Author's Note: Thank you for your continued support of this journey.
You'll notice my description of Alex & Joe's wedding seems to contradict the photograph seen in Ladies Man. I have an explanation for that, but it won't play out until later in this story.
The title of this chapter is taken from The Zombies's song Brief Candle.
8:15 p.m. | Saint Anthony's | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan
Saint Anthony's was still a flurry of activity. The FDNY was still on the scene at the remains of the Gilded Tulip. Hotspots remained and they had to ensure they did not reignite.
The investigation continued along with evidence gathering. And crews were still working to clean up the site and recover remains.
Two rescue workers were still missing along with an estimated four people that had been living in the abandoned hotel.
Goren and Eames dropped by before wrapping up for the day. They wanted to see if there were any developments and Bobby wanted to check in with Father Brennan.
They also wanted to speak with the Captain from Engine Company 54—the first team to respond to the granary fire the earlier in the week.
The crew from that station had provided backup for the fire at the Gilded Tulip and remained on hand to aid with the recovery operation.
Eames and Goren waited in the main fellowship hall.
There were dozens of volunteers and exhausted first responders mingling about the space—sipping hot coffee, catching a nap at the table, or simply dissociating. Everything was covered in dust from their hair and skin right down to their boots.
In a way, it reminded Alex of 9/11.
A volunteer approached the pair to inform them that the Captain was occupied in a meeting with FDNY leadership but would be available soon.
"And Father Brennan is over in the men's shelter at the moment."
The volunteer paused and flashed Alex an apologetic smile.
"He said you are welcome to wait in his office. But it may be some time," she informed them.
Goren and Eames turned to one another, silently laying out their next steps.
"I'm just erm…"
Bobby pointed over his shoulder.
"Go ahead," Eames replied.
They both knew she was better at dealing with the brass and handling interdepartmental coordination.
One of the male volunteers stepped forward to lead Detective Goren over to the men's shelter.
Eames stood patiently near the wall. It wasn't long before she spotted a familiar silhouette.
He was hunched over the table. The straps on his coveralls were dropped at his side. His heavy turnout coat was slung over the back of a folding chair.
Eames slipped into the chair across the table.
He glanced up from a plate of beans and frowned.
"You look like shit," he said.
"Speak for yourself," Eames replied as she took in the appearance of her kid brother.
Ollie was utterly knackered.
He had deep bags under his eyes. His face was grimy from picking through rubble all day under the weight of his gear.
"Things really are bad, huh?" Ollie asked. "Word is this is some kind of arson."
Eames sighed.
"Allie."
"It's early," she said. "There's a lot we don't know. But yeah, it looks like this was arson."
Ollie was less than satisfied by her vague answer.
"It must be some arson if they've called in Major Case. Don't get me wrong—I'm glad to know you're working it. But the why, the fact they've got the big guns on it… that's not a comfort, sis," Ollie said.
He paused and shovelled another forkful of beans into his mouth.
"I knew Gillispie. He was on our truck for a while before he transferred to the 24. He was good. An Irons man. He was with us in the Towers."
Ollie paused to reflect on that.
"Survived that and now he dies right before Christmas? What are they supposed to tell his wife, huh? I don't know about this… I just… I dunno," Ollie said with a heavy sigh.
Alex grew quiet.
Ollie's arm shot across the table. He gripped his sister's hand.
"Geez, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up—"
"It's fine," Eames replied quickly.
She couldn't dwell on Joe, not in the midst of such a pressing case.
She knew from her own experience that there was nothing that could be said. No words could bring justice or comfort to the Gillispie family.
"Are you just getting off?" Eames asked.
Ollie shook his head.
"No. Just on a break. I'm on until tomorrow morning."
Alex didn't like the thought of her brother out there with a spree arsonist on the loose.
"Be careful, alright? I mean it," Eames warned.
Ollie shot her a look.
They cared deeply for one another. But in a family of public service, they had long ago learned it did no good to fret.
"I don't worry about you, you don't worry about me. That's our deal," he said.
"I carry a gun," Alex reminded him.
"And I drive a thirty-five-ton truck. Let me tell you which I'd rather have in a fight," Ollie retorted.
Alex squeezed her brother's hand.
"I mean it, Oliver. Guys like this—they don't stop. They don't slow down," she cautioned.
Goren's warning about the next big thrill stuck in her mind as Eames found the courage to voice what she had feared all day.
"And… we're probably not going to catch him until he does it again. We need more information. In my line of work, that means another crime scene," she admitted.
Ollie didn't press the issue. He simply scooped up another forkful of beans.
"Where's erm…"
Ollie raised his hand high above his head and shook it.
"Big and sulky?" he asked.
"Ah." Eames nodded slowly. "My partner is meeting with a source."
"You called Kyle yet about going to the benefit?" Ollie asked.
Eames scoffed.
"I told you I'm not going," she insisted.
Ollie flopped back against his chair and thrust out his arms in disbelief. He'd grown ever more dramatic in the way he gestured while speaking since moving out to Staten Island.
"You gonna sit home by yourself?" he pressed.
"You gonna grow that stupid moustache again?"
"That's below the belt. Even for you, short fuse," Ollie said.
He reached down and yanked his suspenders back into place. Ollie stood and stretched. Then he reached for his paper plate.
"I gotta wash my face before I gear up again," he said.
Eames took the plate from him.
"Go. I'll clean this up," she said.
Bobby found Father Brennan inside one of the dormitories in the men's shelter. He was trying in vain to calm an agitated man.
The man was large—almost as big as Bobby.
The man shifted his weight back and forth rapidly as if to try and work out some of his irritation. He was visibly tense. His fists were clenched. His jaw was tight. His breathing was rapid.
"Please, we're approaching lights out. You'll feel better after you lie down," Father Brennan said in a soothing voice. "If you're afraid of the dark—"
"I'M… NOT!" the man roared slowly.
Father Brennan politely explained that the man was welcome to go if he would prefer not to be in the shelter. No one was obligated to stay, and he didn't want the man to feel pressured or controlled.
Despite Father Brennan's best efforts, they were at an impasse.
"Sir, if you have been drinking—"
"NO!"
Bobby noted the facial droop and the man's slightly slurred speech. There were long pauses between his words. Goren also noted the way the man kept glancing up at the bunk he'd been offered.
He put on his size thirteen shoes and rushed in just like a bull.
"Sorry, excuse me," Bobby said, pushing his way to the front.
He spoke slowly, giving the man time to process each word. Bobby kept his questions focused.
"Do you want to sleep down here? Close to the ground?" Bobby asked.
"Yes… down, down," the man replied, pointing at the lower bunk.
Bobby didn't question the odd statement. He just nodded in understanding.
"Can I move your things down here?" Bobby questioned.
The man nodded in agreement. He was so relieved he started to cry.
"I don't… have… erm… I say…"
He stopped and settled for trying to shake Goren's hand instead.
"My name is Bobby," Goren went on, touching his chest.
The man paused. He squeezed his eyes shut and cocked his head to the side. It was difficult to find the right word.
"Paul."
"Paul is not drunk," Bobby explained to Father Brennan.
Paul thumbed away his tears of relief as he sat down on the lower bunk. He needed time to compose himself.
Communication was already a challenge. He'd nearly lost his place in the shelter and did not want to say the wrong thing.
Bobby knelt down next to the bed.
"Paul, do you have aphasia? Talking is hard?" Bobby asked.
Paul reached for his temple.
"My…. Words. I don't have… they… they lost."
Bobby did not interrupt. He waited patiently for Paul to continue. He suspected that Paul's aphasia was fairly advanced.
"I say… no. I… my words… not saying right," he continued.
Paul pleaded for Bobby to understand.
"Are you saying that you have trouble speaking?" Goren asked to clarify.
Paul nodded.
Bobby unzipped his binder and offered a clean page of notepaper to Paul.
"Is this easier?" he asked.
Paul still had difficulty writing. The damage to the left hemisphere of his brain impacted his use and understanding of language—but writing was far easier than trying to speak.
While Paul wrote out a note, Bobby turned to Father Brennan.
"Aphasia. It impacts language expression. Comprehension," Bobby explained.
Paul tore off the paper and handed it back.
Paul Littleton.
I fall. Tops hard.
Daughter. NJ. Ezlb. 20.
"The top bunk. It's a fall risk. People with aphasia can have balance issues," Bobby explained.
Paul nodded.
"A-and this note. You have a daughter in New Jersey?"
"Yeah," Paul replied.
It wasn't much to go on.
"And she's twenty?" Bobby inquired.
Paul looked quite elderly to have a twenty-year-old daughter.
"No," Paul replied.
Bobby saw the flash of panic in Paul's face. He feared he wouldn't be able to communicate his request properly.
Paul reached up and scratched at the side of his head, rubbing his ear.
"Okay. Okay, we'll figure it out," Bobby said. "These letters. Is this her name? Elizabeth?"
"Yes… no… no… yes," Paul said.
He wiggled his hand to signal that he'd meant the inverse.
"No, this is not her name? But Elizabeth. The town, Elizabeth, New Jersey?"
Paul's face lit up.
Bobby grinned in response. He flicked the edge of the paper.
"20! The area code. 201!"
Bobby was thrilled. The two men celebrated their success with a brief moment of triumph.
"Can you help me with your daughter's name?" Bobby asked.
"Mandy," Paul answered.
"Mandy," Bobby echoed.
He put his hand on Paul's shoulder.
"I'm a Detective, Paul. I'm gonna do everything I can to find her. Alright?"
With Mr Littleton safely in bed, Bobby and Father Brennan walked together back to Saint Anthony's.
"Thank you, Detective," Brennan said.
Bobby shrugged it off.
"I'll check into locating Mr Littleton's daughter. I'll call tomorrow and let you know what I find," Bobby said.
"You have a gentle touch, Detective," Father Brennan went on.
Bobby bit back a smart remark. 'Gentle touch' wasn't typically a phrase applied to the likes of Robert Goren.
"You would have made a good priest," Brennan teased.
At that, Bobby laughed.
"A lapsed altar boy, I'm afraid," he replied.
Alex disposed of Ollie's plate in the bin near the kitchen.
The kitchen at Saint Anthony's sat just off the main fellowship hall. There was long counter that separated the two spaces.
Inside, a few straggling volunteers were working to clean up the dishes and prep food for the next round. They would open all night, serving meals to the rescue workers while gearing up to feed everyone again the next day.
"Whoa! Let me get that."
Eames looked up from the bin at the sound of a familiar voice.
Billy Marczewski appeared in the doorframe and rushed over to where two volunteers were struggling to pick up a large soup pot. Billy lifted the pot with ease.
"You can put them down over there," instructed one of the volunteers.
"You got it, Helen," Billy replied brightly.
Seventeen hours in and he was still just as chipper as he had been that morning.
"Why don't you knock off? You've had a long day," suggested Helen.
Billy waved her off.
"Let me just help you finish these dishes," he replied.
"Don't you have a nice girl waiting for you at home?" asked Ethel, one of the other older volunteers.
Billy's presence in a kitchen full of mostly elderly women had been a running gag all day. He was easy pickings for the likes of the Saint Anthony's Sunshine Circle.
Eames felt like an idiot as she stood there watching him roll up his sleeves and dive into the deep industrial sink.
Ethel, who was drying dishes, leaned in close and whispered against Billy's ear.
"I think you have an audience," she said in a hushed tone.
Billy glanced back over his shoulder, fully expecting to find his pals from Engine 54. He was braced for a light ribbing.
Instead, he spied Alex.
A broad smile broke out on his face.
"Major Case," he said, beaming.
Alex replied with a small, dorky wave.
"Go," Ethel urged.
With a promise to be back soon, Billy dried his hands and rushed to the doorframe. He was wearing a damp apron over his fire department t-shirt. He had flakes of bean residue in his wild, dark hair.
"Erm… hi," Billy said.
He scratched at the back of his neck and smiled.
"Hi," Eames replied.
In the time between their non-date and the fire, Billy and Alex had shared two other non-dates in short succession.
Billy had a brief reprieve from his work at home when the kids were in school, and the little one was off for an afternoon playdate.
Alex and Billy got coffee that afternoon and took a stroll around City Hall Park.
And then the night before the fateful fire, Billy had been coming off a twenty-four shift—the shift that included the fire at the Granary.
Billy had been desperate to dissociate for a while. Temps were expected to drop and remain low for the foreseeable future.
On a whim, he'd called up Eames and asked if she wanted to go for a late-night run.
It may have seemed like an odd thing to want to run following such a physically demanding job. The shift had been gruelling. But Billy needed to blow off some steam and Eames understood the euphoric feeling that came with a good burn.
Technically, they were both in Queens (albeit on different ends). They split the difference and met in the middle for a run through Forest Park.
That was how Alex knew about the suspected arson fire at the granary.
Conversation with Billy came easy. Even if things didn't go anywhere, Eames could see herself continuing to run together.
Except…
A part of her couldn't deny that she really hoped things might go somewhere with Mr Billy Marczewski.
Particularly the way he looked in grey sweatpants. Alex had found it difficult to keep her thoughts focused on the route and not the taut muscle in his thighs.
"You're working the case?" Billy asked.
"Erm… yeah. Yeah. We're looking into it," she replied.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. They simply stared at one another.
Eames tucked her hair back behind her ear.
"Did you get called in?" she asked.
Billy ran his hand through his hair and then immediately moved to smooth it down.
"Oh… I just. I was off today and erm—"
He trailed off and shrugged.
"What can I say? I make a mean 'beans for a crowd,'" he quipped dryly.
Billy dropped his attention to the floor. He kept his gaze fixated on his shoes.
"I'm off tomorrow. Gina is taking the kids out to some Christmas Farm thing upstate. Would you want to… well, I actually do make a decent hot pot. Ginger beef too," Billy offered.
Eames visibly tensed.
"I'm sorry, I can't," she replied quickly.
"Oh, of course. No problem," Billy replied politely.
He noticed the way she'd reacted and feared he'd crossed a boundary.
"I am sorry if that was too soon or—"
"No, no! I'm sorry… I just—"
Alex swallowed. Hard. She kicked herself internally.
"I just can't. Not tomorrow," she settled on.
Billy smiled and nodded.
"Can I ask—is it the idea of dinner? I don't mean to push you. I get it if you're busy. I just want to understand if I've… you erm… you looked spooked is all," Billy clarified.
"Ahhh—"
Eames trailed off as she scratched the side of her face.
"I can't do anything this weekend. I'll be working the case," Eames said.
It was partially true.
"Well, don't work too hard, eh?"
Billy glanced back into the kitchen. The entirety of the Sunshine Circle made no effort to hide their attempt to eavesdrop.
"Your fan club is waiting," Eames teased.
"I should get back," Billy acknowledged. "Would it be alright if I called you? Maybe we could set something up next week after the holidays? And please know—it's fine if the answer is 'no.'"
He flashed Alex an easy smile.
"I do make really good homemade chips. Do you like poutine? You know, chips with gravy and cheese. All the good stuff," Billy said.
"I like malt vinegar, actually," Alex confessed.
She may has well have doused Billy's emotional chips with salt and vinegar. He wasn't mad—just disappointed.
Billy took a breath and collected himself.
"I get it. It's a weird time with the holidays and… erm. I'm sorry if I came on too strong," Billy apologised.
Alex laughed. If anything, Billy was the opposite.
"I would actually really like it if you would. Call me, that is. Not the poutine. I'm sure I'll be ready for another run after all this is over," she said.
Billy's face lit up.
"Really?" Billy blinked. "You mean it?"
"Yeah," Eames replied.
Hot damn! Billy had to stop himself from clapping his hands together.
He froze when Eames looked at up him. There was a strange look in her eyes.
"What exactly is it that you do? I mean, what position do you ride in the truck?"
Billy pulled himself up to his full height. He squared his broad shoulders and smirked.
"I'm the Irons man. It's the position that carries the tools. The axe. The Halligan. The maul. I—"
Eames raised her hand.
"I get it. My brother's a fireman," she shared.
Before Billy could say anything, Eames spoke.
"Be careful. The fireman that died. Gillispie. He was an Irons man too," she warned.
"I didn't know him personally, but I heard he was a good man," Billy said.
Eames's brow furrowed. Concern was etched in her features.
"I mean it. Be careful. This type of arson. It's pathological. The fires are going to get bigger. And you… you're what? The first guy in on entry?"
Billy dropped his head. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"It's my job, Alex," Billy replied as watched his shoes.
He risked a glance, peering up from behind his dark, unruly hair. He flashed Alex a bashful smile.
"But it's nice to know you care."
"It's my job," Alex replied softly, throwing his own words back at him.
In hindsight, Alex should have known then and there that she had already made up her mind about Billy Marczewski and his shy smile.
She should have realised that he had already captured her heart, tapping into all the same places that held the memory of Joe Dutton.
And she should have pieced it together that nothing could ever be so comfortable or easy without a catch.
Because cynical, world-weary Alex Eames would have been looking for signs that Mr Marczewski wasn't perfect.
Yet Billy had sparked something in Alex Eames.
Hope? Alex wasn't quite ready to go that far.
She had run an extensive check on Mr Marczewski. On paper, he was exactly who seemed to be. There was nothing out of order. Eames couldn't find any dirty laundry. He displayed none of the customary signs that accompanied hidden vices like gambling addiction or a secret marriage.
At every turn, Billy asked for her consent.
He put the keys in her hands and waited for Eames to decide what direction things went. Sure, he made suggestions—but that's all they were.
Though they had only known each other a brief time, Alex Eames found herself not entirely put off by the idea of 'what if' and the appeal of quiet domesticity with her Canadian hunk.
He's not your anything. She reminded herself.
Yet.
Their moment was interrupted by a volunteer that popped around the corner to announce the FDNY meeting had concluded and the Captain from 54 was now available to speak.
"I have to—"
"Goodnight, Alex," Billy said.
Billy returned to the kitchens. He paused at the doorframe and glanced back. They shared a lingering gaze.
Across the room, another person watched the exchange with keen interest.
As soon as Eames was gone, he moved in to speak with Mr Marczewski.
"Well?"
"Hey," Billy said.
"Well?" Oliver Eames demanded.
Billy was drying the dishes. He stopped and put his hand on his hip.
"Look, I appreciate that you introduced me to your sister. But as I said, if this goes anywhere—that's between us," Billy said.
Ollie nudged his shoulder.
"C'mon, I saw you two talking. That wasn't chatting her up," Ollie said. "You've been seeing her. Now I'm not asking for the nitty gritty details, I just want to know how things are going."
Billy shot him a sceptical look.
"You know I wasn't comfortable with how you introduced us at the bar," Billy said.
He'd been uneasy about the plan. Oliver insisted it was necessary, that his sister would never entertain the possibility otherwise.
In fact, the very reason Billy ended his night early and did not ask for her number was because he perceived that Alex wasn't in the mood to flirt with anyone.
He'd been happy to chalk it up to a failed attempt and head home.
That was that.
"And you didn't tell me she was going to be in that park," Billy added.
Ollie grinned.
"Yeah. That was a setup. Brilliant though—and it worked," Oliver said.
"Well, I didn't appreciate it. And I don't think she would either if she ever found out," Billy said.
Oliver snorted.
"You have no idea," he commented.
Alex had very nearly cut ties with her brother after his last 'plan.' Things had been tense in the Eames family for months.
Oliver noted that Billy looked stiff.
"If you're not comfortable with this or you don't like her, there's no pressure—"
"I do like her. A lot," Billy said in earnest. "She's a good person. But as I said, if this goes anywhere—it's between us. Her and me. No interfering. Is that clear?"
Ollie grinned as he playfully pinched Billy's cheek.
"I knew you two were gonna hit it off!"
Eames dropped Bobby at home on her way.
They normally commuted separately—Goren took the train and Eames drove in.
But it was late. It had been a long day. And Alex was pleasantly surprised Goren did not have plans to remain at 1PP.
"I thought you'd be out walking the streets in Midtown alone. Some kind of solitary vigilante," Eames teased as she pulled onto the FDR.
"Not tonight," Goren replied.
In fact, Goren didn't even seem concerned with work at the moment. Normally, he kept his leather binder splayed across his lap, combing through notes whenever they drove.
Tonight, he was fixated on the road.
"You got a hot date?" Eames asked.
Goren chuckled softly.
"No… no, nothing like that."
Wordlessly, Eames gestured for Bobby to throw her a bone.
"I'm driving up to Carmel Ridge to visit my mother. I've got erm… I've got plans for the weekend. Something nice for her. You know, for the holidays," Bobby explained.
"That's nice," Eames replied.
Goren had previously shared that his mother was institutionalised at Carmel Ridge. Eames knew Frances was schizophrenic.
And largely alone.
Bobby phoned her every day—usually on his break and again in the evening. On days when they had long cases, Bobby still made time.
"I'm gonna bring her into the city for the day. See the lights. Do some shopping. Dinner," Bobby continued.
It felt good to gush about his plan. He was really looking forward to it.
"You're really good to her," Eames said.
At that, Bobby snorted.
"I wish she saw it that way," he mused.
"She doesn't?" Eames asked.
Goren hesitated.
A part of him wanted to open up to his partner, to unload that burden and share it with someone that wouldn't judge him. Instead, Goren reminded himself that Alex Eames was his colleague.
She'd been mortified when he tried to warm her hands earlier at the diner.
She sure as hell didn't want to know the intimate details about his relationship with his mother and his struggle as the less-favoured son.
Bobby still hadn't been able to contact Frank. He'd made a valiant effort. Frank didn't want to be found.
Bobby was sure his mother would have choice words for him on that (and that it would be Bobby's fault rather than Frank's).
"Erm… I'm sure she'll have a great time," Bobby said, downplaying his earlier comment. "You know how it is with siblings. Well, maybe not you. You're the golden child, right?"
"Hardly."
They were nearly across the Brooklyn Bridge.
"My old man is fond of pointing out how proud he is of me but—"
Eames paused for emphasis.
"No grandchildren," she said, resigned.
"That's my mother to a T," Bobby said. "She's worried how I'll be remembered. Who will look after me when I grow old."
"If you get old," Eames said.
There was a strange, faraway look in her expression as she turned off the expressway.
"Some people never… well…"
Alex trailed off and left the thought unfinished as she parked in front of Goren's brownstone.
Bobby was tempted to invite her up for a drink. Alex looked as if she could use one. In fact, it looked as if she desperately wanted to be alone in a dark place.
Goren knew from experience that was precisely when one shouldn't be left alone.
"Eames?"
"Have fun with your mum this weekend."
Her voice was firm, but polite. Upbeat and sincere in her desire for Goren to enjoy the weekend (Lord knew he needed it), while her voice carried an air of finality that indicated the conversation was over.
"Right. Well, goodnight," Bobby said.
It only took Bobby a few minutes to collect his things.
It was late, but Goren was wide awake. He didn't want to risk anything screwing up his plans for the weekend.
So, he decided to make the drive up to Carmel Ridge that night. There was a chain hotel not far from his mother's residential centre. Bobby could check in when he got there and be fresh and ready for the morning.
He could even surprise his mother with a fresh pastry for breakfast. It wouldn't make up for Frank's absence, but it would go a long way in smoothing things over.
It was only a short jaunt to Bobby's car park.
He put his suit and overnight bag in the back. The gift for his mother went in the passenger seat. Goren wanted to be sure it arrived in one piece.
It took Bobby an hour to get across the river and then up through Brooklyn. It was after eleven before he was on the open road.
He tried to keep his mind focused on the day trip with his mother. He didn't want to dwell on the scene at the diner.
Eames's reaction had stung.
Bobby couldn't stop thinking about how mortified she looked when he took hold of her hands.
Bobby rolled his head from side to side to try and work out some of the tension in his shoulders.
It never would have worked. Bobby told himself.
It was for the best that Alex Eames's telling expression had shut down that fantasy before it get itself off the ground.
They were partners. Colleagues. They both loved the job too much to risk being bumped from Major Case over the prospect of a workplace romance.
It was foolhardy to think Alex Eames would ever look twice at a big, brooding lug like Robert Goren. It had been nothing more than a fever dream.
But what a dream.
Desperate to push the thought of Alex Eames from his mind, Bobby switched on the radio.
First, he tensed. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughed.
It was all he could do as Jeff Lynne's melodic vocals filled the air to the backdrop of Richard Tandy's piano.
Surely, this would be the torture he must endure for failing to find his brother in time for their mother's special holiday trip to the city.
The song was repetitive. Haunting.
Morning don't get here tonight. Searching for her silver light.
And I can't get it out of my head.
No, I can't get it out of my head.
Bobby groaned and scratched his chin.
It was going to be a long drive.
Rockaway Beach | Queens
The house was cold when Eames arrived home. The drop in temperature didn't help matters.
Alex decided she could risk upping the thermostat a degree or two as a little treat. It had been a horribly long day and much of it was spent outside.
She switched the oven on the preheat and then made her way upstairs to slip into a sweatshirt and leggings. She opted to pull on a pair of cosy socks.
Her nephew, Joey, had picked them out for Alex as a Christmas present. They were bright and fuzzy, ridiculous really, but awfully toasty. Eames treasured them.
Eames opened her freezer and frowned at the selection of ready-made meals. She was far too economical to keep many on hand. Most weeks, Eames prepped her own meals from scratch.
But she always kept a few freezer meals at the ready for the days when work had been too long, and she was in no mood to bother heating up leftovers.
She wasn't in the mood for frozen pizza or the box of Tandoori chicken that had sat untouched for the better part of the last year.
"Ooo!" she replied pleasantly.
There was still half a bag of dinosaur-shaped fish fingers left from the last time Joey and Ella had stayed.
Eames tossed those into the oven and then poured herself a hefty nightcap.
Suddenly, she stopped.
Alex closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew that when she turned around in the dark of her kitchen, she would be alone.
Everything would be in its place. The coffee pot in the corner. The tins with tea and oats and dried beans stacked neatly next to the range. The bowl that was intended for fruit but instead had become a home for bills and roofing estimates.
Yes, she knew that she would be alone in the dark.
But there were moments when Alex swore she could feel him there, when she was certain she could sense his presence as if Joe had simply gone around the corner or stepped out of the room.
There were times Alex would stare at a spot because it felt like Joe had just been there, and she could see the memory of him there in that place as clear as day.
Some days Alex half expected to find Joe hunched over the sink trying to fiddle with the garbage disposal or standing in the fridge drinking milk straight from the carton.
Whenever she made coffee, she was sure she could feel Joe right behind her.
But no pair of strong arms followed. No feel of his breath on the nape of her neck or chin on her shoulder.
There was no groggy ask.
Should we tackle the laundry today? Or just stay in bed?
Eames squeezed her eyes shut and groaned.
The ghost of Joe's memory lingered in that house. And she ached for him.
The timer on the oven dinged, a bitter reminder that Alex would be spending Friday night alone in a dark house with a plate of fish fingers.
With dinner for one in hand, Eames settled on the sofa. She normally didn't sit with her back to the window, but she had no desire to watch the family across the street with their adorable little girl and their beautiful Christmas tree.
Alex turned on the television and then promptly switched it back off. She didn't need to hear the evening news recap of the fire at the Gilded Tulip.
Instead, Alex turned on the stereo. She grumbled and immediately flipped it off.
Polly protested.
"Bitch!"
Eames shot Polly a stern look. She had to remind herself it wasn't the poor bird's fault she'd learned such colourful language.
"Bitch. Bitch," Polly repeated.
She raised her wings and hissed, frustrated by the lack of entertainment.
Eames knew there would be no putting Polly off. She'd simply squawk and stare until the music returned.
"I'm sorry," Alex apologised.
She didn't have it in her to stay mad at Polly.
Polly's anger dissipated and her feathers went down when the music returned.
Alex took her plate of fish fingers and her glass of whisky and moved to the back room.
The room was designed as a three-season porch. It was chilly out there. Joe and Alex had grand plans to turn it into a solarium.
In reality, the room had been part office, part storage. They used it as extra freezer room in the winter. A set of weights took up the corner. An old couch lined the wall. Alex had never had the heart to move Joe's desk.
She shivered and pulled a blanket tight around herself. She watched the Atlantic as she tried to shut out the sounds from her bloody wedding night playing in the house.
And this will be our year, took a long time to come. Don't let go of my hand…
Alex squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to go down the road of all the memories when she and Joe had told one another that they had time, that their dreams could wait for another day.
There was no big celebration or even a honeymoon. They'd waited until the summer after their wedding to spend a few days at a rinky dink hot sheet motel on City Island.
Their wedding was marked by a blizzard. And after dinner and drinks and darts at the neighbourhood pub in Inwood, Joe had insisted on driving back home.
I want to wake up in my bed with my wife.
It took them three hours to drive home from Inwood. Thank goodness Joe had a reliable truck, or Alex was certain they wouldn't have made it.
It was reckless.
But they'd been young. And at the time, the prospect of spending their wedding night bunked down in Alex's childhood bedroom with her father down the corridor was a step too far.
Alex was glad they'd made the drive home that night.
Because the memory of waking up together on such a bleak, frigid morning was worth it. The city was shut down. The storm had dumped more than a foot of snow and showed no sign of letting up.
Joe made breakfast. Alex fixed coffee while the wind howled outside. Joe put on an old album to drown out the noise.
Then he stepped up behind her and swept her hair to the side. He kissed the nape of her neck. His arms were warm.
This will be our year, Alex. Joe promised.
The fish fingers sat abandoned on the end table. They had long since grown cold.
The clock on the wall chimed, snapping Eames back to the present. She turned and noticed it was midnight.
Alex clutched her necklace, running her thumb over the small cross.
"Happy anniversary, Joe," she whispered.