Just like that, Heroic Joe was gone. Brit felt disoriented, almost dizzy. She sat down beneath Keira, head buzzing with too many thoughts. She needed to reimburse Joe for his phone. She needed to send him some type of thank-you gift. She needed to ask the sheriff and Will if they’d help her recover the bike.
Agnes came back inside. “The dryers are yours. What’s all the excitement about?”
There was another round of retelling Brit’s misfortune, all done without Brit’s input.
The sheriff sat in a chair next to her and took her hand in both of his. They were strong hands, dependable hands. They just weren’t Joe’s hands. “You okay?”
Brit blinked back tears, completely blanking on asking for a favor. “I should go home now.” Back to the safety of Grandpa Phil’s before the fear returned full force along with those powerful, uncontrollable sobs.
Nate sprang into action. The barbershop was cleared and locked up. Brit was hustled into the backseat of Agnes’s faded green Buick.
And Brit was fine. She really was.
Until Agnes parked in front of Phil’s house and she saw an algae-covered bike on the porch.
* * *
“SAM! YOU’RE GOING to be late for the first day of school.” Joe shoved an apple in a brown bag next to a bottle of water and a cheese-and-jelly sandwich. Not only did he want Sam to be on time, Joe wanted to open the garage for business as soon as possible.
Sam emerged from the bedroom wearing coveralls and her baseball cap.
“Hold it. That doesn’t look like school attire.” In LA County, she’d be violating the gang code. “Turn around and change. You know what to wear.”
“But, Dad.”
“Turn around. And change.” Joe said it harder this time, like his mother used to say before she’d decided motherhood wasn’t for her. He stuffed Sam’s lunch into her backpack.
She huffed and puffed all the way back to her room, slammed the door and gave a defeated war cry.
“Five minutes.” It occurred to him that Sam hadn’t worn anything but coveralls since they’d left LA. Was she trying to make a statement of solidarity with Uncle Turo?
“I’m seriously considering putting myself up for adoption.” Sam’s muffled complaint was designed to make Joe feel like crap. The worship from yesterday’s heroics had long since been worn away by Sam’s dissatisfaction with her wardrobe and nerves regarding starting a new school.
“Four minutes.” Joe stood by the door holding her backpack.
Drawers opened and closed. The closet door slammed. “Maybe Brittany will adopt me as thanks for salvaging that bike.”
Joe would drown before he let that happen. “Three minutes.”
“I hate my clothes.”
“Two.” He didn’t care that he wasn’t keeping accurate time. They needed to hustle.
Sam ran out of her room and into the bathroom wearing blue jeans and a gray zippered hoodie. Not much better, but it’d have to do.
“Lose the hat.”
Another feral groan.
The water ran. Stopped. Sam ran to the door with wet hair slicked back. She snatched her backpack from him and raced down the stairs. “Let’s go or we’ll be late.”
“No kidding.” Joe hurried after her, waiting until he was backing the pickup past the tow truck to say, “Be nice to everyone.”
“Dad. No lectures.” The know-it-all was back.
Joe missed the little girl who’d clung to his leg on her first day of kindergarten and flung her arms around him when she came home. “I know first days can be rough, but it’s only six hours.”
“Six hours and forty-five minutes.”
“You can’t count lunch and recess.”
She thunked her forehead against the window. “New clothes would give me patience.”
“Your clothes are fine.” At least the ones back in her room that weren’t coveralls. He turned down the street to the school. “I’ll expect a full report when I pick you up. We’ll get a cookie or something from the bakery.” Maybe splurge for nachos at El Rosal if enough customers came by today. He pulled into the lot.
“Dad. No goodbye kiss.” Sam pushed her hair back from her face and turned to him. “I need my space.” She hopped out of the truck and slammed the door.
Since it was an old door, it was a hard, hollow slam.
Joe watched her walk away, wondering when his eleven-year-old had turned into a brooding teenager. The sun glinted off his windshield and he recalled a different time in this parking lot.
The afternoon sun had been beating down on Joe as he waited for Mom to pick him up after school. Some of the kids were headed to the field for middle school track practice, the one sport Joe didn’t participate in. The family’s old Ford truck barreled too fast around a corner. Mom must be mad at Dad again.
The crossing guard frowned as it approached.
The Ford lurched to a halt in front of Joe. Gabe was at the wheel.
“Get in.” Vince slid to the center of the bench seat. “Don’t say a word.”
“Why?” Joe slung his tattered backpack to the floor and climbed in. He had to slam the door twice to get it to latch properly. Gabe punched the accelerator before Joe got his lap belt on. “Slow down or I’m telling Mom.”
“I said don’t talk.” Vince slapped Joe upside the head. “We were told to bring you back. No talking.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“We’re up a creek, that’s what,” Vince said, discounting everything he’d just said about silence.
Only last week the boys had had a conversation about what would happen if their father was arrested again. “Is it...Dad? Is he gone?” Mom would be upset. But Mom was always upset lately. There were no more hugs. And for Joe, no whispered you’re my favorite. Sometimes Joe wished Dad would go away. Then everything would be better.
“Mom’s gone,” Vince blurted, his words bleeding with damnation and disbelief. “Dad doesn’t want us to say a word to anyone.”
Dad. With his sometimes scary mood swings and his sometimes violent behavior. His fists had landed him in jail twice since Christmas. And their one defense against him—Mom—was gone.
“She left us?” Joe couldn’t believe it. He wanted to throw up.
“When we get home, don’t say anything,” Vince warned. “Not another word about her. Not ever.”
Joe took that order to heart. He didn’t speak of his mother, of the feeling of betrayal or the hurt of abandonment. He didn’t say a word to his brothers or to his friends, including Will Jackson. When folks in town asked about Mom, Joe turned a deaf ear. But being deaf didn’t mean he wasn’t angry. And for a teenager with an unpredictable home life, anger was often expressed on the school yard. Or the football field.
It wouldn’t be like that for Sam. He’d make sure of it. She may have lost one parent, but she wouldn’t be losing another.
Joe drove around the block to the town square, which fed into Main Street.
The mayor stood at the corner, wearing a tie-dyed yellow-and-green hoodie. Standing next to him was a tall man with golden-blond hair. Both men turned as he drove by. Only then did Joe recognize his childhood friend Will Jackson. He’d heard Will was a millionaire now.
He passed the bakery and then the barbershop. Brittany juggled an armload of bags as she opened the door. He had the strongest urge to stop and help her. But helping implied things he wasn’t interested in giving.
Come to think of it, he shouldn’t have dragged the bicycle out of the river for her. He’d done it for purely selfish reasons. His chest couldn’t stand another knot of guilt if anything happened to her while she salvaged the bike.
So he drove on, feeling a heaviness in his chest.
When Joe arrived back at the shop, Irwin was waiting for him. He had a
thermos of coffee, a pastry bag from Martin’s, and he wasn’t wearing his red riding leathers. “I’m ready to start.”
“Start?” Joe unlocked the waiting room door and held it open for Irwin.
“Yep. I’m here to watch and learn.”
Joe no longer worried about Sam or Brittany. “I can’t let you in the shop while I’m working.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t.” Joe turned on the office lights and unlocked the door to the service bays, one of which was occupied by Betty or Bertha or whatever it was Irwin called his motorcycle.
Irwin sat down, making himself at home by arranging his things on top of the blue elephant plant stand. “Your uncle used to let people hang out here.”
Joe winced. “That was my uncle.” Things had changed after Mom left. Uncle Turo had come to town, moving into the apartment over the garage. “He had...friends.” The wrong kind of friends.
“I wanted to be his friend, but back then I was working and married.” Irwin’s stringy hair framed his round face in innocence. “Now things are different.”
Understatement of the year. “Listen, Irwin.” This was hard. Joe needed the money. But it was Monday morning and they’d canvassed the town with flyers. Surely there was other business to be had. “I don’t think your bike needs a tune-up. I checked it last night and it was out of gas.”
Irwin shrugged. “I don’t care. I want a tune-up, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no place else to go today.” Irwin’s words told Joe more about the state of Irwin’s life than Joe wanted to know.
Joe was afraid Irwin would have no place else to go tomorrow, too.
CHAPTER NINE
THE MORNING AFTER the bike incident, Brit thought she was doing fine.
She looked no different in the steamy mirror after her morning shower.
Grandpa Phil said nothing about it as he patted her shoulder and went for his morning checker match at Martin’s Bakery. No one waved to her from the patio of the Mexican restaurant where they were serving breakfast as she drove past. No one ran out of Martin’s Bakery as she unloaded her truck with things for the shop. No one demanded details of her near drowning. It was as if it’d never happened.
It wasn’t until she was unlocking the barbershop door that she felt the hitch in her breath. And that was only because she caught sight of Joe’s truck trundling down Main Street. And if the hitch turned into full-on can’t-breathe-itis when he drove past without stopping...well, the worst thing was she nearly dropped some bags.
She didn’t have time for the aftereffects of foolish endeavors. This was her last day to prep the shop before she took on paying clients. She had to restock the supply cabinet. And there were a few finishing touches she wanted to make—most of which would probably upset Phil. Pretty spring-themed hand towels for the bathroom. A jar of mints on the table in the waiting area. A coffeepot, canister of coffee and set of mugs with fun sayings.
Only when she had the place in good order did Keira’s reflection in the mirror snag her attention. She understood the peacefulness of hair floating on the current now. She understood the release of giving in to the river’s cold embrace. But thoughts of creating another mermaid made Brit feel worse than ever before.
She couldn’t do it. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
And not for lack of materials.
Brit had enough bicycles to make a school of mermaids. But there was only one bike worthy of a mermaid like Keira—the bike Joe had brought her. He’d saved it from the river without being asked or asking for anything in return. He hadn’t even left her a note. So typical of the iceman.
Still, she felt as warm inside as if he’d given her a bouquet of flowers with a card that read “Get well soon, friend.”
“Good morning.” A petite blonde about Brit’s age pushed through the door and introduced herself. “I...saw your mermaid yesterday when I walked past. I...had to come by and ask about it.”
Take that, Heroic Joe.
“It’s not for sale.”
“I mean,” Tracy said with an infectious smile. “I have a proposal for you. I work at the bakery. I also do marketing on the side.” She checked out the barbershop with an approving nod. “Harmony Valley...needs any PR angle it can find. Hooks to interest visitors. I was wondering...if you’d be interested in some cross-promotion.”
Brit hesitated, trying to get a handle on Tracy. She seemed sincere, but her speech was halting and it sounded like a sales pitch.
Tracy must have sensed the reason for Brit’s hesitation. Her fingers fluttered near the right side of her head. “I had a car accident. My speech...” She shrugged. “It falters on long sentences.”
“I wondered,” Brit said, not one to pretend she hadn’t.
“No worries.” Tracy had a smile as brilliant as the diamond on her left ring finger. “Jessica—my boss—can bake some mermaid cupcakes or cookies. We’d give you samples. A few times a week.” She pointed to the coffeepot. “As long as you...don’t mind us selling them in the bakery, too.”
“Of course.” Quid pro quo didn’t require Brit to go all Reggie in this situation and complain about licensing or rights to protect Keira’s image.
“Thanks.” Tracy rushed forward to hug her, which Brit took as her way of sealing the deal instead of a handshake. “I’ll bring a box tomorrow. For your grand opening.”
“Actually,” Brit felt compelled to say. “Phil’s has never been closed.”
“Tell that to the town.” Tracy waved and left.
She would. Grandpa Phil was being great to her.
The electrician arrived next and spent an hour rewiring the shop so that her hair dryers wouldn’t blow a transformer and put half the town in the dark. He didn’t have time to look at the underperforming hair dryer, although she got the feeling he’d prefer never to look under that hood.
“Yoo-hoo.” An older woman with black readers perched atop her teased purplish-gray bangs entered. “Everyone at the bakery has been talking about this mermaid.” Her penciled-in eyebrows lifted at the sight of Keira. “Oh, she’s quite large. I didn’t need to bring my glasses.” She gave Brit’s sculpture a critical look-see. “This could be harder than I thought. I don’t do bicycles. Frankly, I’ve never done mermaids before either.”
“Are you Jessica?” The baker?
“No, dear. I’m Eunice, godmother to Jessica’s baby.” She said this proudly, as if it was an accomplishment rather than an honor. “I make baby quilts for the boutique across the road? Mae’s Pretty Things?” She pointed to the small shop with sweaters, appliquéd dish towels and baby quilts hanging artfully from tree limbs in the display window. “Tracy thinks your mermaid is the cat’s meow. She wants me to create a mermaid baby quilt.” Eunice removed her glasses, folded them and tapped her chin with the frame. “But the bicycle...That’s a challenge.” Eunice’s reflection in Phil’s mirror distracted her. She fluffed her bangs higher.
What had seemed an easy exchange of services with Tracy was turning into something Reggie would certainly caution against—several people using an image Brit had created for their own profit. Brit needed advice. Truth be told, she missed talking to Reggie. If only her twin had apologized yesterday.
“Not that I can’t create a mermaid,” Eunice was saying. “But it won’t be easy. And the Spring Festival will be here sooner than any of us think.”
Brit had no idea what the significance of the Spring Festival was on anything, but she was intrigued by Eunice’s attitude: creating a mermaid wouldn’t be easy, but she was willing to try.
More willing than Brit?
* * *
BARBARA WAS TUNED sharper than a piano in the philharmonic. Had been for hours.
Irwin didn’t care. He seemed to have no plan
s to leave Joe’s waiting room. He’d brought a couple of motorcycle magazines and was reading them cover to cover. As for other customers, there were none.
None! All those flyers...
Since the old man had paid in cash, Joe didn’t want to be totally rude. He brought Sam’s antique lamp to the waiting room and was working on removing the old wiring and cord. But he was nearly done and it was almost lunchtime. “I suppose you’ll be heading home soon.”
“No rush.” Irwin slurped what had to be the last of his coffee.
A heavyset old man wearing plaid golf shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt pulled into the lot in a golf cart. He got out, wielding a cane in one hand and carrying a large white paper bag in the other.
“Can I help you?” Joe asked, figuring the man was lost.
“I’m delivering.” The big man handed Irwin the bag and sat down heavily in a plastic chair.
“Ah, super nachos.” Irwin passed him a twenty. “The lunch of champions. Thanks, Rex.”
“Call me old-fashioned,” Joe said, because his patience was wearing thin, “but donuts for breakfast and nachos for lunch don’t seem very healthy.”
“When you reach the end of the road, that doesn’t matter anymore.” Irwin high-fived Rex. “Want some, Joe?”
“No, thanks.” Joe had made a peanut-butter sandwich when he’d put together Sam’s lunch. He removed it from the plastic sandwich bag and took a bite, swallowing down the urge for nachos.
“Had a doctor’s appointment this morning.” Rex dug into the nacho tray with hands as large as oven mitts. “Did I miss anything over here?”
“Nope,” Irwin said around a mouthful of chips and cheese. “Maybe this afternoon, though. You in?”
“I’m in.” Rex glanced at the small counter, the large round clock on the wall and the blue elephant plant stand between his and Irwin’s chairs. “Where’s the soda machine?”
“We don’t have one.” Soda machines required large deposits to distributors.
Marrying the Single Dad Page 11
