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Love is a Fire that Burns Unseen.

Never Underestimate the Power of a Woman Scorned.

By Judy Walker Published 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
9
Love is a Fire that Burns Unseen.
Photo by Zach Vessels on Unsplash

The first time Sheila set fire to one of Howie’s buildings, was seven years ago. “Burn!” she had sobbed through snot and tears. “Burn!” She wanted to destroy him for leaving her for that bleach-haired, botoxed floozy of a secretary of his. What a cliché he had turned out to be.

No one suspected her involvement. Why would they? She was a picture of professionalism, a woman of substance. She was a respected member of the Alberta Insurance Council and the sole owner of Central Agencies. She fostered abandoned cats for the Infinite Meow Rescue Agency and shoveled her elderly neighbor's sidewalk after a snowstorm without being asked. So, when she closed the door behind the senior arson investigator from Toronto, she had a pretty good feeling he hadn’t suspected a thing.

Her sole desire had been to hurt Howie where he’d feel it most. His bank account. Unfortunately, her rage was raw and her planning pitiful. In addition to Howie’s property, the first fire destroyed eighteen homes in total and damaged seventy-two others.

Some of the homeowners turned out to be Sheila’s clients. When they showed up at her agency over the next few weeks, all sad-faced and unhinged, Sheila was the Mother Theresa of sympathy. She practiced her compassionate expression in front of the bathroom mirror every morning and then, passed around tissue boxes, patted backs, and even lugged her Breville Barista expresso machine from her home to the office. Only the best joe for her grieving clients.

She felt terrible for them, she really did, but wasn’t that what insurance was for? To protect against accidents? And it was an accident, she consoled herself. She didn’t mean to burn their house down.

She expedited their claims, no questions asked, and spent somewhat-sleepless nights asking God for forgiveness. (With the exception of the damage she had caused to Howie, of course.)

Following the first fire, Howie arrived at her office with terror-filled eyes. His hands shook so badly he could hardly hold on to the cup of coffee she handed him. “I don’t know what to do,” he said and dropped into a chair, head in hands. “The police suspect arson. Can you believe it? Who would do such a thing?”

Sheila played the role of an exemplary ex-wife. She helped Howie with the flood of forms and statements the adjuster required, and reveled in the satisfaction that he was getting what he deserved for breaking his promise to be with her for better or worse, for richer or poorer.

After the botched fire in 2007, Sheila got smart. She read The Fire Investigators Field Guide, Fire Investigation, Fire Dynamics, Fires…Accidental or Arson, Understanding the Arsonist, and her most favorite, Fire Lover. She poured over the books and then incinerated them inside her wood-burning stove, its flames growing robust and powerful.

Last September, Sheila stumbled upon Howie’s wedding announcement in the Camrose Booster and almost choked on her bagel. The following week, The Essence Development, one of Howie’s projects in Windermere, burned down to ashes.

And what a surprise when in April of next year, Howie’s newest condo-development nearing completion burned to the ground too.

Poor Howie. He came to her again, older, balder, smaller. She had continued to insure his business for all those years. She watched with satisfaction as his insurance rates climbed ever higher with each fire and the number of insurance companies willing to insure a high-risk developer dwindle to zero.

“I’m so sorry, Howie,” she said. “I don’t know what to tell you. The only option left is to self-insure.”

“I’m broke, Sheila! There’s no money left.”

Sheila shrugged and handed him the insurance company’s termination notice.

When she got home that night, Sheila knew there was only one thing left to do. She knelt in front of her wood-burning stove and with the precision of a seasoned girl scout, stacked the kindling atop crumpled newsprint. She walked into the kitchen, swung open the refrigerator door and there, at the back of the bottom shelf, was a bottle of 2010 Dom Perignon.

She poured the bubbly into her grandmother's Bohemian Crystal flute and watched as the bubbles broke the surface. She had been waiting to pop this baby for seven years. Seven long years of planning and dreaming and scheming.

Back in the living room, she reached inside the brass match holder on the wall behind the wood stove and pulled out a long match. One strike and the match exploded into a single flame. Sheila inhaled the familiar scent of burning Sulphur and lit the newsprint inside the stove. "This one's for me," she said aloud.

The scrapbook was already on the coffee table. She lay it open on her lap and took a long sip of the champagne. With each page turned, her eyes took on the glow of the fire, flickering flames inside dark irises. The scrapbook contained seven years worth of newspaper articles and photos of the fires she had set to Howie’s properties. She had titled it, Love is a Fire that Burns Unseen after Howie’s favorite poem, the one he read to her on their wedding day.

“It’s time,” Sheila whispered. “Time for you to burn.” She downed the last of the Dom Perignon and tossed the scrapbook into the hungry flames.

Satire
9

About the Creator

Judy Walker

Love & Life are my true inspirations.

If you like my writing, please share, or if so inspired, tip (no obligation).

Your support is appreciated 🙏.

You can find me on FB here.

Instagram here.

Elephant Journal here.

My blog here.

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