Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  Joe and Sam exchanged a glance and then went for the case of oil on the workbench. Who knew how long it’d take to get Irwin’s motorcycle running. It would be easier to give him a lift home. It was as good a time as any to test the tow truck. And maybe he’d convince Irwin that he was no longer the hoodlum of his youth.

  * * *

  GRANDPA PHIL WAS having a yard sale.

  Good. Maybe he’d cleaned out his overstuffed garage.

  Brittany had to park in front of the house next door because there were cars double-parked in front of Phil’s gray-and-white ranch home. She’d spent most of the day in Santa Rosa stocking up on hair products and trying to find chair hair dryers. The only units she found were bank-breaking new. She had appointments for wet sets starting Tuesday and no dryers to put her clients under. When she’d envisioned coming to Harmony Valley, she hadn’t considered that there’d be a high demand for her services and therefore a high demand on her time to be able to deliver said services efficiently and properly.

  Phil sat in a webbed folding chair on the lawn, legs crossed at the knee, lanky elbows propped on aluminum armrests as two women wrestled with a wheelbarrow in a truck bed.

  It wasn’t until Brit got out of her own truck that she realized they weren’t loading the wheelbarrow. They were unloading it! Adding to the clutter in the driveway.

  “What’s all this?” she asked Phil.

  “It’s for you.” Phil beamed. “I told you I knew people who had stuff they wanted to give away.”

  “But...” It’s junk, she wanted to shout.

  There were boxes and bags of heaven only knew what dumped in front of the house. Bicycles and tricycles parked on the side yard. A refrigerator door with a shovel sticking out of it. Four Volkswagen hubcaps. A blue ceramic elephant plant stand with one chipped ear. And that was just what she could see.

  Brit turned to the ladies and their cement-caked wheelbarrow. “Ladies, please don’t hurt yourselves. I can’t take that.”

  Their sweaty, wrinkled faces fell.

  “There’s more coming,” Phil said stubbornly, his face shiny from too much sun.

  “More?” Brit considered sitting on the elephant plant stand and burying her face in her hands. Instead, she moved forward to help the ladies push the wheelbarrow back onto the truck.

  A bright red Thunderbird convertible zipped around the corner, Rose at the wheel. She parked it cockeyed in the street. A tall metal floor lamp was strapped into the passenger seat. The lamp shade was pink and had elephants marching around it. “I’ve always hated this lamp.” Rose glided around the car, smooth as silk. “When Phil said you were looking for junk, I rushed right over.”

  “Unbelievable,” Brit muttered.

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” Grandpa’s smile practically lifted him out of his webbed chair.

  Brit was so overwhelmed, she didn’t reject the women’s second attempt to remove the wheelbarrow. “I can’t use 99 percent of this stuff.” She nudged a box of mismatched serving bowls with her toe. “What are we going to do with it all?” She had yet to clean out a space in the garage for her worktable.

  “You can’t use...” Phil sank back in his chair. “Shoot and darn.”

  “You can’t use any of it?” Rose gazed sorrowfully at her lamp.

  “What were you looking for?” The yearning to be a help was palpable on Grandpa’s face. “If you tell me, I can find it for you.”

  Brit shrugged. “I look for things that speak to me.” Like Joe’s hair and the BMW grille, soft-spoken as the latter was in comparison to mermaids that whispered in her ear, urging she bring them to life.

  Phil and Rose made disgruntled sounds as if her answer had boiled down to belittling their attempts to help her.

  “Maybe I’m too tired to see a diamond in the rough.” Worn-out from her argument with Reggie. Perplexed by her reaction to Joe. Stressed about the popularity of her beauty services. Down in the dumps due to her creative block. “Or maybe it’s just because I’ve had my pragmatic hat on today. I’ve been looking for hair dryers for the barbershop.”

  “Oh, no,” Phil said. “Not that again.”

  “Hair dryers?” Rose frowned. “The kind you sit under?”

  Brit nodded. “If I can’t find some, I’ll have to reschedule a lot of appointments.” And rescheduling meant cutting into the time she needed to get back in the creative saddle.

  “I might be able to help with that, but—” Rose did a shuffle step across the driveway “—I might not. I need to check with Agnes.”

  A faded red truck trundled around the corner and came to a slow stop next to Rose’s car. An old woman slid out of the driver’s seat. She didn’t carry anything and she didn’t unload anything from her pickup. She moved in between the piles of donations with the slow deliberation of a tugboat working against the tide.

  And then she turned to Phil. “This is the worst yard sale ever. All this stuff should go to the dump.”

  “It’s not a yard sale,” Phil grumbled. “It’s my granddaughter’s art supply.”

  The wheelbarrow ladies hightailed it out of there.

  “That’s it.” Brit tilted her face skyward. “I’m going on a dump run.”

  “Hey,” Phil protested. “I spent hours on the phone arranging this. Why, I practically had to beg!”

  If Brit didn’t at least look through the piles, she’d be the most ungrateful grandchild ever. She dutifully scanned the detritus and then met her grandfather’s stubborn gaze. He seemed as hurt as when she’d suggested she cut Joe’s hair. “I suppose there might be something here I could save.”

  Brit worked her way through the paraphernalia while Rose did the same. Brit held on to a fire poker set, a garden fountain with a black faux marble ball, a metal trash can, rusted metal fence posts with knots of barbed wire and a box of old screws and bolts.

  Rose picked up a flour sifter and sifted the driveway with residual flour. “Do you need this, Brittany? I used to have one just like it. Can’t remember where I put mine.”

  “It’s yours.” Brit considered the bicycles next. Most were too new to interest her. She preferred rust, not paint. But perhaps if she left them outside for a year or two...

  “That’s it?” Phil sat up in his chair, taking stock of her pile. “You should at least keep this...this...” He cast about for something near him. His hand landed on a large wooden magazine stand. “This! And what about Rose’s lamp?”

  A large engine rumbled from a nearby street, coming closer.

  “Normally, I recycle the electronics from lamps, but that lamp is really old.” A fire hazard. And really, that lamp shade...

  The engine rumbled closer. A banana-yellow tow truck came around the corner.

  * * *

  “LOOK AT THAT, DAD. It’s either a yard sale or a whole lotta cars broke down.” Sam leaned around Irwin to grin. She’d called shotgun, leaving Irwin the center seat in the tow truck.

  Joe hadn’t been in the mood to argue about respecting your elders and giving them the best seat, considering Irwin thought Joe was a biker thug. Maybe it was time to get his hair cut shorter. The memory of Brittany’s fingers in his hair had him downshifting with an epic gear grind.

  “Hey, that’s Phil. My next-door neighbor.” Irwin, who’d been pouty since having to leave Barbara at the shop, perked up. “And he’s got friends over. They’ll see me in my street gear and with you. This is great.”

  “Irwin, I don’t want to tell you again. I’m just a mechanic. I’m not in a motorcycle club.” Joe registered the cars, the stacked boxes in Phil’s driveway and a woman with long brown hair with a purple streak. His pulse shifted into high gear, making Joe brake too hard. “Let’s just drop Irwin off. We still have to inventory the vehicles in the field.” Pulse pounding aside, the last thing he wanted was his i
mpressionable daughter getting more exposure to Brittany.

  “Please, Dad. They might have clothes.”

  “Polyester pants, maybe,” Joe mumbled.

  “Please...”

  The road was blocked. Joe had to relent, pulling behind Brittany’s truck and parking in front of what Irwin said was his house.

  Sam hopped out before Joe could set the parking brake. She ran to the edge of Phil’s driveway and then skidded to a stop, asking Rose, “Are there any clothes?”

  “Only hard goods.” Rose stopped digging through a large lopsided box long enough to look up and say, “How are you today, Samantha?”

  “Fine.” Sam’s shoulders slumped, but she didn’t return to their rig.

  What was the big deal about clothes lately? Joe came around to help Irwin out of the truck.

  It was a big step for an old man, made more difficult by the tightness of his leathers, which creaked louder than his deep, wheezy breaths. “Is she—” wheeze “—looking at me?”

  “Who?”

  “Rose,” Irwin whispered. With his back to the yard sale, the old man rearranged his leathers. “She’s got spunk. Heard she’s going to go red.”

  An older woman Joe didn’t recognize, the one wearing faded overalls, caught sight of Joe and scurried toward her truck as if afraid he might mug her.

  Joe’s head pounded. Maybe they should relocate somewhere else, someplace where Messinas didn’t have a checkered past.

  Irwin thrust out his chest, sucked in his stomach—no small feat—and turned. “Rose would look mighty fine on the back of Barbara.”

  “Barbara isn’t a two-person bike.” Joe drew Irwin aside and shut the door.

  “Did you bring anything, Samantha?” Rose was lucky to be oblivious to Irwin’s fantasy. “This is something of a swap meet. I left a lamp and got a flour sifter.”

  “We should have brought Barbara to trade,” Joe muttered.

  “I should find Barbara a proper mechanic,” Irwin grouched in return. “You’re ruining all my street cred.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Joe watched the old woman he’d scared off turn the corner sharply toward Main Street. “Some people still think I’m a badass.”

  Brittany had noticed the old woman leaving. She gave Joe a sympathetic smile.

  And some people think I’m pitiful. Joe didn’t want Brittany’s pity.

  Irwin’s phone beeped. “It’s time for my meds. I’ve got to take them with food.” He fixed Joe with a hard stare. “Keep Phil away from Rose while I’m gone.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.” Joe saluted.

  The breeze rustled the leaves overhead, sounding like polite laughter.

  Irwin didn’t laugh. He looked at Joe as if he was a tremendous disappointment. “Don’t salute, man. A simple grunt goes a long way.”

  “I’ll remember that.” The next time the FBI called. Thankfully, he’d had no calls today from anyone.

  “This isn’t a yard sale?” Disappointment darkened Sam’s words like gathering storm clouds.

  “This is a repository for Brit’s art.” Phil leaned forward in a rickety lawn chair, intent on imparting important news. “A veritable well of inspiration.”

  Brittany clapped a hand over her eyes, which Joe took to mean she’d found the well dry.

  Joe joined Sam on the driveway, pausing to appreciate Brittany’s legs and the red Thunderbird convertible. In that order.

  “Why this—” Phil tapped a wooden magazine stand with his hand “—this could be a...a...a rocket platform.” He got to his feet with a huge wobble. “You could make a merman rising out of it, shooting to the stars.” He raised a foot as if about to try standing on the piece of furniture.

  “No acrobatics,” Brittany warned, hurrying over to steady Phil and lead him back to his lawn chair.

  “I love this lamp.” Sam gripped a cast-iron floor lamp with a pink lamp shade. “Look, Dad. It has monkeys dancing around the base and elephants on the lamp shade. How cool is that?”

  Joe withheld judgment. It looked like something you plugged in if you wanted to start an electrical fire.

  “Can I have it?” Sam carried the lamp to the beautician-artist-trespasser-thief. “Or do you want it for one of your projects, Brittany?”

  “Call me Brit.” She put her fingers in the fringe of Sam’s hair.

  Brit. The nickname didn’t do her justice. It was too short. Brittany had layers. A three-syllable name suited her. A woman like her could’ve handled a fourth syllable.

  Not that she had admirable layers.

  Not that you’re completely admirable either. The voice in his head sounded too much like Athena’s.

  Not that Messinas are ones to judge. The voice switched to Uncle Turo’s.

  “It’s all yours.” Brittany fluffed his daughter’s short locks beneath her cap.

  Next thing you knew, Brittany would want to cut and curl Sam’s hair. She’d be having Sam in makeup and heels. She’d be encouraging Sam to ride a motorcycle and it wouldn’t be Barbara.

  “Sam.” Joe didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yeah, Dad?” There was hesitation in Sam’s eyes. She expected him to reject the lamp. His concern wasn’t about a hand-me-down.

  Step away from the bad influence.

  He wanted his little girl to stay sweet and innocent and unpolished awhile longer, but that statement wouldn’t go over well. “I’ll need to rewire that lamp before you use it.”

  That earned him a smile from Brittany that put his pulse back in high gear. What was going on here? He had to remind himself he didn’t like her.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Sam’s eyes lit up. She hurried back to the piles of junk in the driveway. “Oh, wow. This is great.” She sat on a three-foot-high blue ceramic elephant. “There’s only one chip in him and you can barely see it. Maybe I can use this to sit on in front of a computer desk.” Her gaze turned wistfully manipulative. “If I had a computer desk.”

  “You have a tablet, not a computer.” Their laptops had come from Turo. Also confiscated by the FBI.

  “That’s actually a plant stand,” Brittany said. “If you want it, I have some nail polish that might cover that chip.”

  “Okay.” Brittany’s gaze wandered again and before Joe could say anything, she caught sight of the wooden magazine rack at Phil’s feet. “And that. That would be great to store my books.”

  “It’s yours,” Brittany said.

  Joe collected the magazine rack and the plant stand and put them by the lamp. “Time to go, Sam.”

  “But...what about this?” Sam held up a plastic shoe rack.

  He got the impression she was picking indiscriminately just to fill up the truck. “You only have three pairs of shoes.” That’s all a kid needed.

  “Oh, yeah.” Sam’s expression crumpled.

  Brittany draped her arm around Sam and said in a scolding tone, “She only has three pairs now. That’ll change. Soon she’ll have flats and sandals and slides and killer boots.”

  “No killer boots,” Joe said reflexively. “She’s not that kind of girl. Don’t put ideas in her head.”

  Sam leaned into Brittany and made her little-girl pouty face.

  “I mean—” Joe regrouped “—Sam’s not into clothes and shoes and stuff. She likes engines and cars.”

  “I’m into engines and welding,” Brittany said in a voice that suggested Joe should have seen this coming. “And I like pretty clothes and fancy shoes and makeup.” She high-fived Sam.

  Phil chuckled. “She’s got you there, son. And usually when a woman has you, you owe her a favor.” He gave his granddaughter a sly look and gestured to the spread of items before them. “You need a favor from someone with strong arms and a truck, don’t you, Brit?”

  “Why, yes
. Yes, I do.” Brittany hugged Sam before releasing her to focus on Joe. “The town has politely donated things they don’t need in the hopes that I can use some of it in my art. But it’s slim pickings.”

  Joe looked around at the collection of junk, agreeing. “And so...”

  “I need help getting it off Grandpa Phil’s driveway.” There was a contagious twinkle to Brittany’s eyes.

  Joe had been inoculated against twinkles. Still, he could almost feel her sparkliness soothe the anger inside.

  “And she needs help transporting it to the dump,” Rose added, squeezing the squeaky handle of a dented flour sifter.

  “Who’s going to pay for the dumping fee?” Money matters were the best way to squelch sparkliness.

  “You are.” Phil’s tone was definitive. “You owe the family for joyriding with Leona’s car.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. “That was over a decade ago.”

  “People in Harmony Valley have long memories,” Phil continued.

  True that.

  Phil wasn’t done. “And if you do this dump run, I’ll recommend your garage to others in town.”

  “We’ll help,” Sam blurted. “But only if I can pick through things first.” And then she added softly, trying to only let Brittany hear, “Are you sure there aren’t any clothes?”

  “Sam, you have clothes,” Joe said firmly.

  “New school, Dad,” Sam said in her duh tone of voice. “Everybody gets new clothes when they go to a new school.”

  “Dads never understand.” Brittany’s mouth curled up on one side, threatening to burst into that smile that had slipped past Joe’s defenses a number of times.

  Beautician-artist-trespasser-thief. If he said it often enough, he’d be okay.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Rose snapped her fingers. “Mildred thought you’d like some car parts. I’ve got them in my trunk.”

  “Car parts?” Joe perked up.

  “She brought them for me, Shaggy Joe.” Brittany hurried over to the trunk of the T-bird.

  “Watch out, Rose.” Joe followed them to the convertible. “Brittany might take a liking to your car and steal your fender in the middle of the night for some funky art project she has in mind.”