Her Holiday Fireman. Kathleen Y'Barbo

tiny spark of hope that threatened to flare into something really nice. Maybe even a friendship. Nothing more, of course. Just friends.

      Because this was just lunch.

      A get-to-know-each-other lunch.

      A thank-you lunch.

      Get a grip, he told himself.

      “So,” Leah said, “where are we going for this picnic?”

      “Mr. Burkett told me about a place he takes his grandkids fishing. It’s over by the lighthouse. I thought it might be nice to go take a look,” he said as they headed back to the Jeep with their food.

      “I know just the place you’re talking about. Pop used to take me there. It’s perfect.”

      A few minutes later, Ryan stopped the Jeep in front of the old lighthouse. According to Mr. Burkett, the place had been standing longer than any building in Vine Beach, an honor that belonged to the Berry place until a few months ago.

      Ryan had tried quizzing Burkett about the fire, to no avail. Only the information about the dock’s view had been forthcoming. Apparently the subject was a sore one in Vine Beach, one a newcomer best not bring up.

      But as fire chief it was his duty to investigate suspicious fires. And though he’d not seen the ruins close up, the fact that questions on the topic caused such discomfort was reason enough to suspect something was not right.

      Of course, could he ask Leah about the fire without stirring things up between them again?

      Snatching the bag of sandwiches and drinks, Ryan turned his back on the lighthouse to follow Leah down the sandy trail that wound between the grassy dunes. A bend in the path and suddenly there was the Gulf of Mexico lapping against a dock that jutted far out into the blue-gray water. To his left was the city of Vine Beach, almost close enough to hear the gulls begging at the marina, and straight ahead beyond the dock was what appeared to be an island.

      “That’s Sand Island,” Leah said as if reading his mind. “It’s a great place to picnic, too.”

      “Duly noted.”

      Ryan shifted the bag and glanced to his right. Burkett was correct. From this vantage point he could easily make out the broken and charred columns—three at his count, though there could easily have been four or five.

      The house sat on a ridge overlooking the Gulf on one side and, from what he could imagine, rolling fields where palominos grazed on the other. It must have been a beautiful place.

      Leah came up beside him and shaded her eyes with her hand. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, silently she turned to walk toward the dock.

      Ryan followed her, watched her spread the Beach Mart plastic tablecloth over the ancient boards, and then settled down beside her to place the bag of food and drinks between them.

      Below the dock, waves lapped against the pilings then rushed past to break on the sandy shore. Unlike the beach, however, these waves were gentler. More motion than foam.

      “There’s a sand bar about forty yards out,” Leah said as she handed him his pastrami on rye. “It keeps the surf from breaking so hard.” She found her sandwich then tucked the bag under the tablecloth. “Makes for great fishing and, if you’re a little kid, some seriously good swimming.”

      “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” he said as he unwrapped his lunch. “Must have been quite a view from up at the house.”

      “It was.” She said the words softly, as if she might be remembering. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, her look of nostalgia disappeared.

      Ryan knew he had to tread softly.

      He searched for something to fill the silence that lengthened uncomfortably between them. “Have you always worked at Pop’s?”

      She chuckled. “No. Pop wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted I get my education and see the world.”

      “And you did?”

      “I did.”

      When she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, Ryan continued. “But now you’re back in Vine Beach.”

      “I am.” A trio of gulls screeched overhead, temporarily distracting her. “So, Ryan, what makes a Houston fireman decide to leave the big city behind and take a job in Vine Beach?”

      Interesting. Either Leah didn’t want to talk about herself or she didn’t want to talk about the fire. He took a bite to stall the answer that he didn’t want to give.

      “Miss Leah!” a child squealed.

      Ryan followed the sound to spy a fair-haired girl of no more than seven or eight racing down the path. A few steps behind came Riley Burkett carrying a pair of cane poles and a small cooler.

      Giving thanks for the welcome redirection in conversation, Ryan left his sandwich and climbed to his feet. “Hey there,” he said.

      “We meet again.” Burkett grinned at Leah as she rose to hug the girl. “Hope we’re not crashing the party.”

      “No,” Leah said. “Not at all. Ryan and I were just having a sandwich to celebrate his new lease.”

      Ryan gave her a sideways look. Is that what they were doing? Celebrating? He hadn’t thought of it that way, but the idea bore considering.

      “’Preciate you giving Ryan my number, Leah,” the older man said as he set down the cooler at the edge of the dock. “I think he managed to find a nice enough place, don’t you?” He winked at Leah.

      Leah shook her head, puzzled. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. But it sounds nice.”

      Riley looked confused. “I thought—”

      The girl raced past to tug at Burkett’s sleeve. “Grandpa Riley, can we fish now?”

      “Sure we can, Brooke.” He nodded toward Ryan. “But first I’d like to introduce you to a new friend of mine.”

      She looked up at him all eyes and freckles and her smile revealed two missing front teeth.

      “I’m Ryan,” he said as he stuck out his hand to shake. “What’s your name?”

      “Brooke Wilson. Just Brooke, not Brookie. My daddy calls me Brookie but he forgets I’m not a baby sometimes.” She gave Ryan an appraising look. “Are you Miss Leah’s boyfriend?”

      “No,” he said in unison with Leah. Chuckling, he added, “Pleased to meet you, Brooke Wilson.”

      Leah nodded toward the cooler. “How about I help you bait your hook and we see what you can catch?”

      She brushed past Ryan to take the cane pole from Riley. Brooke reached into the cooler and handed Leah something that looked strangely like a piece of hot dog.

      “What’re you using for bait there?” Ryan asked as he moved toward them.

      “My lunch,” Brooke said. “Grandpa Riley promised if I ate one of my hot dogs I could take the other two fishing.”

      “Hey,” Riley said. “At least it got her to eat her lunch. You have no idea how hard it is to get that child to eat. She’d rather do just about anything instead of sit down for a proper lunch. Everything’s yucky. Except hot dogs, that is, but only occasionally.”

      Leah finished fitting the bait onto the hook then tugged at the girl’s ponytail. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

      “Teacher workday, apparently,” Riley said. “Her sisters are busy working on their Girl Scout cooking badges with Amy, so Susan and I were treated to an afternoon with Brooke.”

      “Lucky you,” Leah said, and her tone and expression showed she meant it. “Come on, Brooke. Let’s go see what you can catch for dinner.”

      She screwed up her face into a grimace.