Love, Special Delivery. Melinda Curtis

expected the post office to be outdated, without a single modern feature or machine. She hadn’t expected infestation. The place smelled musty, tinged with the aroma of dead things. The sides of the canvas mail carts had holes eaten through them on the bottom, and would have to be replaced. Animal footprints (possum? raccoon?) ran across the long sorting counter.

      Something scuttled in the corner and squeaked. The sound of unwanted visitors had Utley banging against the wall and Mandy shrieking.

      “This isn’t my finest hour,” she said when she’d caught her breath.

      “Ditto,” Utley replied.

      Responsibilities and deadlines loomed over Mandy like stacks of full mailbags the week before Christmas. Too many people had been passed over for this assignment. Mandy had a target on her back wider than a turkey platter.

      “It can’t be like this everywhere.” Utley led Mandy to the back with shuffling steps that spoke of two knee surgeries. His leather sandals left footprints in the dust. “Let’s give George’s office a look-see.”

      Mandy didn’t want to upset whatever beastie was living in the post office anymore, but Utley left her no choice. She couldn’t let him go it alone.

      Grandpa’s office was next to the bathroom. It was impossible not to glance at the lavatory and gasp. Hard water had made dark rings around the toilet bowl. A tiny frog croaked and disappeared into the drain of the sink. The mirror had a jagged crack that split her reflection crosswise.

      She’d been torn like that as a child. Heart ripped apart by a divorce that left her estranged from her father and with a mother who disappeared for months, or years, at a time. And those rare occasions when Mom had returned? Mandy had been torn between wanting to earn her mother’s love and wanting to be loyal to her grandparents.

      Utley entered Grandpa’s office and pulled the chair from behind the desk. “It was George’s proudest achievement, earning the title of postmaster.” He brushed the dust and cobwebs from the chair, hesitating for a moment as if he was considering sitting there. But then he turned to Mandy. “Have a seat, Madam Postmaster.”

      Mandy pictured her grandfather’s round, patient face, remembered him sitting in that chair behind the metal desk with postmarks stamped on top. She recalled his booming laughter and how he’d say she was a big help to him—whether she was changing the date on the postmark stamp when she was ten or changing his adult diapers when she was thirty.

      She sat, trying to feel proud for having earned a postmaster position before she turned thirty-five, trying not to think about what failure would mean. A demotion. A pay cut. Angrier debt collectors wanting her to make good on Olivia’s medical bills.

      The chair listed to the right, as if missing some ball bearings.

      Utley brushed off a metal folding chair opposite her. “When does the cleaning crew arrive?”

      “She’s already here.” Mandy would need to add specific repairs to her to-do list. Dave, her superior in Santa Rosa, wasn’t going to be pleased. He’d made it clear that reopening the office wasn’t a priority. She had to prove its profitability.

      “You always were a hard worker.” Utley settled in the folding chair with a contented sigh, as if deaf to the creaks and groans of the old metal. “I can’t wait to see how your newfangled equipment works. You know, I have a smartphone.” He produced a flip phone from his blue checked shirt pocket. “Now I understand why people send fewer letters. I can send mail from here.”

      Mandy blinked. “You mean texts.”

      Utley blinked back. “Aren’t texts and electronic mails the same?” He tucked his phone away, shrugging. “I never thought I’d see portable phones in my lifetime, much less all the fast, fancy stuff I expect you’ll be bringing in here. A lot has changed since I retired.”

      “We’re not as far ahead as you might think. Equipment and supplies are coming next week.” A credit card reader. A computer and scale to calculate postage. Stamps, shipping boxes, envelopes. The bare minimum to get the town’s services up and running.

      Utley gave her a proud smile with wrinkles so like Grandpa’s, she had to look away. “You must’ve done something wonderful to have been given this opportunity.”

      She hadn’t done anything wonderful.

      But Grandpa expected her to.

      * * *

      “CHEAPEST WAY TO fight fires is to prevent fires.” Winded and wheezy, the fire chief stood outside the Harmony Valley Post Office in his navy blue uniform, one sunspotted hand on the wall.

      It didn’t help his lungs that there was a wildfire burning forty miles away on the other side of nearby Parish Hill. Ten wildland firefighter crews were battling that blaze, and it was over 50 percent contained. Smoke from the fire tinged the midday sky gray-brown and would for days.

      “Cheapest way,” Dad repeated.

      Ben didn’t care about budgets. He cared about safety. “The town council should have approved funding for a four-man crew.” He stopped next to his father, scoping the empty street like a burglar about to do business. The fire code required a minimum of four firemen on active fire calls, which left them dependent upon other nearby fire crews. And by nearby, he meant thirty minutes or more away. Harmony Valley was in a remote corner of Sonoma County.

      “You’ve driven around town.” Dad sucked in a shallow breath, as if he were simply winded, rather than coping with lung disease. “Our district constituents are old.” Suck-wheeze. His face lost more color. “We’ll be handling more medical calls than fire emergencies.” Suck-wheeze. “Which is the way of the world now it seems.”

      Kitten and medical calls were turning out to be their charter. Once they put a volunteer program in place, they wouldn’t have to rely on Cloverdale for backup if there was a fire.

      Ben took Dad’s arm. “Why don’t you wait in the truck with an oxygen mask?”

      Dad tugged his arm free. “Because I’m the one who signs off—” gasp-wheeze “—on inspections and citations.”

      “You haven’t issued any citations. Only warnings.” In Ben’s twelve-plus years’ experience as a fireman, you had to operate by the book or have the book thrown at you.

      The post office was a plain, boxy gray building with an air of neglect. It looked in need of about ten citations. There was a small grove of trees behind it. Beyond the trees was a field with waist-high wild grass. Beyond that was a two-story farmhouse that was more tear-down than fixer-upper.

      “I’m almost sorry I raised you in the city,” Dad said. “You don’t understand the role of a small-town fireman. These people are our friends.” Dad’s glare was boss-man defiant.

      Ben had a defiant glare of his own. Too bad Dad wasn’t looking at him. “Friends don’t let friends burn their businesses down. Issue some citations.”

      “A warning will suffice.” His old man lumbered toward the post office door, his breath sounding like an out-of-tune accordion. “You’ll understand someday.”

      “Maybe...” Ben chewed on the tether binding his sarcasm until it broke. “Maybe when I’m old and dotty, like you.”

      Dad mumbled something about ungrateful sons and fire captains who were wet behind the ears. In turn, Ben mumbled something about passing up a fire inspector promotion and fire chiefs who were softies.

      “Walk with a purpose, son,” Dad said as if Ben was twelve and lagging behind at the mall. “We have plenty more inspections to do.”

      They had a list of overdue inspections as long as Ben’s arm. After more than a decade without a fire department, father and son were playing catch-up on safety measures in Harmony Valley. Ben was trying to time the inspections to coincide with the least amount of traffic possible. Why disrupt businesses and inspect them during peak hours?