The Fireman Finds a Wife. Felicia Mason

      As he drew closer, Cameron heard raised voices, tinged with anger.

      “You just can’t waltz in here and rewrite the rules of Manna to suit your own purpose. You had no right to allow unauthorized people in here.”

      “Ilsa, if they hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t have been able to serve the evening meal. There weren’t enough volunteers.”

      Cameron recognized Summer’s voice. He pushed open the door and said, “Excuse me.” Neither of the women saw or heard him.

      Summer’s hair was pulled up and back with clips. She wore one of the Common Ground aprons over slacks and a short-sleeve top and had a wooden spoon in one hand. The other woman was in her mid-to late-forties with blond hair cut into a short and severe bob. While Summer was dressed to work, the other woman wore a suit he guessed was both linen and designer.

      “Are you implying that I’m not doing my job?” the woman demanded of Summer.

      “I’m not implying anything,” Summer said. “What I’m saying is that Wednesday is our busiest day. If it hadn’t been for Chief Jackson and his men stepping in when they did, we would have had crackers to serve to our guests.”

      Hearing his name in the middle of the fray brought Cameron up short. Was she being reprimanded for having him work in the kitchen?

      From the way she gripped the wooden spoon, Cameron knew that she was holding on to her temper. Another woman would have been ready to use the utensil as a weapon.

      “Excuse me,” he said, much louder this time.

      Both women turned toward the voice.

      “Cameron!” Summer said.

      “Who are you?” the suited woman demanded.

      Cameron came forward. Summer may have been holding on to her patience, but he was quickly losing his. The accusatory tone of the woman’s voice put him on the defensive.

      “My name is Cameron Jackson. I’m the Cedar Springs fire chief.”

      “Oh,” the woman said turning on both a smile and the charm. “Mrs. Davidson didn’t tell me I had an appointment. What can I do for you, Chief Jackson?”

      He glanced at Summer, who looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but there.

      “You can tell me why you’re berating this woman whose only fault was looking out for the best interests of the homeless and indigent.”

      “Cameron,” Summer began. “You don’t have to...”

      He held up a hand even as the woman said, “I beg your pardon?”

      “I was the unauthorized volunteer yesterday,” he said. “I dropped off some food donations from the fire houses and discovered that the ladies here were shorthanded.”

      “Oh,” the woman said, glancing at Summer and then turning her attention back to Cameron. “I didn’t realize...” she said as her voice faded away.

      Then, “I’m sorry,” she told Summer, the apology curt and in Cameron’s estimation, not at all sincere. “I didn’t know that the city’s fire chief was the volunteer. That’s perfectly acceptable,” she said, once again ignoring Summer and giving Cameron a one-hundred-watt smile.

      “By the way,” she said offering her hand. “I’m Ilsa Keller, the director of Manna.”

      “Hmm,” was Cameron’s only response as he gave her a handshake that was at best perfunctory and at worst as abrupt as she had been with Summer.

      “Well,” Ilsa said. “I have a meeting to attend to. The Women’s Club is considering taking Manna on as a service project.”

      Summer’s mouth dropped open.

      “My shift is ending,” she said. “Who’s going to do prep for tomorrow?”

      Ilsa shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. The work will get done. Chief Jackson, it was a delight meeting you. I hope our paths cross again.”

      A moment later, Ilsa was out the door Cameron had come in.

      “Is it safe to venture out now?” a voice asked from behind a door.

      Cameron turned and saw a woman’s head peeking out of what he guessed was a pantry.

      Summer sighed and put the wooden spoon in the sink. “Yes, it’s safe. She’s gone.”

      “Thank goodness. I was getting some raisins for the spoon bread when I heard her come in. Sorry to have abandoned you, Summer. But frankly, I thought staying in the pantry was a better idea.”

      “That’s okay, Olivia. Olivia Green, this is Chief Cameron Jackson,” Summer said, making the introductions.

      He nodded toward Olivia. “Ms. Green.”

      “What just happened here?” Cameron said, his issue with Summer’s background forgotten as he stewed over the way she had been treated.

      “You just saw the Wicked Witch of the West in action,” Olivia said, depositing the large canister of raisins on a counter. “She blows in here like that all the time. Never does a lick of work but is always acting like the place would cease to exist without her at the helm.”

      “Olivia,” Summer said. “Be kind.”

      “That woman doesn’t deserve any kindness. And frankly, I’m sick of it,” Olivia said. “I’ve already sent a letter to the board about what’s been going on here.”

      “What’s been going on?” Cameron asked as he watched Olivia toss ingredients into a large mixing bowl.

      “Summer has been keeping us up and running, that’s what’s going on. If anybody here deserved a salary for all the work they put into Manna, it would be Summer, not Ilsa.”

      Summer rubbed her temples. “It’s not that bad, Cameron. Really.”

      “No,” Olivia snapped. “It’s worse.”

      “Thank you for coming to my defense,” she told Cameron. “You didn’t have to. I was already telling her about us being shorthanded here. I just don’t think she realizes that the day-to-day operation of this place needs attention just as much as fund-raising and community awareness.”

      Cameron looked around. “Is it just the two of you or is someone else hiding in the pantry?”

      “Summer is leaving,” Olivia said. “She’s already been here for six hours of a three-hour shift.”

      “I’m not leaving you when there’s...”

      “What can I do to help?” Cameron interjected.

      The two women glanced at each other. “We could use another set of hands,” Olivia pointed out. “Especially since Madame Director clearly isn’t lending any tangible support.”

      A few minutes later, Cameron’s hands were washed, an apron was tied at his waist and he was chopping vegetables. If he was going at it a bit more aggressively than either Summer or Olivia would have, neither woman said anything about it.

      “Does she always interact with volunteers like that?” he asked.

      “What you saw is what we get,” Olivia said.

      Cameron looked to Summer, who reluctantly nodded.

      “This is a ministry,” she said. “But there are internal, er, issues, that make it difficult to carry out our mission sometimes.”

      “There’s just one issue,” Olivia piped up from where she worked. “And its name is Ilsa Keller.”

      The three made fast work of completing the preparations for the next day’s meal service. By the time they finished, Cameron’s assessment of Summer had changed...again.

      “Can I