Page 6 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“Why?”

Oh, God. Stop it, Gordon!

Andrea blinks up at me, but instead of seeming offended, she smiles, like I’ve done something wonderful by being nosy and aggressive, demanding to know the rationale behind decisions that are none of my business.

“Well,” she begins slowly, thoughtfully, rocking the cat against her chest, not caring if it leaves an ocean of fur on the royal blue fabric, “I guess, honestly, it’s because I come from a crazy busy family, a big family. A close-knit family. Well, not even that close-knit, exactly, but there’s always someone around, someone in your business. And my mother married my dad pretty young and came to America from Luzon, in the Philippines. He was just starting as an airline mechanic, and she was just starting as a college student, there to pick up her sister, my Tita Carla, who was an exchange student who studied for a year at UCLA, and they met in the airport lounge in Manila— This isn’t important.”

I nod. It probably wasn’t, but I was hanging on every word. When she speaks, her voice is soft and buttery, and her eyes shine with excitement, like she’s been dying to speak to someone.

Wow. She really is lonely.

Can’t relate to that. Alone is good.

Say it. Alone is good.

I’m lying to myself, but Andrea is still talking, so that wipes out the rest of my brainwaves.

“The point is, my parents hit it off, half my mom’s family was already living in the US, and she and her sisters moved here, too. My whole family pushed hard for the kids to appreciate education and things that would ‘give us opportunities.’” Andrea crooks her fingers to show that the phrase is to be taken with a little skepticism. “Soccer, tennis, ice skating, piano, violin, taekwondo... You name it, my cousins, my brother, and I did. Plus, we had to be model students, involved in everything from Model U.N. to robotics club. We had to get straight A’s.”

That sounds amazing. Wonderful. Hard. I can’t imagine a life like that, with all the people, and all the chances to do things that lift your spirits and put you in the light, not hiding, not fighting dark urges, or just fighting, actual fighting, fighting the flames. I nod. “You miss being busy. But isn’t teaching enough to keep you busy?”

“It is! And I love it, usually. But I was busy from morning until night, year-round, and surrounded by a bunch of people. Now it’s summer. There’s no rush of teaching and lessons right now. This town is lonely. There’s nothing to do if you’re an outsider alone. That’s all. I wanted to ‘fly the coop,’ as my Tita Filomena says, and stretch my wings away from dozens of relatives and overbearing—but nice—parents. Pine Ridge looked perfect, and I’m sure it is—for a nice vacation in the mountains, maybe by a lake. Sitting in the apartment? No. No, I made a mistake.”

“You did,” I say, so quickly that it surprises us both. “You haven’t joined the gym, have you? Or gone to the Fourth of July picnic at the high school, or to the Night Market, or gone bowling with someone, or joined the ladies’ book club at White Pines, or the garden club at the library, or the choir at the church?” I don’t do those things, either, but I’m not like her. I’m not like anyone here, and that makes me the best advocate for doing all the things I see others do, sometimes even think about doing, but never try. “And I just named some things I knew about. I bet there are classes at the gym. And there are community events all winter. In September, there’s Applefest, and—”

“Wow. You must really love it here.” Andrea smiles at me, and her eyes have a new light in them. Curious.

“I do.” There. That’s all I need to say.

“Which one of those activities do you recommend the most? And which one would be fun for someone to do on their own?”

Okay, apparently, it was not all I needed to say. “The gym. They have swimming. Exercise equipment. Classes.” I have a membership there, gifted from the owner of P-Cubed Gym to all the firefighters at Christmas. I’ve been twice, alone, and I haven’t died yet.

“Maybe.” Andrea looks thoughtful.

“Ask the librarian. Look on the Pine Ridge Community message board online. It’s on the Chamber of Commerce website. You’ll find something if you try. You don’t seem like a quitter.” I hesitate (something I’m not familiar with) and then say sternly, “If you leave, you contribute to the turnover problem. How would you feel if you had to get used to new teachers every few years? People need familiar faces, even if they don’t interact with them, just see them. It matters.” That’s something I know to be true.

I collapse the ladder and give a goodbye nod. I just need to walk away. My mouth hasn’t moved this much in years. I’m going to get a hernia in my jaw if I keep talking.

“Lt. Rockland! Thank you. Thanks for the pep talk. I don’t know if I can really do that, but I might give it a try.”

“There are friendly people here, people your own age, I bet. You haven’t gotten to meet as many of them while you were teaching, but I’m sure you could.” My voice is almost a snarl. I don’t want to keep talking. I especially don’t want her to keep nodding at me like I’m dispensing divine wisdom. It’s just common sense. She’s a busy person used to a hectic schedule. Summer hits, no people, no schedule, and boom. Lonely. Bored. Sad. Wants a change.

I have been there. That’s why I ran away. Ran here.

Not that I had anything good to run from first, of course. Just intimate knowledge of being sad, bored, and lonely.

“I don’t know what to pay you or how to thank you for saving Chopin.”

“The cat’s name is Chopin?” I don’t mean to blurt that out, but there it goes.

She blushes a dark rose under warm, beautifully tan skin. She just gives off life and light. The kids deserve that. A lot of these kids have parents just like me—monsters who would die keeping them safe, die trying to find a good, peaceful spot for them in the world.

“I’m a pianist. I mean, I don’t just teach piano. I used to play on the stage. Big competitions. Prize money, scholarships.” A flash of panic dances in her eyes, and I don’t like it. “I love Chopin. Not just the music, but the man behind it. He was an incredible person. Uh. Sorry, I ramble about a lot of things.”

“That makes two of us,” I mutter.

Andrea laughs. “You barely spoke at all. And I don’t know what I owe the fire department, or you, or how I can repay—”