Love, Special Delivery

The post office phone rang.

Mandy yelled to Olivia to take a message before turning to Ben with a smile she hoped didn’t betray how nervous he made her feel. “Has it been a week already? It’s been a challenge to pull work crews out here. But they’re here today.” She was babbling faster than a political talk show host. “And I’m checking things off my list.” If she sounded any perkier, she might puke.

Ben stared at her as if he’d sat down at a poker table with people he didn’t like. Namely her. And then his glance moved over the cars and trucks in the parking lot. “Have you been here long?”

“All morning. I just finished sanding the flagpole.” She held up her red, raw hands, waving to Keith in the fire truck. The fact that the fire chief wasn’t getting out had to mean this wasn’t a fire inspection...she hoped. “I only went up about eight feet. I’m not very good on a ladder. I get vertigo.”

“The flagpole out front?” Ben walked backward a few feet, every step magnetically drawing Mandy, too. He stopped where they could both see the front of the post office.

“Yes, the one and only flagpole.” She’d left the ladder and supplies at its base. Was that a fire hazard? “Are you here for my inspection?” Or just to torture her?

“No one inside can see or hear you when you’re out there,” Ben noted, poker-faced. His lip was no longer fat, making the hard line of his mouth that much harder.

“It’s a two-way street. I can’t see or hear anyone inside either.” Which was a blessing when Olivia was in drama mode. “Is there something wrong? I mean, I didn’t dance naked out here. I was just sanding.”

“It’s hard work getting this place in shape.” Utley shuffled up to them, adjusting his blue postal cap to shield his eyes from the sun. He always looked like he was on a tropical vacation. Today he wore a green Hawaiian shirt with white flowers over his khaki shorts. “Glad I could help.”

If by helping, Utley meant lending moral support while he napped or reminisced about the old days, the retired postal worker was doing a bang-up job.

“Are you going to tell us about the fire?” The old man planted his sandals hip distance apart and rocked from side to side. “That’s why you’ve got your gear on, isn’t it?”

A flicker of fear for Ben skimmed Mandy’s spine, so light she barely recognized it. But not so light that it didn’t send heat into her cheeks. “Are you okay? Is Keith okay?”

“We’re good. It was just a little grass fire,” Ben said carefully, staring at her face. “It went down quickly.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad.” The heat in her cheeks changed to a prickle of discomfort at his continued scrutiny. Did she have something on her face? Ink? Rust? Cookie crumbs?

“Is that...” Ben leaned around Mandy, peering at the loading dock. “Is that the tin of matches I threw away?”

“It’s my tin of matches.” Utley patted his pockets as if searching for something. “I’ve been using them. I never let anything go to waste.”

“I tried to stop him.” Mandy tried to keep her voice down, brushing her fingers over her cheeks.

“You should have tried harder.” Yep, that was her überprincipled fireman Ben.

Few men were taller than she was, which meant few men made her feel feminine. Mandy glanced down at her tennis shoes and her blue work shorts, and sighed. Honestly, Ben was right about the matches. She was the postmaster. She shouldn’t have let Utley keep the matches after the fire department wanted them removed. At the very least, she shouldn’t have let Utley keep them here.

She continued to explain her case to Ben in a voice below hearing aid range. “He’s having a hard time adjusting to me in charge. He thought he’d be the next postmaster, and he’s heartbroken. So he nags and he criticizes, but it doesn’t mean much. The matches were a compromise.”

A crease strobed between Ben’s brows, and his lips twitched downward. She’d probably ruined her credibility by admitting she talked to the moon. She had to reestablish herself.

“Utley.” Mandy turned to her grandfather’s friend and coworker. “The matches will have to go home with you.”

Utley stopped patting pockets and reached in one, most likely for a pack of cigarettes.

She laid her hand over Utley’s, preventing him from taking it out. “And you’ll have to respect the no-smoking rule at this facility.”

“So that’s how it is.” Utley worked his wrinkles into a deeply lined frown. “All those years of service and now I’m like a stack of unclaimed mail.”

“Well, we never throw unclaimed mail away,” Mandy said, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s not right.” Utley turned and shuffled back toward the loading dock.

“About the cars back here,” Ben began.

“Wait.” Mandy snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot. I got a special shipment today. Keith has a package.” She hurried past Utley and up the stairs. “It must have broken open during transit. Someone along the way resealed it.” She picked up the white plastic bag, but something fell out. “Shoot.” They hadn’t resealed it very well.

A pill bottle rolled across the floor toward where Ben stood on the loading dock.

Mandy swooped it up and checked the name on the prescription to the address label. Satisfied they matched, she handed both the bag with several other prescriptions and the escaped pill bottle to Ben. “You might want to check the shipping manifest to make sure all the meds he needs are in there.”