But he hadn’t actually been thinking about that. He’d been caught off guard by what she was revealing, inadvertent though it had been.
The one truly memorable thing about Honey D’Amourvell was her eyes. Not so much because they were an interesting shade of green, although they were so light in color they were almost spooky. Probably just an effect created by the black horn rim glasses she wore. It was what was in those spooky eyes that had made him feel incredibly stupid for assuming anything based on a name. He, of all people, knew better.
She’d been staring across the back alley at the buildings that fronted the corner of the town square. Normally, the thought of the cupcake bakery brought a pleasant smile to his face. He wasn’t one for sweets, so had never been through the front door of either part of the establishment, but in the short time his garage had been in its new location, he’d done the neighborly thing, nodded when waved to, observed the comings and goings, had even jumped a dead battery for one of the cupcake ladies, and fixed a flat for another.
Small communities usually bred far more familiarity, but he wasn’t a chatty sort and didn’t much care to air his personal business. Several generations of the Ross family had contributed more than enough personal business to the community grapevine. The recent loss of the original garage buildings due to a fire down by the docks had stirred up the old gossip all over again. But the cupcake ladies didn’t pry—much—so he’d accepted the occasional baked treat and tolerated a little friendly chitchat.
Yesterday, however, thinking of them hadn’t brought an automatic smile to his face . . . because they surely hadn’t brought a smile to his newest customer’s face. Nor had they brought a frown. The look on her face had been . . . wistful.
Generally, Dylan stayed in the service bay and let Dell handle the people part of the business. The kid was a natural with any and all movable parts and could probably assemble an engine blindfolded, but he was equally good with the people side of things, which suited Dylan just fine. He could keep his focus on the work at hand. As he saw it, his job was to deliver reliable, dependable service, fixing what needed to be fixed for as reasonable a price as possible. It meant something to him that he’d kept afloat the family business that had been launched sixty-five years ago by his late grandfather and great-uncle, later joined by his father, then briefly by his older brother, and now operated solely by him.
He considered himself a rather observant man. Like any good mechanic, he put a lot of stock in the senses he’d been born with. Oftentimes he could decipher the problem with a car just by the sound it made, the feel of a certain vibration, or the smell it gave off. Observation skills also came in handy when judging his customers, figuring how best to deal with them. So it wasn’t altogether surprising that he’d noticed her look of unfettered yearning. What did surprise him was that he’d reacted so viscerally to it.
He prided himself on his powers of observation, yes, but they were second only to his ability to maintain his objectivity in any and all situations. He didn’t let things get personal, because . . . well, because he never let things get personal. And Miss Honey D’Amourvell was anything but personal to him. He’d never laid eyes on the woman before.
So why that look on her face yanked a knot in his gut, he couldn’t have said. Likely, it had been his inability to figure that out that had him clearing his throat a bit too forcefully, and doling out the bad news to her a bit more gruffly than absolutely necessary. Mostly, he just wanted to get her taken care of and out of his shop so he could go back to being impersonal, private, and unaffected.
And yet, a day later, he still couldn’t get her off his mind. Pushing back the heavy hank of hair that insisted on falling forward and plastering itself to his sweaty forehead, he made a mental note to visit Ollie’s and get the barber to just shave his head. “Damn, it’s hot.”
He dropped one socket wrench into his tool box, grabbed another, then bent back over the VW’s ancient engine, which some German rocket scientist had decided to cram in the trunk . . . and found himself thinking about what she’d been wearing. Not stripper clothes, that’s for damn sure.
Not even particularly feminine ones, for that matter. She’d had on loose fitting Army green khakis that had been artfully decorated with stitching or patchwork and what looked like beads—he wasn’t much for crafts—along with well-worn, combat-worthy hiking books, and some kind of white gauzy blousy thing that looked more like mosquito netting with some elastic here and there. With the stitched-on beads and gauzy shirt, she was more artsy-gypsy than stripper . . . if gypsies wore horn rim glasses. Oddly enough, those had turned him on. Just a little. Something about mystical green eyes being framed with all that serious, no nonsense black.
“Of course, she’s also batshit crazy,” he muttered, glowering at the clamp he was trying to wrench loose.
So . . . why was he still thinking about her?
More to the point, why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? It wasn’t a surprise that he’d thought about her initially. It wasn’t every day—or any day—that someone freaked out all over the inside of his garage like she had. A woman like that was memorable. Just not for the right reasons.
But he hadn’t been thinking about that when he’d come in this morning to go over her engine after doing some research to track down the list of parts he was going to need, and he wasn’t thinking about it seven hours later as he stared at an engine that was more museum piece than part of a functioning form of transportation.
What he couldn’t stop thinking about—then and now—was that one moment when he’d first laid eyes on her. Despite all the crazy chick stuff that had happened later, that moment stuck with him. It had been that vulnerable look, and maybe that moment when she’d paused with her back to him, bracing herself on the open door of her car, when he’d noticed her hand wasn’t steady. And her shoulders were too rigidly held.
That raw yearning from earlier had echoed through his mind, and had him wondering what had made her react to him as she had. He’d tried to be a bit more . . . well, maybe compassionate wasn’t exactly the right word. Ultimately, he’d just wanted her the hell out of his shop. The only problems he was comfortable tackling were the ones that could be rolled into his service bay . . . then rolled right back out again.
But she’d looked . . . fragile . . . so he’d put on kid gloves as best he knew how and delivered her to the Hughes’s place then tried to turn his attention to the only aspect of her existence that he could let himself care about. Her ancient car. Because he definitely didn’t need crazy in his life.
He’d had about all of that he could take growing up. Mercifully, just the one son was left of Ross & Sons—him.
He was the only one he had to deal with on a regular basis, and fortunately, he wasn’t batshit crazy, which made life kind of nice for a change. Quiet, too. Maybe too quiet at times. But he’d take too quiet over the alternative every single minute of every day he had left on this earth and be damn grateful for it.
He channeled his frustration with himself into a little more elbow grease, determined to wrench the half-rotted hose and clamp loose or—
A wince-inducing squeal of metal on metal shrieked through the humid shop air, followed by a shrill snap . . . and the tinny sound of a piece of Honey D’Amourvell’s Jurassic-era engine pinging off parts of the motor before clattering to the cement floor under her car.
“Well, shit.” What the hell kind of name is Honey D’Amourvell for a woman who looks like she does, anyway? He grunted as he hunkered down and reached for the busted clamp.
So, she wasn’t a stripper, or old money, but that name conjured up all kinds of sultry, breathy Cat on a Hot Tin Roof type images. One that came packaged with a deep Southern drawl, a throaty laugh, and a smile that promised all kinds of heartache. The kind a man would willingly suffer through, just to get more of the rest.
The Honey who drove that godforsaken pile of rust was none of those things. What she was, already, was a pain in his a
ss.
He crawled half under the car to reach the snapped ring, giving in to the need to vent a few of the more colorful words in his vocabulary when it skittered just beyond his reach.
“My, my, it sounds like someone is having a challenging day.”
Dylan closed his eyes briefly, found a calming breath from somewhere, stretched and snagged the damn busted part, then slowly crawled out, got to his feet and turned around. “Afternoon, Miz Alva. Pardon my language. What brings you around today? Problem with the Lincoln?”
Alva Liles was one of the oldest residents of the island, somewhere north of eighty, but with the sharp mind of someone half her age. She stood just inside the bay door, decked out in one of a seemingly endless array of skirt, blouse, and sweater ensembles she always wore—today in varying shades of blue—and always with that strand of pearls around her neck. She had to be sweltering in all those layers, but she looked, as always, fresh as a spring daisy. Probably something to do with the helmet of lacquered curls perched ever so precisely on top of her head that wouldn’t dare wilt, even in the heat. She was the tiniest thing, barely hitting five feet, even in her sensible, matronly pumps.
“Oh, goodness no,” she reassured him. “That car wouldn’t dare malfunction now that you’ve got her all tuned up and purring like a cat napping in a sunbeam.”
Despite his momentary frustration, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch. She was a character, Miss Alva was. He wiped his hands on the shop rag he’d tucked in his back pocket. “Then what brings you by? Now, if this is about the poker game, I’m flattered to be asked to buy in, but I haven’t changed my mind. I—”
“Now, now. I’m not here to strong arm you into playing in my Spring Fling tournament, even if we both know you could use a bit of socializing.”
His lips did curve a little then. She made him sound like a poorly trained dog who needed a turn at obedience school. He supposed she wasn’t far from wrong on that score, but he’d made it this far off the leash; he wasn’t about to strap one on now. “I appreciate the leniency.”
She lowered a perfectly penciled brow at the amusement in his tone, but spared him the lecture—which he also appreciated, because when Alva Liles put her mind to something, she usually prevailed.
“I dropped by because we had our little cupcake club yesterday and I still have a jelly roll left after we made our rounds of the hospital wards over in Savannah today. I thought you might enjoy something a little sweet, what with all this heat and you working right out in it. A bite of this and a pitcher of lemonade would be just the thing.” She beamed. “It’s cherry. Your favorite.”
He accepted the neatly plastic-wrapped bundle she handed to him. “Now, how do you know cherry is my favorite?”
She smiled and those faded blue eyes of hers twinkled. “Because when you taste my cherry jelly roll, it will be.”
He couldn’t help it; he smiled right back. “You’re probably right. I appreciate the thought. Good of you to stop by.”
He crossed the cement floor and ducked into his office long enough to pop the package on top of the microwave. When he reentered the service bay, she was looking under the hood of the Volkswagen. “Careful there, Miz Alva. Shouldn’t get too close.”
“I remember these cars,” she said, not budging, a wistful note in her voice. “I wanted one, but my dear, departed Harold thought they were impractical. His sister, June, had one when we were dating. It was 1949, or thereabouts. They were just becoming popular. We borrowed it once.” She glanced up at Dylan, that twinkle magnified now. “He was right. Couldn’t do a damn thing without that stick shift getting in the way.”
It was a good thing Dylan hadn’t given in to the growl in his stomach and pinched a bite of the jelly roll, because he’d have surely choked on it. “Well . . . I wouldn’t rightly know,” he somehow managed.
She continued to look over the car. “Which is why you need to get out and socialize more. A man your age, still single, looking like you do. You’re what, thirty now, thirty-one? It’s almost a crime, really, when you think about it.”
Completely at a loss for words, he forced himself to swallow and tried to decide the best way to get her to head on out. He tolerated her occasional attempts to talk him into attending this event or that one, but this hard press was a first, even for her. “I . . . appreciate the thought, but I’m fine. Just fine.”
She turned to him then, the twinkle replaced by a shrewd, direct gleam. “You’ve done your granddaddy proud, you have, Dylan Ross. I haven’t mentioned it, but I knew Tommy quite well. His brother, Dick, too. A bit of a rascal that one, always into this or that.”
Dylan said nothing, as that was about as kindly as she could have put it. And far more than the man deserved. “I appreciate that, too. Thanks again for—”
“And I know your Daddy would have been, too.” She sighed, fluttered a hand near her heart. “God rest his soul.” Her voice had wavered a bit, but her gaze did not, which had his own eyes narrowing slightly; she clearly wasn’t done yet. “Now, I know it’s not my place to say such things, but just because your mama wasn’t there to help your poor daddy with his troubles, and your brother . . . lost his way, does not mean you have to hide—”
Dylan’s scowl shut down that particular line of conversation. He couldn’t quite believe she’d gone there.
“I’ve said too much.” But Alva didn’t look all that remorseful.
Nor, he noted, did she give him that pitying look so many of the older islanders did. He hated that look.
“I meant it kindly,” she told him, a smile back in her voice. “I’ve always marveled at how well you’ve done for yourself. We can’t choose the family we’re born to, and all you’ve done is give yours a good name. I know it had to be heartbreaking when the shop your granddaddy started up burned to the ground in that fire, but you seem to be settling in over here. This row of old buildings hasn’t seen any use in as long as I can remember. Maybe now that you’re in here, others will follow your lead and spruce up the rest of the strip. I heard someone bought the space right next door.” She let the sentence dangle, but he didn’t pick up the bait.
He was still trying to process everything else she’d said. Besides, it was no one’s business but his own that he’d been the one who had bought up the adjoining building. Insurance had paid out better than anticipated on the old place and he’d had to reinvest it somehow. Way he saw it, if folks suddenly did take an interest in revitalizing the remaining buildings that fronted the channel, he could sell it at a tidy profit to whomever would annoy him the least.
“It’s good to be a bit closer to the center of things,” Alva was saying. “Not tucked away down there by the fishing docks, but here in the heart of town. More social, don’t you think? I’d think it’d be better for business. Better for you, too.”
He’d come to stand beside her, ostensibly to find some way to escort her out that didn’t require bodily removing her, but before he could figure out exactly how to go about that, she reached over and squeezed his arm, then patted his hand. “Oh, don’t look so stormy. I’m not asking you out on a date. But you should think about it. Dating, I mean. I’m not the only single woman on Sugarberry.”
He’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. There was no other explanation. She’d gone past flummoxing him, even pissing him off, to just, well . . . flustering him. Rallying his thoughts, he somehow found the wherewithal to force a smile. “And here I thought you were seeing Hank Shearin.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks warmed right up, even under her carefully applied rouge. “Now, don’t you go believing everything you hear. But it’s good to know you’re keeping up with the goings on around town. Shows you’ve got some interest. That’s a good thing.” She patted again. “Now, cultivate it.”
“I’m an auto mechanic. One step away from a bartender. I hear things whether I want to or not.”
“Well, it’s still a place to start.” She patted his hand one last time, then slid her arm
free. “You’re not so brooding and quiet as you try and make us believe. I mean, look at the two of us, having ourselves a nice little chat. See? It wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
He’d rather eat fire ants. He’d also sorely underestimated his placement on Miss Alva’s to-do list. He’d have to put a stop to that before it went any further, but at the moment, he couldn’t come up with a solid game plan, other than to send her on her merry way as soon as possible.
“Thanks again for the jelly roll,” he said by way of responding. “I should get back to work.”
She turned her attention back to the Volkswagen. “I don’t recognize this one from anyone on the island.”
“Not a local. Just someone passing through, having a bit of bad luck.”
“Not so bad as all that if she found you.” Alva looked through the side windows, then glanced at the license plate. “Oregon. Long way to be passing through. Looks like she’s got a goodly part of her worldly possessions with her, too.”
“How do you know it belongs to a woman?” Dylan asked, bemused despite himself.
“Not too many men I know would drive a powder blue Beetle Bug. Although, they say they’re a bit odd up there in the northwest, so, who knows.”
Odd, Dylan thought. That’s one way to put it.
“Only ever knew one person from Oregon. Newcomer. Beavis Chantrell.” Alva smiled fondly. “She was certainly a colorful one, so perhaps there’s something to it. You know, she used to do costumes in Hollywood for some of the big movie stars? Then she left there and designed for the show girls in those big, fancy Vegas reviews. Came out here with a fella, some young slick. Card shark if you ask me. Never did trust him. Pretty sure he cheated the time or two we played poker, though I couldn’t catch him red-handed at it.
“I was so happy when she stayed after he moved on, opened up her little shop. We were fortunate to keep her, we were.” Alva sighed. “My Harold’s suits never fit so well as when Bea took her hand to them. And the things she could do to spruce up an old hat, I tell you. You could always count on her to let you know if there was trouble brewin’, too. I miss her.”
Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie Page 3
