Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

“Do you need anything from the store?”

I shake my head. “I can’t think of anything. But thanks for asking.”

“Okay.” He leans down and kisses me one last time. Then he groans as he walks toward the door. “Put some damn clothes on!” he calls out as he walks out the door.

I laugh to myself and drop onto the sofa. I think I just admitted, in front of him, that I’m falling in love with him. And I don’t regret it one little bit.

29

Ethan

“Are you sure you want me to go?” I ask again as I help Mr. Jacobson load trays of barbecue and ribs into the back seat of his pickup. Apparently, he smoked the meat overnight, cut it up this morning, and it has been sitting in his own homemade barbecue sauce ever since, marinating in its own greasy goodness.

“I asked you to go, didn’t I?” Mr. Jacobson replies. “Stop asking stupid questions.” He harrumphs under his breath.

The thing is that I have no doubt that Mr. Jacobson wants me to go to the rescue squad meeting tonight. It’s the other people that will be there that I’m worried about. They didn’t receive me well at the ball game last Saturday, and when I took Mitchell to practice on Thursday, they still weren’t happy I was there. And on Thursday I didn’t have Jake or Katie or Mr. Jacobson or Shy or even Little Robbie Gentry to run interference for me. I was all by myself. I’d sat on the bench and watched practice, and then I’d dropped Mitchell off at my mom’s, taking a box of his stuff with me when I left, and I’d gone back home.

Or rather, I’d gone back to Abigail’s cabin. Because where she is, that’s where I want to be. When I imagine home, it could be a shack in the woods or a glass monstrosity of a house at the top of a hill and it wouldn’t be home to me unless Abigail and Mitchell were there. She has quickly become my home, and I need her like I need the air that I breathe.

But she’s not going to the meeting tonight. Tonight, it’ll just be me, Mr. Jacobson, and Jake, and we’re bringing ribs. The whole town will probably be there, since they’re going to be talking about water rescue plans in case there’s flooding after the storm. The hurricane that’s supposed to hit the coast won’t even be a big deal here; it’ll just mean a lot of rain, and maybe a little wind. But what will be the problem is when the water rises in the days after the storm, when roads and bridges become impassible due to high water. People should always “turn around, don’t drown,” but folks think it’s safe to drive through standing water. Then cars flood out, and people get stuck, and some of them get trapped in their vehicles, and some get swept away and die. Even attempting to rescue people stuck in high flood water is extremely dangerous.

Tonight, the rescue squad will discuss ways they’ll communicate their need for volunteers, along with a review of some of the most basic safety rules for water rescues. One thing I’m sure of is that Derrick, my late wife’s father who wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire, will be there since he’s the fire chief. And I sincerely doubt that he’ll appreciate my presence.

I close the back door of the truck and walk around to the other side so I can get in what’s left of the big back seat. The food smells so good that my stomach lets out a growl. Jake reaches past me from his spot in the front, lifts the tin foil wrapper from the edge of one of the dishes, and fishes out a beef rib. He starts to eat it in the front seat of the truck.

“These are good, Pop,” he mutters around a mouthful.

“Some days I think you don’t have the sense God gave a billy goat,” Mr. Jacobson scolds. Jake just keeps eating.

Jake turns around to look at me, the edge of his mouth smeared with barbecue sauce. “You want one?”

“I think I’ll wait,” I reply. But my stomach lets out another little plaintive groan as I watch Jake gnaw on that beef rib. It smells so good.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Jacobson says resignedly. “If doofus here can steal one, you can get one with my permission.” Jake reaches back, takes another from the pan, and holds it out to me. I take it, laughing lightly as I do.

“What would it take to get the recipe, Mr. Jacobson?” I ask him.

“I’d have to die.”

“But then you’d be dead, and no one would still know the recipe,” Jake complains.

“I’ll take it with me to the grave. You know they won’t taste nearly as good if I don’t stick my finger in the pot.” He chortles out a laugh.

I unroll a paper towel from the roll Mr. Jacobson threw on top of the ribs and pass one to Jake. He accepts it and wipes his fingers.

“You got a little right here,” his dad says, pointing. Jake wipes the left side of his mouth. Then Mr. Jacobson points to the right side of his mouth. Jake wipes that side. Then Mr. Jacobson points to his forehead, and Jake wipes his forehead, even though there’s no way he could have sauce there.

He realizes what he’s done when Mr. Jacobson slaps his knee and Jake groans out loud.

“Got you,” Mr. Jacobson sings out.

“You suck, Pop,” Jake tosses back, as he pulls down the visor to use the little mirror to clean his face.

We pull up to the fire station and get out. I look around at the full parking lot. It’s so full that trucks are parked along the roadside. Apparently, they put out a call for volunteers and volunteers showed up.

“

See, nothing to worry about,” Mr. Jacobson says to me quietly as I follow him into the large multi-purpose room at the fire station. They have set up rows of chairs in the large space, and a big table is loaded with food people have brought. I follow Mr. Jacobson to the table, where he sets up his trays and uncovers them with a flourish.