Men In Uniform: Burning For The Fireman. Barbara McMahon

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      “Hi,” she said. “That looks amazing. How fast do you go?” She couldn’t help her grin as she took in the broad shoulders, the muscular legs straddling the machine. For a moment she wished she’d checked her hair before coming out. But with the breeze, it would be windblown no matter what. Cristiano looked fantastic, tousled hair, ruddy cheeks, and those compelling brown eyes that about melted her heart.

      “Not too fast. Want to go for a spin?” he asked with a cheeky grin, taking in the baby.

      She laughed and shook her head, jiggling Dante a little. “Not with a baby, thank you very much. I’d never let him go on one of those.”

      “Maybe when he’s older,” Cristiano said, sitting casually on the floating machine, one foot on the dock anchoring him in place.

      She eyed the machine with some wariness. “Too dangerous. Aren’t you cold?” The breeze reminded her it was fall, no hot summer days to be refreshed by the water. With his dark eyes focused on her, she felt her temperature rise. The attraction that flared between them confused her. She’d never felt emotions like this with other men she’d known. Was Cristiano different in some way? Or was it just normal reaction after months of only dealing with Dante?

      “My feet are freezing. I’m ready to head back. You going into the village today?”

      Mariella hadn’t been sure before, but this clinched it. “Yes. We’ll be walking over in a little while. Are you planning to be there?” She gave him her best smile. Was she flirting with the man? Yes—and it felt great.

      “I’ll buy you an ice-cream cone.” His eyes locked with hers, as if urging her to say yes.

      She felt daring and excited at the same time. She nodded. “I’d like that.” Trying to subdue the excitement from her voice, she said, “Don’t fall in on your way back.”

      “No chance.” He pushed off and in a moment the motor caught and he headed the short distance to the town’s small marina.

      She watched until she couldn’t see him clearly.

      “So, we’ve been invited to see him again,” she said to Dante, hurrying back to the cottage to get the stroller. She could hardly wait.

      Cristiano ran the Jet Ski up on the floating berth and turned off the motor. He’d left his clothes on the motorcycle again only this time didn’t just pull them over his wet ones, but used the men’s facilities at the public boathouse to change. He refused to examine closely why he’d stopped by the cottage to see her. He’d spotted her on the patio and impulse had driven him closer.

      The only way to know if she was around, without being totally blatant about it, was to use the lake. When he’d seen her on the porch, the lure of the Jet Ski had vanished. He’d wanted to see her again.

      Dressed, he bundled the wet clothes, strapping them on the back of the motorcycle. It would be a two-minute ride to the square. He had no idea if she’d already arrived. Maybe he should have gone home to get the car.

      She was talking with the priest in front of the church when Cristiano entered the square. Stopping some distance away, he cut the engine and sat on the motorcycle as he watched, curious what she could be talking to Father Andreas about. The old man shook his head and then smiled down at the baby in the stroller.

      In an instant the sunshine dimmed. Cristiano remembered the feel of the baby in the cradle of his arm, the small, terrified child clutched with the other. The baby cried and cried. The nightmare of smoke and darkness and wailing screams filled his senses. For a moment he was there, back in the tunnels of the metro, fighting for breath, for a foothold, for life itself with two children who were too young to die.

      He could feel the heat of the fire behind him. Hear the shouts of other first responders, everyone trying to fight their way through hell. Screams of the dying, distorted shadows as the flames flared and waned. He could smell the smoke and dust as clearly as he had when his helmet shattered.

      He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. Which way was out? Which way lay sunshine and fresh air and life itself?

      A shout sounded louder than the rest. Something bounced on his thigh and Cristiano blinked, looking down at the rubber ball that rolled away from where it had struck him. Two boys raced after it, their laughter and shouts echoing in the square.

      He looked around. Mariella was pushing the stroller toward him. The priest was standing on the stairs leading into the old church smiling at the children who played around the fountain. The sun shone in a cloudless sky. A pastoral scene, one of peace and tranquility and the very fabric of life.

      Taking a breath, he hoped he could keep his mind in the present. He’d thought he had these flashbacks under control. It had been days since—

      “Hello,’ she said as she approached, that wide smile holding his gaze.

      No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. Only Cristiano knew he’d had another flashback—thankfully brief this time. He never knew when they’d come, how debilitating they’d be. This one had passed quickly. Because of Mariella?

      He didn’t want her to know. They’d spend some time together today, enjoy each other’s company and then he’d take off for the cottage, the bolt-hole he’d claimed when he had been released from the hospital. No one in his family had known he’d been injured far beyond the ankle that had broken.

      “Are you all right?” Mariella asked when she reached the motorcycle, a questioning look in her eyes.

      “Sure.” He needed to change that subject quickly. “How do you know Father Andreas?”

      “We just met. He was walking by and I showed him my friend’s picture to see if he recognized her. He didn’t.”

      She drew it from her pocket and held it out to Cristiano. He took it. The laughing expression on the unknown woman’s face tugged at his heart. This was the young mother who had died. She didn’t look as old as Mariella. Did Mariella feel the same tearing grief he felt whenever he thought about his friend Stephano? Did she regret time wasted when, if she had only known the future, she would have changed what she did in the weeks, days left before her friend’s death?

      Had he known Stephano would die in the bomb explosion last May, would he have done more in the days leading to that fateful time? Or would he have taken everything for granted as he had expecting them both to live forever?

      It was a lesson well learned. No one could predict the future. Enjoy life while he could. As long as he could.

      Handing it back, he said, “I don’t recognize her. When was she here?”

      “I don’t know. Sometime within the last eighteen months is all I have. I thought at restaurants or shops someone would recognize her.” She slipped the photograph back into her pocket and shrugged. “So far no one has.”

      “What are you going to do if you find him?”

      “I’m still not sure. A baby should have his family around him. I’m hoping the father comes from a large family who would love Dante. I may never find him. But I want to tell Dante when he’s older that I tried.”

      “Let your family be his.”

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