CHAPTER 2: TWENTY QUESTIONS

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"Daddy?"

"Yes, dear?" After glancing over at his dark-haired daughter, Henry continued to spot dry and put away the dishes from that morning's breakfast, waiting patiently for her to continue.

Patty McConnikee sat at the high counter that bounded the kitchen, not looking at her father, as she pushed the cold, limp remains of her broccoli around her plate with the fork. Henry had overcooked the broccoli and seared the chicken a bit too long when the ever-temperamental kitchen timer had suffered a terminal bout of mis-function during meal preparation. He took it as a sign of her distraction that she'd eaten as much of it as she had.

"Before the, when you were with, did you ever, how did you, if you, that is, when you had a bad run, what did, what did you tell Mom?" The origin of her hesitant, jumbled up question, what had sparked her curiosity this time, was no big mystery to her father.

Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker, the quiet, capable, well-respected engineer from Station 51.

Patty had fallen for him, hard. Henry knew his daughter had stars in her eyes when it came to firemen in general. His brother Tommy's larger-than-life presence for so many years, the cousins near and far who had joined the fire service, the fireman crushes she'd had as a girl, even those few fleeting years he himself been a fireman – all combined to create those stars and keep them shining. It could be nothing more than girl-meets-fireman, but somehow Henry doubted it. His baby girl was asking way too many questions about life with a fireman these days, about the stark reality behind the glamorous façade of shiny trucks and heroic deeds, for it to be mere infatuation.

Which meant the Stoker boy was somewhere between a father's dream come true and a father's second worst nightmare.

Despite the mental snapshot he carried of her running through a gauntlet of amused firemen toward him, laughing and eager to be swept up in her father's arms, he knew she was no longer a child. She deserved an honest answer.

"Back in the day," he said evenly, "I could be a real son of –, uhm, a real jerk after a bad run. Until your momma schooled me on proper marital communications, that is." He paused, embarrassed. "It took a good bit of time."

"Why's that?" she asked, ever curious.

"I was a slow learner, baby. A slow learner."

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(Several years earlier)

"Out." Her flat voice carried the weight of command and stopped him just inside their bedroom door.

"Súile-glasa?" Henry's endearment for his green-eyed wife failed to melt her icy expression.

"Out," she repeated, steeling herself against the honest bewilderment in his blue eyes. "You're not welcome here." Morgan stood next to the distressed antique white wood dresser on the far wall, subtly supporting herself on the corner of the simple highboy but not obviously leaning against it. She wanted to appear strong. She had to be strong.

"In my own house?" he asked, incredulous.

"In my bed," she clarified without backing down. "Not if you're going to keep secrets from me."

"Morgan, what are you talking about? I'm not keeping secrets from you." The anniversary present hiding in my sock drawer doesn't count as a secret, right?

"If you're not going to tell me what's going on with you these days, why you are acting this way, then I don't know how this marriage is going to survive." You think I'm upset over what's in your sock drawer, buddy? You had better wise up and soon, fella.

"Acting what way? I'm not acting any different – ."

"What did you do at work yesterday?" she interrupted and watched tension ripple through his body: eyes, jaw, neck, shoulders, arms, gut, legs. Even his bare toes in the navy blue carpet seemed to tense.

"Rescue cats from trees, give tours to schoolchildren, polish the engine, hang hose, fight fires," he replied as if by rote. "Typical day."

"That's it?" Morgan stepped forward, reaching for the newspaper atop the red and white afghan at the foot of the bed, willing her legs to support her and her stomach not to betray her unease. What if this isn't what's made him close up?

"Pretty much." Henry eyed the newspaper she held in one hand. No way.

"Sure there was nothing else? Nothing that stands out?" There was acid in her voice now, and hurt.

"Nothing in particular." No way could she have found out – .

"Then who the hell is this about?" she asked, hurling the early edition of the paper at his feet. It flipped open to reveal a picture of a burning building, with a fire department aerial stretched to the roof, under a headline: Blaze claims three; arson suspected. Even if he hadn't recognized the building instantly, Henry would have been able to tell his company had been there the same way Morgan had: the big 27 emblazoned on the rig.

"Oh, that." – about that.

"Yeah, that." The sarcasm she managed to pour into those few words caused him to wince. "Start talking, Henry Malone McConnikee, unless you're prepared to move into Brawley's doghouse tonight." Please, love, talk to me. Reassure me that we're going to make it.

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"Mom actually threatened you with the doghouse?" Patty asked, green eyes amused.

"Yup, those were her exact words." Henry chuckled, deftly removing her plate so she couldn't torture her broccoli further. "She probably would have carried out that threat too, if I hadn't started talking," he added over his shoulder as he scraped the remains of her lunch into the garbage can.

"So, what did you tell her?" There was a quiet intensity behind her words. Patty was definitely on the hunt for information. He was willing to provide it, although it was bittersweet to relive the early days of his marriage when Morgan was alive and healthy, when he was brave and confident.

"About that fire, or generally?" He bought himself a little extra time to think, although he didn't intend to actually evade her question. She's using her head not just her heart when it comes to Stoker. That's a good thing, he reminded himself.

"I, uh – both." She smiled over at her father who rolled his eyes.

"That was a silly question, wasn't it?" he asked good-naturedly, rinsing the plate he'd finished washing and settling it in the drying rack. The skillet that had over-seared the chicken was still soaking but the rest of the kitchen was neat and tidy again. He untied the plain white apron he wore when cooking and draped it over the edge of the empty sink to dry.

"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, Daddy, but now that you mention it, yup, that was a silly question," she teased. "Don't I always want to know more?"

"Yeah, baby, you do. C'mon outside with me and I'll try to answer your questions," he replied while a question of his own rambled through his mind: Ah, Stoker, what are you not telling my Patty Mack?

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