Free Relics by Mary Anna Evans

seen ambling away. “There aren’t many women lucky enough to have one good-looking man to take her out and show her a good time, and another one waiting at home to make sure her date brings her back safe.”
    “Did he sit out there all this time?”
    “Do you think Laurel and I would let your studly friend sit alone on our porch? Oh, no. We invited him in. It was such a sacrifice on our part.” Carmen laid the back of her hand across her forehead, trying for the dramatic pose of a silent-movie damsel. The winged pigs flying across the chest of her pajamas detracted from the effect.
    “Did he talk?” Faye asked. “Joe can get a little tongue-tied around strangers.”
    “Did the man talk? Our friend Laurel could talk to a brick wall and get it to answer back. First, she told him she just loved his shoes. I’ve only seen him in his work boots, but he comes in here in these cute little leather shoes—”
    “They’re moccasins. He makes them himself.”
    “That’s what he said. And leather pants—”
    “He makes them, too.”
    “Well, neither of us wanted to talk about the pants, because he looked just a little too damn good in them, so Laurel asked him about the leather pouch hanging off his belt—”
    Faye opened her mouth to speak, but Carmen waved the interruption away. “I know. He made that, too. And it was full of the coolest things. Arrowheads and stuff. Before I knew it, he’d spent two hours helping Laurel chip a little lopsided pointy thing. It doesn’t look much like an arrowhead, but she’s real proud of it.”
    “She should be,” Faye said. “Flintknapping isn’t easy.”
    “He was in the middle of telling us how he lived on an island with you—but not with you—when he realized how late it was. He got all flustered and said he had to hurry home, because Laurel needed to rest so her leg could heal. And he pretended to go, but I saw him sneak back to the porch so he could wait up for you.”
    Faye knew Carmen was hoping she’d confess to being the apex of a budding romantic triangle with Joe and Brent at the other two corners. The truth was so prosaic—Joe had never been more nor less than her friend and, counting this evening with Brent, she’d had exactly three dates since Christmas. Christmas of 1997. Changing the subject was less humiliating than telling the truth.
    “I believe I’m ready for bed,” she said, retreating in the direction of her bedroom.
    “Take an extra blanket,” Carmen said, following her. “It’s supposed to get cold tonight.”
    Faye, who’d been cold since she’d arrived, said, “I don’t suppose there’s central heating.”
    “Nope. Only the kerosene space heater here in the parlor. I’m sure it works fine, but I hate the smell of kerosene, so I’ve put off lighting it till I just couldn’t stand the cold.”
    “That’s okay. Blankets will do.” Faye was freezing, but she was too proud to be the first one who lit the bad-smelling heater. Maybe her Florida-bred bones would be warmer once she got in bed.
    Soon enough, Faye decided that maybe it wasn’t all that cold. She curled up under thick blankets that smelled like they had been dried in the sun, and her sleep was full of gentle seaside winds and blood-warm gulf waters. For a few hours, she was home.
    ***
    It was hot. Faye rolled over, throwing off her blankets and letting them slide to the floor. That was better; she’d be able to get back to sleep if she could just cool off a little, but shedding the blankets hadn’t helped. She was still too hot. There was a ceiling fan in the room, but starting it would have required her to find the cord and yank it. And that would have meant opening her eyes and getting up.
    The word “help” cut through her drowsiness.
    A voice that wasn’t Carmen’s called out again. “Help! Wake up, somebody! The house is on fire!”
    Laurel. The house was on fire and Laurel could barely walk.
    Faye opened her eyes to find the room flickering with a light