Free Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) by Celia Jerome

fighting, casting thunderbolts at each other while a hapless village smoldered beneath the mountaintop confrontation.
    Then he asked, “So where’s the fire?”
    On the mountaintop? I did a mental blink. “If you are a volunteer firefighter, you’ve wasted your time. There’s no fire. Not now. “
    â€œOf course not. I’m here.”
    Oh, boy. Angry and crazy, not a good combination. He ignored Little Red snapping at his pant leg and took another step closer.
    He wanted a fire? I pinched Elladaire. She wailed, but nothing happened.
    â€œLady, it’s raining. Are you going to invite me in or not?”
    Definitely not. “I’m a little busy right now . . .”
    â€œYeah, I can see that. Listen, I spent the last week in the hospital, and was supposed to have a week’s vacation. I drove all night to get here, without the pain meds that make me sleepy. So do you want my help or not?”
    â€œHelp?”
    â€œYou called for help with a fire problem, didn’t you?”
    â€œI called . . . DUE sent you?”
    â€œShit. Didn’t you get the email? They said they’d contact you.”
    I stood aside so he could come into the house. “I haven’t been able to get to the computer. The baby . . .”
    â€œI heard all about the baby. She’ll be fine.” Without a by-your-leave, he scooped Elladaire out of my arms. Just in time, too, so I could grab Little Red before he sank his teeth into the guy’s ankle.
    The baby didn’t like being plucked away, or strangers. Maybe she didn’t like men, considering the father she had. She started to cry in earnest, but with tears, not sparks. The visitor jiggled her and made funny sounds. She stopped crying.
    â€œHow did you . . . ? That is, what did you do to make her stop?”
    â€œBabies like me, that’s all.”
    â€œNot the crying. The . . . the other?”
    â€œI told you, I put out fires.”
    I turned off the TV, shoved a bunch of stuffed animals and plastic blocks off the sofa so he could sit, the baby on his lap. I nodded in her direction. “That’s Elladaire Brown. The dog is Little Red. You already know I am Willow Tate. Who in the world are you?”
    â€œPiet Doorn, at your service. Not exactly willingly, but I’m the best chance you’ve got.”
    â€œPe-et?” He’d pronounced it in two syllables.
    He spelled it out. “Like Mondrian. Only the artist’s name is pronounced Pete. My mother thought that was too common, so she insisted on her own version. It stuck.”
    â€œWhat kind of name is that?”
    â€œMy grandfather’s. His family came from the Netherlands generations ago. They like to keep some traditions. My sister is Katrinka. What kind of name is Willow?”
    â€œA family tradition, too,” I told him while I started the coffeemaker and put on a pot of water for tea. I put out two scones and the last of the farm stand’s raspberry jam. “My grandmother named her daughters Rose and Jasmine. We also have a Lily in the family.”
    â€œWhat about Elladaire? That’s a strange one, isn’t it?”
    The baby was playing with his keys. She looked up at him when she heard her name and batted her eyelashes. Flirting, at her age! And with such a peculiar man.
    â€œHer mother was living with an abusive husband in a rundown trailer parked in a weedy lot. She wanted better for her baby girl, something prettier than the world she was looking at. Besides, her name is Mary Brown. She wanted a unique, elegant name for her daughter. I guess she made it up.”
    â€œEdie’ll do for now.”
    He was making changes already? Just who did he think he was? “Her name is Elladaire. Tell me again why the people at Royce sent you?”
    â€œThat’s easy. I put out fires. I don’t know anything about bugs, but I do know about forest fires, oil field burns, electrical malfunctions, that