“Well, if she did—” Rose unlocked the trunk “—I’m sure it would turn into something beautiful. That mermaid sculpture is exquisite.” Rose pointed a finger at Brittany. “But don’t you dare think about it.”
“Never fear. I prefer rusty fenders, Rose.” Brittany turned to Joe. “And since you’re nosy, you can help carry my gift over to my house.”
There were two boxes filled with clean car parts—a camshaft, two pistons, a small manifold cover and some O-rings.
“Dibs,” Joe whispered reverently. “These aren’t rusted.”
“Clean car parts work better in my smaller pieces, like man-cave lamps made from camshafts. You can have what I don’t use,” Brittany added magnanimously.
Joe leaned closer, running a finger over the name of the manufacturer stamped into the manifold. “This is German made.”
“Well, Mildred has a fondness for Volkswagens, so that makes sense.” Rose waited until they’d each taken a box before slamming the trunk. “If you like rust, Brittany, there used to be an abandoned Volkswagen out by the north bridge and the highway by the Messina Garage. I don’t know what happened to it. It could have been hauled away or overrun by those wild blackberry bushes.”
“Dibs.” Brittany grinned at Joe as they walked back to Phil’s. “I’m smiling, but I mean it. That car is mine.”
That smile of hers brought forth a lot of things Joe didn’t want to feel, including a competitive streak Joe had almost forgotten he had.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRIT WAS FREE.
The driveway was clear. Joe and Sam had brought their truck over, filled it and left for the dump, as well as taking some of the better bicycles to a shelter in Cloverdale. Brit had begun work on organizing the garage, but Grandpa Phil had accumulated a lot of junk in twenty years and it wasn’t stuff she could go through without him.
Tired from his day of socializing, Phil was sprawled on the couch snoring in a casket-worthy pose that unexpectedly squeezed her heart. They hadn’t been close before she moved in, but he was growing on her. She nudged his shoulder until he rolled onto his side.
Responsibilities taken care of, it was time to fill her creative well.
She’d make a lamp out of the camshaft Mildred had donated, using the innards from a cracked ceramic lamp someone had dropped off. And the old tricycle intrigued her...or perhaps Grandpa Phil’s merman idea had inspired her. Could she sell a merchild on a tricycle?
The business side of her art gnawed near where her self-confidence lived. True artists didn’t make choices based on profitability. But the reality was, she needed to sell her work to justify spending money to create more.
Brit frowned. That was Reggie talking.
Dressed in tan coveralls, a red T-shirt and work boots, Brit slipped out of the house, intent on finding the abandoned Volkswagen Rose had mentioned. With any luck, Joe had forgotten about the car or was busy preparing his garage for its grand reopening tomorrow.
Procrastinating, her pragmatic inner voice said.
Prospecting, her fearful creative side replied.
“Hey. Wait up.” It was Reggie, no doubt fresh from making beds, booking rooms and being deceitful to Leona. The B and B was just a few blocks over.
They hadn’t talked since last night. Brit had no desire to talk now.
She waved and walked faster in the other direction, toward the river. “No time to talk.” No time to be her sister’s accomplice.
“Wait up.” Reggie jogged after her, sandals slapping on the sidewalk.
“I’ve got to be somewhere.” She could see the break in the roadside brush next to the river. It led to a path along the bank, which eventually reached the highway near Joe’s garage. She’d used it last night in her failed attempt at reconnaissance. “Come by the house after dinner.”
“You’ll only find another excuse later. Talk to me now.”
Talk to me. Not I’m sorry. Not I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.
Brit turned. Planted her booted feet. Dug in her heels. And sprouted her most determined expression.
“You don’t have to put in any money.” Reggie held up her hands. Unlike Brit, she had callous-free palms. Unlike Brit, she looked well rested.
For a moment, Brit doubted her choice to take a stand. Maybe working at the B and B would be easier than cutting hair. “The money isn’t the issue.” It was a moot point since Brit had none. “Grandmother loves that house and when you present her with plans, she expects you to honor your word that we’re in this together.”
Reggie shrugged. “Please, Brit. Just a signature. Nothing more.”
The path to the river beckoned. Was she missing out on a good thing? Brit didn’t think so. A contract was legally binding and Brit no longer trusted what Reggie said. The wounds made by her twin’s words were still fresh and raw. If she said yes, she’d be validating Reggie’s opinion. If she said yes, she’d be pushing her creative bent to the back burner where it would slowly fizzle out.
“I recognize that look,” Reggie was quick to say. “Don’t turn me down. Not yet.”
Brit pressed her lips together.
“I’ll come up with a different solution. Just...for now, can you not say anything to Leona or Grandpa Phil?”
“You mean lie?” How could Reggie ask her that? She knew how Brit felt about being honest.
“No lying,” Reggie said firmly. “Just...don’t say anything.”
“You have to tell me why you want this so badly.” Tell me why you want me to compromise who I am. Tell me why you want this so much you’d ask me to be someone I’m not.
Reggie’s face closed off.
Brit turned away. She didn’t want to acknowledge her twin was trying to use her. But what else could this be? She pushed through the overgrown brush, rushing down the dirt path toward the river. The tepid warmth of spring was blocked beneath the thick canopy of leaves. The minty scent of eucalyptus and the pungent smell of rich wet soil filled her lungs. The river passed by with eddies and silent swirls, tugging at Brit’s frustration and worry for her twin. She tried to replace it with a feeling of anticipation for new beginnings. A car. What would she do if she found an abandoned car?
Her footfalls changed from an angry march to a purposeful step as she bobbed and weaved along the path. Birds swooped along the water. Leaves rustled in the breeze. She stopped at a bend in the river about fifty feet from the highway bridge, which rose from gray pillars out of the gray-green water. But here at the bend, the water was clearer. It swept out beneath the steep bank, seeming to ripple over rocks on the bottom, around a large trout making lazy circles in the shadows from a fallen tree trunk and a...bicycle tire?
She bent down, pulse quickening with excitement. Was it just the tire or the entire bicycle?
Brit couldn’t tell.
* * *
“THIS INVENTORY IS a waste of time.” Sam banged the clipboard against her leg. “We’ve only found a few cars with ID numbers. There are weeds coming out of this truck’s gas tank where the cap should be. Something ate through the convertible’s top on the little MG over there.” She glared at the sports car from beneath the rim of her ball cap. “And I don’t think we have the equipment to dig that BMW out of the mud.”
Despite coming back from their trip to the dump with a child’s wooden chair and a garden gnome, both in need of a fresh coat of paint, Sam was back to prickly preteen mood.
Joe figured the best way to get past it was to ignore it. “Since when did you shy away from a challenge? Do you know what midcentury modern cars are going for nowadays?”
“No.” She slapped the clipboard against her coveralls once more and gave him a dark look. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“Four to five times what they sold for new.” He worked the latch on the truck
hood of a Ford Falcon station wagon until it popped free. “We need to pick one or two with identification numbers and the best moneymaking potential.” As of yet, they hadn’t found anything about the BMW’s ownership.
Sam made a strangled noise as she glanced in the engine compartment. “And just how do we do that?”
Good question. The Ford’s engine was surrounded by a tangle of weeds that seemed to be dragging it downward. Might just as well have been yanking down Joe’s hopes. “We take that inventory you’re making and do an internet search to see what an equivalent car in prime condition sold for recently.”
“By we, you mean me?”
“Yep.”
“And then we’ll order parts and fix it up.”
“Yep.”
“So...” Her lips flattened resentfully. “We have money to spend, but we’re spending it on car parts?”
They had little money to spend. He’d have to charge parts on his credit card. “You’ve got to spend money to make money.”
“Dad, look at my shoes.” Sam enunciated each word as if Joe was missing an obvious point. “I need new shoes.”
He looked. They were almost the same bright blue they’d been when they’d bought them last fall. The soles were good. He’d made sure to buy good lugs. The laces clean. “Sam, new clothes won’t make us money.”
She scoffed and walked away. “I need a break.”
Joe slammed the hood of the station wagon and leaned on it, waging an internal boxing match between Sam’s short-term happiness and the need to put food on the table. His cell phone rang, ending the round with no decision.
For a moment as he scrambled for the phone, his heart pounding. A customer!
And then he recognized the notes of “Jailhouse Rock.” It was Uncle Turo.
Why was he calling again? Was he angry with Joe? Did he need help? Would he tell Joe where he’d stashed the stolen goods if he asked?
Joe debated so long, the call rolled to voicemail.
He stood in the field, held immobile by the forces around him—Sam’s disappointment, Turo’s bad decisions, the town’s suspicions, the FBI’s threats. All he wanted was to make an honest living working on engines. Was that too much to ask?
Movement by the river caught his eye. A woman with long brown hair and tan coveralls made her way down the opposite bank.
Suddenly, he could move again.
* * *
BRIT NEGOTIATED THE steep slope, slipping and sliding until she landed on the thin lip of mud making up the bank. She peered into the water.
“Definitely a bike,” she said to the fleeing fish. She could see the frame prongs on either side of the wheel spokes, covered in bright green algae. Here was a bike deserving of a mermaid. Or maybe a merman. One with unruly blue-black hair and a superior gleam in his eyes. Her pulse quickened with artistic enthusiasm. He’d never be as perfect as Keira, but he’d be beautiful in his own right.
But how to get the bike out of the water?
Fishing pole? Small boat anchor? Grappling hook? She had none of those things. All she had was her hands and the passion to create.
The river gurgled past, uncaring that Brit had found something that made her feel so alive.
She was a decent swimmer, but wasn’t foolish enough to go in the water wearing all her clothes. She glanced around. She could shuck her coveralls, T-shirt and shoes, and dive in. Her boy-shorts underpants and sports bra covered more than most bikinis nowadays. This was the north end of town and the highway wasn’t frequently traveled. She was alone. And the bike was waiting.
Decision made, Brit stripped down to her skivvies. Her toes sank into cold mud. She took a step into the water. “Oh, mama.” The frigid temp bit into her skin.
“Jump in. Drag it out. Get on your way.” She gave herself a murmured pep talk. This salvage would make for a good story if she used the bike. It’d be a solid reason to turn Reggie down.
I’m too busy, Brit would say. My so-called art career is taking off.
She took a farther step out on the ledge before the drop-off. The water was ice-cold, fed from the mountains. The current was strong enough to challenge her balance. It was too late to back out now. Besides, she couldn’t wait to see what the algae hid on the frame. Rust? Battered metal?
Drawing a deep breath, she crouched and launched herself into the bracing water, swimming a few feet until she saw the bicycle beneath her. Her efforts to tread water kept her afloat, but not near her goal. The river pushed her downstream. She swam back and tried to touch the tire with her foot.
Nada. Not so much as a slime of algae met her big toe.
It was deep here, the clear water deceptive. She didn’t want to dive beneath the surface. Her fingers and toes were already stinging with cold. This was worse than the time she’d discovered Keira’s ride in the Sierras—in a muddy field on a side road. It hadn’t been easy then either. She’d never gotten all the mud out of her boots.
She could do this.
If she ignored her shivering and the niggle of doubt.
She ignored both and dove under. It took her several strokes to reach the tire. The green algae was slick beneath her fingers. The wheel rotated back and forth when she pulled on it, but the bike didn’t budge. She tugged and tried not to think about fish nibbling her toes or being swept downstream into the rocks at the next bend in the river.
She swam forward, yanking the tire from a different direction. The current pushed her hair in front of her face, tried to push her away from the bike.
Tug-tug-tug.
It wasn’t budging and she needed air. She let go, kicking upward.
Something yanked her hair and held her back.
Her heart raced with fear. A merman?
But it wasn’t something dark and mythical that held her. It was the bike wheel. Her hair was wrapped around the hub and spokes.
Yank-yank-yank!
Her hair wouldn’t come free.
She was going to drown and be fish food unless she could untangle her hair or wrench the bike free.
Her lungs burned.
Drown. She was going to drown.
Reggie would never get to buy the B and B. Rose would never get her red hair. And—
She swallowed water.
* * *
JOE WOULD NEVER classify himself as a Peeping Tom. But when he’d seen Brittany slide down the slope to the riverbank, he had to know what she was doing. Something in the water had caught her eye, because she kept staring into the depths of his old fishing hole.
Had she found the Volkswagen? If Rose had seen the car on his side of the river, it seemed unlikely it’d be underwater on the other side.
And then she’d taken off most of her clothes—quickly, as if she was regretting showing the world all those subtle curves and her pink underpants.
Joe had no regrets.
And then after standing and looking in for what seemed like a long time, she’d done a motorboat launch on her belly into the water, letting out a gasp that Joe took as Oh, crap. It’s cold!
Just the sight of her limbs flailing had set Joe’s pulse pounding. Her strokes weren’t confident. He’d slid a few feet down the slope, catching himself on a tree limb in case she needed help. But she righted herself and swam farther into the fishing hole. He’d watched her from behind the tree—okay, kind of like a Peeping Tom—but he only planned to do it until he’d reassured himself she was okay. He’d even taken a step upslope, prepared to give her some privacy.
And then she’d dove underwater.
He couldn’t leave then. She was just eccentric enough to start performing water ballet. And if she was going to point her toes and lift her long legs out of the water...
Well, that wasn’t a performance a sports-minded man wanted to miss.
> But her legs hadn’t come out of the water and neither had her head. In fact, she hadn’t resurfaced at all and where she’d gone in seemed to be churning, kind of like the National Geographic special he’d seen where crocodiles dragged their prey underwater and rolled.
Stuck on the image of the jaws of death, Joe slid the rest of the way down the slope. He kicked off his shoes, tugged off his shirt and dove in.
The river was just the way he remembered it from growing up here—cold with a strong current you never expected since the surface was so smooth. He had to work hard to stay even with where he’d last seen Brittany.
He reached the middle of the fishing hole, and looked down on Brittany floating ethereally like that mermaid of hers. Only Brittany’s face was pale, her eyes wide-open and pleading, and her hair was tethered to what looked like a submerged bicycle.
For the love of Mike!
There was no time to think about her foolishness. As he watched, the light seemed to go out of her eyes.
Adrenaline gave him gooseflesh. He dove down, reaching for the chain at his belt and the utility knife there. It seemed to take forever to pry open the blade, to grab hold, to cut her hair free. Almost immediately, the current pushed her body clear. He had to swim quickly to latch on to her arm before she was swept away. He dragged her to the surface, floating on his back, holding her against his chest so her face was out of the water.
Was she breathing? He couldn’t tell. Her face was as blank as Athena’s had been when she’d bled out. Her body cold.
Joe cursed as he swam to the thin strip of shore where she’d gone in, his movements slowed by the cold water and the fear that she was dead. He prayed to whatever higher power watched over fools as he tried to remember CPR. Was it two chest compressions, one breath? Or five chest compressions, two breaths?
He’d barely dragged Brittany out of the river when she began to cough up water.
She was alive.
Joe was suddenly furious, suddenly energized. “Are you kidding me? You dove down there for a bicycle? You’re lucky I was around, because you nearly died.” He swallowed, his throat clogged with fear—past and present. “No. Oh, no. You didn’t nearly die. You died. You were dead.”
Marrying the Single Dad Page 9
