I turn into the parking lot and immediately notice condensation puffing from the roof. “Why have I never noticed that vent?”
I park in the side lot and find the kitchen door open. Dammit, if Mom carried in a delivery, I’m going to have to scold her. Every time she lifts something heavy or twists the wrong way, her sciatica flares. The truth is that she shouldn’t be on her feet as much as she is everyday, but this café keeps us both going. She really couldn’t run it without me. She has a full staff, but I often pinch-hit. I can do everything from waiting tables to cleaning the bathrooms, baking all the pastries to subbing for the line cook. I also help her with the books.
My gaze slides to the roof vent again, trying to figure out where in the heck that’s coming from. I scour my brain for mechanical or contracting work she had planned. Any maintenance scheduled.
Movement drags my gaze down to the door again, where I now find gray clouds billowing out the doorway.
“What the…?” That’s smoke, not condensation. “Shit.”
My heart skips into double time, and I shove my car door open. I’m not even on my feet before I hear my mom’s high-pitched, terrified “Oh, God, no! Oh, no, no, no!”
Fear stabs my chest, and I run into the kitchen. I find one full wall on fire, the flames rolling across the ceiling. Smoke clogs my lungs, making me cough, stinging my eyes. A scream pulls me out of my shock, and I find my mom stumbling in circles near the stove, her sleeve on fire.
I move without thinking. My jacket is off and around my mom’s arm before I fully believe what I’m seeing. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and hold her to my side, turning to head out. The flames catch the cooking grease, and the fire crawls across the stove and onto the countertop, chasing us out of the café.
She’s whimpering, groaning, muttering, crying. I sit her down on the ground on the far side of my car, away from the building, then call 9-1-1.
“9-1-1, what’s the nature of your emergency?”
“Fire,” I say, breathless. “Fire at 101 Whitecrest Lane.” Something explodes inside the kitchen, penetrating the roof where fire licks the dusky sky, and my heart flips in my chest. “It’s Betsy’s Café, and we need an ambulance.”
I leave the line open but set the phone down. Mom’s blue gaze is distant, soot and sweat dirty her skin, and fire caught hold of a few chunks of her blonde hair. “Mom, are you hurt anywhere? Other than your arm?”
She looks at me like I’m speaking Leprechaun. I make a quick check of her body and don’t see any major injuries, but I can’t bring myself to look at her burns. The thought of my mom’s pale tender skin singed and peeling makes my stomach rise to my throat.
As my panic ebbs, my senses come back online. The sickening scent of burned flesh makes my gut roil, and the sound of sirens reaches my ears, along with the roar and crackle of fire.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I tell her, trying to keep myself calm. It feels like it takes forever for the engines to get here. I watch the fire spread, from the kitchen to the dining room, from the walls to the ceiling. I’m grateful Mom’s too disoriented to notice.
“Firefighters are on their way,” I tell her.
“Evan?”
A knife turns in my heart. She’s probably going into shock. “No, Mom, not Evan.”
She stares at me, puzzled, before her eyes close.
“We’ll get you to the hospital. We have insurance. Don’t worry about anything, okay? We’ve been through worse. I’ve got you, Mom. We’ve got this.”
She goes limp, her head dropping against my shoulder. Panic grips my stomach, but when I press my fingers to her wrist, I find a pulse.
The engines park on the street, and the captain barks orders. I’m sure only three or four minutes have passed since I called 9-1-1, but it feels like an eternity.
Two firefighters make their way to the open kitchen door, breach the entrance a few feet, and aim a high-powered stream of water at the fire in the kitchen. The way they’re positioned, I can’t see the names on their jackets, so I have no idea who they are.
I see another stream of water coming from the front of the building, aiming for the fire in the dining room.
Another firefighter rounds the corner in a rush. He’s carrying a halligan and pulls his fire apparatus away from his face, steps into the doorway, and yells into the café. “Natalie! Betsy!”
It’s Cole, and the terror in his voice slices right through me.
Before I can answer, he comes out and uses the halligan to break exterior windows, venting the building for better visibility. “Natalie!”
I drag in enough air to manage “Here. We’re here.”
He swings around. As soon as he spots us, he exhales hard and bends at the waist, hands on knees. With his BA dangling alongside his face, he mutters a breathless “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I’m not sure why, but the sight of him threatens to tear my paper-thin control. I can’t let that happen. Not yet. Mom needs me. And after how often she’s been there for me during my life, I can sure keep myself together to be here for her.
Cole straightens up, comes forward, and drops to a knee in front of us. He’s got sweat on his face along with a day’s beard growth. “Who’s hurt?”
“Mom,” I tell him. “Her arm. Her sleeve was on fire when I got here.”
The fire in the café sizzles, releasing more smoke as it’s doused. I don’t have to see the inside to know the café is gutted. More often than I care to remember, I talked to Mom about renovating the old building, but there was always something more pressing.
This will kill Mom when she’s well enough to realize what happened.
“Is anyone else inside?” Cole asks.
“No. Servers and cooks don’t come for another half an hour.”
He lifts the jacket on my Mom’s arm to look at the burns. Then he puts both hands on my arms and feels his way down while his gaze scours me. “Are you hurt?”
“No, just Mom.”
He speaks into his radio, but I don’t pay attention to what he says. My brain isn’t working right, and I just keep spilling words, hoping some decent information comes out.
“I was late today. I texted her to tell her I’d be here to take care of the baking, but the fire was started by the time I got here. And her sleeve caught on fire, and she was panicking. I put it out, but not fast enough. I can’t… I couldn’t…”
Cole takes my face in his gloved hands. His brown eyes seem like they’re glowing a bright amber today. “Breathe, baby. I know it’s hard, but try to breathe.”
More sirens approach, and something comes over the radio, but everything sounds mumbled or staticky.
“Rescue’s here.” He bends his head, and Mom opens her eyes. “Betsy, we’re going to take you to the ambulance, get you to the hospital.”
Her eyelids flutter, and she looks up at Cole. “Evan?”
A flash of hurt crosses Cole’s face, but it’s barely an instant, and I’m not sure if I saw it or imagined it.
“No, it’s Cole.” He slides one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. “Here we go.”
I step away, and he lifts my mom into his arms. She’s a petite woman, and she looks incredibly small and frail against Cole’s strong frame. He hurries around the building toward the street. I follow on Cole’s heels. He takes her directly to the ambulance, and the doors open from the inside. It’s Logan, his expression serious. Bobby climbs out of the driver’s seat and rounds the back.