Free One Fine Fireman by Jennifer Bernard

paid her to take the photographs. They both knew it to be a mercy commission: Maribel had been facing some daunting medical bills after Pete had fallen off the roof during an unauthorized attempt to see if he could play Quidditch with the kitchen broom. Mrs. Gund had loved the photos and proudly displayed them in the coffee shop, but Maribel thought they were embarrassingly clichéd. Then, one by one, they’d been purchased.
    Now here was one of them . . . no, two, she realized as she paced toward the hallway door. Three. Four. Five. All five. Except for the one Mrs. Gund had kept for herself. Five portraits of Mrs. Gund’s impassive Norwegian face framed against various coffee-shop backdrops. The menu board. The coffee maker. The long counter. And so forth. The entire series—perhaps the low point of her creative learning curve—paraded down Kirk’s hallway.
    “You were the one who bought my Mrs. Gund photos,” Maribel said numbly.
    “Yes.”
    “Why? You can’t possibly like them.”
    “Why not?”
    “No one could. Except Mrs. Gund. Which I never understood, by the way.”
    She dared a look at Kirk. He was rubbing the back of his neck in what she now knew was a signal of discomfort. His intent, lustful look was gone, replaced by an awkward shifting of his eyes.
    “I like them. Why else would I buy them? I like all your work.”
    Suddenly struck by a thought, Maribel dashed out of the kitchen.
    “Wait,” called Kirk, but she ignored him. She ran down the hall toward the open doorway at the end. Maybe it was rude to barge through someone’s house like this. But she had to know.
    Sure enough, there in his tidy blue-plaid bedroom, near the punching bag that swung from the ceiling, hung another of her photographs. At least she was proud of this one. A flash flood had crashed through the desert outside San Gabriel one rainy January, and she’d gotten an amazing shot of a drenched sparrow taking refuge on a cactus, clinging to the thorns with frantic little feet.
    It wasn’t the only work of art gracing Kirk’s bedroom, but it was the most prominent. He also had a dreamy Irish landscape with two horses and a poster advertising the Rugby World Cup. Really, his décor was sad. From the bedside table came the low murmur of a police scanner.
    “How come you never told me you were a fan of my photography?” she asked without turning, knowing he was right behind her.
    “I did.”
    “When, right between ‘coffee’ and ‘black’?”
    “I always buy your Christmas ornaments.”
    “That’s different. Those are goofy little craft items I make for extra cash. This is my art .” Duncan always laughed at her when she referred to her passion as art, but what the hell, Duncan wasn’t here right now.
    Kirk was looking slightly panicked. “Should we go check on Pete?”
    “Forget about Pete. He’s fine.” Maybe she sounded like a heartless mother, but she knew her son. He’d probably sleep through a collision with an asteroid, then be really bummed that he’d missed it. “Wait! I know! You’re just storing these here because Mrs. Gund ran out of room. It’s not like you actually bought them all.”
    But Kirk raised reluctant, silver-smoked eyes to meet hers. “No. I bought them.”
    “But that’s . . .” She tallied up the photographs she’d seen so far, added in the cost of framing, and flinched. “A lot of money.”
    “Over the years, maybe. It’s not like I liquidated my savings or anything.”
    “Did you do it to help me out? Did I seem that desperate? The clichéd struggling single mom trying to make ends meet on a wing and a prayer?”
    “That’s not fair.” He looked so hurt she instantly felt bad.
    “You can’t possibly like all those pieces. The sparrow, I’ll give you that one. It’s one of my better efforts. But you can’t convince me you always dreamed of having five portraits of an expressionless Norwegian coffee-shop owner filling your hallway.”
    His eyes darted around