding a headcount of his men.
Keri sat up to see what had happened. The entire second floor had pancaked onto the first floor, leaving only the stone fireplace standing like a lone statue draped in smoke and debris.

“Luby! Are you okay?” She crawled to her aunt’s side.

“I think so, honey. Although it’s the first time in my life I’m thankful for the extra padding on my back side. Help me up, will you?”

“Here, let me,” someone offered. “Luby, are you all right?”

Keri didn’t recognize the voice of the man helping her aunt back on her feet. A dark baseball cap covered his head, but she could see still see his thick salt and pepper hair. Heavy on the salt. A fancy Nikon hung from a strap around his neck over a blue squall jacket. Land’s End. Fall catalog.

“I’m fine, I think. Good heavens, what a mess!” Luby pulled the scarf from her head and wiped her muddy hands on it. “Keri, look at you—covered head to toe in mud!”

Keri looked down at her sweats and jean jacket, completely covered in brown slime. She held out her hands, unsure where to wipe them.

“Here,” the man said, digging a plaid handkerchief from his back pocket then handing it to her.

She reached for it, finally looking up into his face. He was younger than she’d thought. The hair had fooled her. He couldn’t be more than thirty, maybe thirty-two?

But it was his eyes that stopped her. She wasn’t expecting them to be that blue, even in the mere reflection of all the flashing lights. And there was genuine concern in them, too. Who is this guy?

As if her thoughts were overheard, Luby answered. “Oh Keri, honey, you haven’t met Grant yet, have you? This is Grant Dawson, the editor of our local paper. I write a column for him once a week, though I think he mostly keeps me on out of pity. Grant, this is my niece, the one I told you about. Keri McMillan.”

She wiped the mud off her hand as best she could then extended it toward him. For a split second, he didn’t respond. Hello? I’m holding my hand out here?

He took it briefly, gave it a quick shake. “Nice to meet you, but I need to see what happened over there. If you’ll excuse me.”

They stared after him, Keri still rubbing her hands on his handkerchief. “Friendly guy.”

Luby used her scarf to wipe off some of the mud on Keri’s face. “Who, Grant? Oh, he’s plenty friendly. Just focused. Used to be a big shot reporter for the L.A. Times. Got tired of the politics and rat race, and moved here a little over six months ago. Took over the Waterford Weekly when Ed Furley decided to retire and move to Florida. Grant was a writer, not a publisher, but he’s learned fast. Does a nice job with our little paper.”

Keri watched him taking pictures of the wreckage. “He left one of the biggest papers in the country to come here and run a small-town weekly? What an idiot.”

“A kinda cute idiot, don’t you think? I’ve always thought he looked like that dear reporter from NBC. You know—the one who died over in Iraq, God rest his soul. What was his name? David something . . .”

“David Bloom?”

“David Bloom! So you see it too, the resemblance?”

Keri studied her aunt’s face. Perfectly manicured eyebrows danced in mischief on a genteel face betraying her age. “Luby? Forget it.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No, I’m just saying—I’m not interested, don’t go there, and don’t bring it up again. Got it?”

Luby’s face melted in disappointment. “Oh sure, fine. Take away all my fun.”

Keri grabbed her aunt’s elbow and steered her toward her car. “I’m not home for fun, Luby. I’m home to work and save money. Period.” She stopped, turning to face the smoldering cabin. “Let’s just hope Dad’s insurance is paid up.”

“Well, if not, you could always go to work for the local paper.” Luby planted a kiss on her cheek.

“You’re impossible.”

“I know. That’s why you love me, sweetie. Now come along. Let’s go get cleaned up then I’ll make us some breakfast.”

Keri took one last look at the smoky skeleton of the once-beautiful home and sighed.

“Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

* * *
Grant leaned closer to the computer screen, studying the thumbnail images of the pictures he took at the fire. Good job, Dawson, good job. He selected ten pictures, a variety of different shots of both the burning cabin and the firefighters he interviewed. He would narrow it down to five pictures to sprinkle throughout his story.

Satisfied, he stretched, happy to have so much done this early in the day. Normally, he’d trek over to Chandlers for an espresso to kick-start his morning. But the pouring rain and chilly temperatures convinced him to settle for a cup of his own brew. He made his way back to the small kitchen area of the old house that served as the office for the Waterford Weekly.

Scooping the coffee beans into the grinder, he realized he was smiling. Not so many months ago, he would have already popped a handful of antacids by this time of day. The relentless pressure of working for a paper like the Times had taken its toll. At first, he’d loved it. The chase for the hot story, the killer pace of the office and constant deadlines, the opportunity to travel—heady stuff for a kid just out of college. Landing a dream job at a major newspaper was the biggest adrenaline hit he’d ever known.

But in less than ten years he’d had enough. The glitz that initially lured him into the job only frustrated him. He was constantly at odds with his bosses, usually fighting over political philosophies and the resulting pressures to give his stories an “edge.” When an ulcer landed him in the ER late one night, he finally got it. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, the words permeated his head and his heart at the same instant: It ain’t worth it.

“Anybody home?”

“Back here, Pop.”

He heard the slow footfalls of his father ambling down the hall. Shep Dawson appeared in the doorway, his raincoat dripping on the hardwood floor.

“Whoa there, Hoss, let’s get that coat and hat off you. You’re puddling the real estate, old man!”

Shep’s lopsided grin barely lifted one side of his mouth. “I suppose you’re right.”

Grant helped his father out of the heavy slicker and weathered captain’s hat. “I’ll put these on the back porch rockers. Grab yourself a cup of coffee there. Cream and sugar’s on the counter.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Shep mumbled.

Grant draped his dad’s rain gear on the covered porch then joined him in the tiny kitchen. “To what do I owe this honor?” He reached for his Dodgers mug. “You haven’t been to town in weeks, Pop.”

Shep shuffled toward Grant’s office, heading for the easy chair facing his son’s desk. “You left early this morning. Didn’t come back. Wondered what happened to you.”

Grant stirred cream into his coffee then plopped down in his desk chair. It amused him endlessly that his dad never used the telephone. Instead of trekking to town, something his father hated to do, he could have picked up the phone. But Shep Dawson was a man of few words. The telephone—forget the convenience of a cell phone—was nothing but a nuisance to him.

“Sorry. I should’ve called you. There was a big house fire up on the bluff. That new luxury cabin. Got a call about three o’clock this morning. Afterward, I came here and got started on the story. Paper goes out tomorrow, and I knew this had to be our lead story.”

His dad nodded, sipped his coffee again.

The grandfather clock in the front office ticked in rhythm, the only sound between them. He studied his father, still surprised by this unusual visit. Shep was a loner. As captain of The Sarah Jane, a whale-watching vessel for Oregon’s tourist industry, he stayed mostly to himself. His buddy, Joe Trent, played host to the many guests on Shep’s boat, always entertaining them with plenty of enthusiasm, humor, and more knowledge of the whales of these waters than anyone else along this coast. Shep simply took care of The Sarah Jane, steering her to the favorite waters of the gray whale.

Grant was used to his father’s silence. It was just his way. When he’d left his job in Los Angeles, he hesitated about moving in with his dad. They’d always been close, but Grant knew his father liked his solitude. Always had. At least since Grant’s mother died of breast cancer fifteen years ago. Sarah Jane Dawson.

But Shep had insisted. Said he welcomed a little company as long as it was family. And so they’d settled into a quiet routine together. And it was just what Grant needed at this point in his life. Peace and quiet.

“Bad?”

“Bad what?”

“Bad fire?”

“Oh.” Grant smiled. “The fire. Yes. A total loss. The owners were supposed to move in sometime next week, I believe.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No. New folks from Idaho, I think. It’s a shame, too. That was some place. You’d have loved it. A whole bank of windows on both levels overlooking the ocean, wrap-around porch. Beautiful. Now it’s gone.”

“How?”

“How’d it start? They don’t know yet. There’ll be an investigation. I’d hate to think it was arson, but who knows.”

Shep nodded again. The clock ticked on.

Grant finished his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “No charters today, right?”

Shep shook his head.

“So what are your plans for the day?”

Shep shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Need some oatmeal. Fig Newton’s. Might stop by the store. We’ll see.”

“Tell you what. Let me do a little more work here then I’ll meet you over at Chandlers. Best cinnamon rolls in Oregon. My treat.”

His father stood up, dug a hand deep into the pocket of his worn pants. “Oh, I don’t know.”

Grant scooted his chair back and stood up. “Oh, c’mon. It won’t kill you, Pop. If anyone tries to bite you, I’ll whomp ’em with my baseball bat. Fair enough?’ He took the empty cup from his father and deposited both on the kitchen counter.

Shep headed for the back porch. “We’ll see.”

“No good. I’ll see you there at nine sharp. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“We’ll see.”

The back door slammed, punctuating the old man’s response.

Grant chuckled at the familiar peculiarities of his father, loving him all the more for it. He poured himself another cup of coffee. If he worked hard he could have the new layout ready to roll in another hour. He looked out the workroom window to see sheets of rain parading down the street. He still wasn’t used to this weather. Especially on press day. Paper and ink weren’t too fond of humidity in the 100% range. It could be another long night.

As he took his seat, he reached for the mouse to scan through the pictures again. He scrolled through them to make sure he hadn’t missed anything important. A face popped out at him. How did I miss this one?

He clicked on the thumbnail image to see the bigger version of Keri McMillan talking to Bill. Grant remembered the shot now. He’d used a zoom lens, focusing on the moisture of her lips to bring her into perfect clarity. Her hand was suspended above her hair. He remembered that she’d grabbed a fistful of those curls in apparent frustration at Bill’s remarks shortly after he took the picture. He clicked on the zoom icon, making Keri’s image even bigger. She was without question beautiful. The lines of her jaw, her slender nose. Eyes the color of—what?—dark caramel? Even in the darkness, he’d noticed her teeth. She hadn’t smiled once, but as she’d talked, he could see they were perfect and straight and white.

So her teeth are nice. She’s not a horse, Dawson. Get a grip.

He leaned forward, looking closer at the computer screen. Tears were pooled in those dark caramel eyes.

It disturbed him to look at her in such obvious pain.

It disturbed him even more that it disturbed him at all.