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      Fighting Fire

      Alyssa Brooks

      Hot Down Under

      Susan Lyons

      Acknowledgments

      As always, deep appreciation to my fabulous critique group, Nazima, Betty and Michelle, and to brilliant brainstormers Nancy, Jude and Kate. Thanks to Doug, because if he hadn’t wanted to dive the Great Barrier Reef, I probably never would have made it to Australia. What a wonderful country! Thanks to my editor, Hilary Sares, for asking me to write this novella and for saying, “Sure,” when I asked if I could set it in Oz.

      My appreciation to the firies at Smithfield Fire Station in Queensland for a fun and informative morning. And thanks to firefighters all over the world. You are true heroes.

      I invite my readers to visit my website at www.susanlyons.ca, email me at [email protected] or write c/o PO Box 73523, Downtown RPO, Vancouver, BC, Canada V6E 4L9.

      1

      “Tash, describe your personality with three adjectives,” my grandmother says.

      “Hmm?” I lift my head from my book on Australia, and turn to her.

      She’s dressed for travel in navy stretch pants and a cotton sweater, and looks comfy in the business class seat. The champagne glass on her tray is empty and the women’s magazine she bought in the airport is folded to an article with the heading R U In Synch?

      “It’s a test to see how compatible you are with your prospective mate,” she explains.

      “I don’t have a prospective mate.”

      “You should, you’re almost thirty.”

      “I’m twenty-eight.” With nary a serious prospect in sight. And no, I’m not thrilled about that. But you see, I’m not the kind of woman who inspires romance in a guy. I’m the perennial girl-next-door type—and the street is definitely not Wisteria Lane.

      “We’ll do the quiz for the two of us,” Nana says. “See how much we have in common, besides our coloring.”

      I’ve never been one to waste time on those foolish girly quizzes, yet she has me intrigued. “Three adjectives for you, and three for me?” At her nod, I think hard. There are a million words to describe Nana but I’m analytical and I want the best ones. “Loving, generous and…” I want to say flaky or eccentric, but that would be rude, and I do love my grandmother. “Impulsive. What did you say for yourself?”

      “Spontaneous, passionate and loving.”

      So we hit two out of three. Passionate, though? Well, if she means a passion for living and making life fun—without much regard for the consequences—I guess she’s right.

      “Now you,” she says.

      “I’d say, rational, analytical and intelligent.”

      “I said, intelligent, well-intentioned and uptight.”

      Okay, so much for holding back on being rude. I really should’ve said flaky, but at least I’m on the higher moral ground here.

      Uptight?

      Give me a break, Nana. I’m not uptight. I’m . . well, you know. Rational and analytical. I like lists, I like control, I like predictability. I’m the opposite of a flake.

      And yes, we are blood relatives. She’s my dad’s mother.

      A male flight attendant pauses beside us. “What can I get you, lydies?” He speaks in an accent that combines twang and drawl. Sounds kind of like a cat with laryngitis. Nana says it’s a typical Aussie accent. Well, what else would you expect, flying to Sydney on Qantas?

      The accent must be contagious, because ever since we boarded the plane Nana’s own faint twang, still present after sixty years in Canada, has been intensifying.

      “More champagne, please.” My grandmother beams as she lifts the glass she emptied far too quickly.

      Oh great. I’m supposed to be looking after her and, since I’m an inexperienced traveler, my parents gave me a list of guidelines. Number one: double-check departure gates and times. Number two: stay hydrated.

      “But wine dehydrates you,” I caution her. Ms. Well-Intentioned. Yeah, she was right about that adjective.

      Nana shakes her head, half fondly, half…less fondly. “Come on, Tash girl, live a little for once. Besides, I have a toast to make.”

      And of course two ladies off on an adventure can only toast in champagne. Okay, she’s got this one right too. I grin at her and tell the attendant, “I’ll have champagne as well. And can we get two bottles of water, please?”

      He fills our glasses with bubbly, tips us a wink. “’Ere ya go. Cheers.”

      I raise my glass to Nana. “To a safe and successful trip.”

      She clicks hers against mine. “Right you are.” We both sip, then she takes a deep breath and lets it out, almost like she’s letting all her stresses escape with it. “And now here’s my toast. To home, Tash. The place of your heart.”

      We’re 32,000 feet up in the air and six hours into a day-long trip across the world to the land Down Under. “To home,” I agree, touching my glass to hers. Yes, already I miss Vancouver. My beloved Pacific Northwest. Land of blue oceans and green, forested mountains. Cool colors, a temperate climate. The place where Nana and I belong.

      No, I refuse to feel homesick. It’s only two weeks. The time will fly by. Nana has inherited her sister’s estate and I need to meet with the lawyer, handle a million details, sell the house. Not to mention keep an eye on Nana and make sure her impulsive nature doesn’t get her into trouble, as has happened more than once in the past.

      My mission—and my family gave me no option but to accept it—is to handle the estate and business affairs, and bring Nana home safely. Although we all adore her, with her generous, loving nature, her joy in life, her charming eccentricities, the consensus is she really is a bit of a flake.

      Like, when Mom and Dad picked her up to bring her to my law school graduation, and she was wearing a red sweatshirt proclaiming “Proudest Grandma in the World.” Nice sentiment, but yes, I’d have been the laughingstock of my class if Mom hadn’t made her change.

      That was trivial, though, compared to when Granddad died and Nana wanted to sell the family home and give all the proceeds to her favorite botanical gardens.

      Her heart’s as big as the world, but unfortunately she doesn’t have any of those rational, analytical genes the rest of us inherited from Granddad. Hence—yes, I am a lawyer and the jargon pops out from time to time—my Nana-minding role on this trip.

      Poor Nana. This whole thing has to be very hard for her. Although she only saw her older sister every ten or so years, Nana always said Auntie Bet was her best friend. What with my aunt’s heart problems her death wasn’t a huge surprise, but I know Nana’s been mourning.

      I have two sisters and a brother. We argue a lot, get on each other’s nerves—and I can only imagine how devastated I’d feel if something happened to one of them.

      I touch her hand sympathetically, but