If the past five minutes are any indication, this is going to be interesting.
Five Months Later
One
Mac
Present Day
Sunshine. It’s warm, and it enlivens my skin as the sun begins to rise over the mountain peaks surrounding our sleepy little town. It’s going to be a beautiful December morning, despite the cold. I close my eyes and tilt my face toward it for three quick steps before I refocus on the road outstretched in front of me.
A trail of visible breath follows me with each ragged exhale, and the pavement is unyielding but constant beneath my feet. It tweaks and pulls and stretches my muscles, making my body come to life, dispersing the lingering tension from the day before.
The morning chill clings to the sweat that beads on my skin as I round the corner. My muscles seem to protest even more as my house comes into view. It’s old. The beige siding is peeling a bit, and the rust-colored paint that trims the windows and door is fading from more than twenty-five years of changing seasons. The patchy grass that covers the lawn glistens with frost, and the flowerbeds surrounding the house’s perimeter are barren. I smile inwardly.
Yes, the house is small, unattractive, and crammed in a four-block radius with every other middle-class household, but it’s home. My home. It houses hundreds of battered memories, but there are some good ones mixed in there, too.
Content with the burn of my morning run, I slow to a walk and pace myself to the house. Like most days, the thought of a hot shower beckons more incessantly with each step. Bobby steps outside the front door as I reach the yard, one leg of the flannel pajamas I got him two years ago for Christmas hiked halfway up his calf, and a long-sleeved thermal fits crumpled and askew against his lean, muscular frame.
Despite the handsome, blond-featured twenty-one-year-old the young ladies see, he has more physical scars than any man I know. He’s had more broken noses than Dr. Coddington has ever treated, but then competitive college hockey will do that to a guy, I guess, especially if you’re a hothead in the rink.
Bobby’s baby-blue eyes are barely open, but that doesn’t stop him from his morning routine. He reaches for the newspaper and runs his hand over his sleepy face. “Morning, you damn overachiever,” he says with a yawn. He shivers as the breeze picks up, but it feels good on my skin.
“Sports section already, huh? Are your eyes open enough yet?”
He ignores me. “Shouldn’t you have more clothes on?”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for practice?” I banter back, stretching my leg on the top step of the porch. “Did you make coffee yet?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t made it that far. But I need to get my morning buzz on, too.”
“Seriously,” I say with a lunge. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the U in like, forty minutes?”
He grins. “I’m a fast driver.”
I roll my eyes. “Fantastic.” He squints and peers sideways at the newspaper. He could easily check his phone for stats or scores, but like my dad, Bobby enjoys reading the morning paper, out of habit more than anything, I think. Other than cars, sports are the only thing they have in common. Sundays during football season are sacred in our house, and hockey season, well, Bobby’s more like a ghost than a brother October through March.
Bobby opens the door for me and I step inside. Heat blasts me in the face, almost suffocating at first. The scent of my dad’s aftershave and Douglas fir lingers in the air. It’s the first day of December, only a few weeks until Christmas, and even though I still have some shopping left to do, we’ve had our tree up and blinking in the picture window since the day after Thanksgiving, and for me, a tree is all that matters.
Christmas is my favorite time of year—the soft glow of colorful lights, the woodsy scents, the excuse to buy things, and that magical feeling of something warm and inspiring and good that seems to stem from the holidays always get to me. More gloomily, though, it’s also a reminder that my brother, David, continues to estrange himself from our family; he’s been out of touch for months this time. I should be used to it—him coming into and disappearing from our lives ever since Mom left—but I’m not. And if I’m honest, I know he didn’t just leave because of her.
Wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I walk through the living room and then the dining room to the kitchen for a glass of water. I have to remind myself that despite David and my mom’s absence, I have my dad and Bobby around, and we’ve been through enough to know that’s plenty to be grateful for.
Bobby plops down at the dining room table with his paper, the old wood chair creaking beneath his six-foot-one build. “So … I’m making the coffee again, it would seem,” I grumble.
He smiles up at me, his teeth white and perfect, save for the black hole behind his right incisor where someone’s hockey stick met the side of his face. “You’re such a boy,” I say and open the coffeepot. “What’s the point of mouth guards if they don’t even work?”
“Oh,” he says emphatically, “they work. I have more teeth than half the guys on the team.”
“You should be so proud. Maybe by the time you’re twenty-five you’ll be ready for a full set of dentures.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “There’s a happy thought.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Probably.” He’s not really listening anymore; he’s too busy poring over the stats in the sports section.
The door leading to the garage opens and my dad steps into the dining room. I zero in on the beef sticks and HoHos in his hands, and he freezes—caught red-handed.
I wipe the sweat from my brow again and hold up my index finger. “One beef stick, and your lunch is in the fridge. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack. In fact, you should start getting more exercise, get your heart pumping once in a while. You could run with me in the mornings.”
My dad, the revered and sometimes feared Cal Carmichael, glowers and grumbles something, then leaves the HoHos and other beef stick on the counter. His I’m the father look hardens on his face, but it doesn’t faze me like it did when I was twelve.
“Truce, okay?” I rise to my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. His goatee bristles against my face. “I already put a beef stick in your lunch anyway. You have two chicken salad sandwiches—one for a snack and one for your lunch—and fruit and a fiber bar.” I take the junk food off the counter and put it in the snack cupboard. “You’re welcome very much and good morning.”
“I’m a grown man, Machaela,” he says grumpily, but this is a morning routine as well.
I open the freezer to pull out a bag of coffee grounds. “Of course you are,” I say, tossing out the old filter from the coffeemaker and lining it with a new one. “And I’m your loving, affectionate, patient, kinder-than-most daughter who puts up with a lot and has to take care of you when you’re older, so I’m doing us both a favor.” I flash him a broad, toothy smile as I fill the coffeepot with water. “Not to mention the ladies would be devastated if they lost the town’s most eligible bachelor over forty.”
My dad stiffens as he opens the cupboard. He tries to play it off by grabbing a few mugs, but he’s purposely not looking at me.
I flip the lid to the maker shut and press BREW. “What don’t I know?” I pry because I can’t help it. It’s true, my dad is quite the catch, something I’ve heard many women say over the years. He’s got his own successful mechanic shop and a great reputation, he’s hardworking and raised three kids mostly on his own, but even with all the fluttering eyelashes and flirting I’ve grown used to over the years, I’ve never seen him with anyone, not since my mom. But the local residents … They can’t keep their mouths shut to save their lives and then it dawns on me.
My stomach flops and I start putting the pieces together. “Are the rumors true, seriously?”
His dark eyebrows crease. “What rumors?”
“You and Alison?” Sam’s Alison. Horrible-stepmother-turned-good Alison.
His eyes widen, even if infinitesimal
ly, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“Alison?” I repeat. The coffeemaker bubbles and grumbles as it percolates. “Have you really been up there fixing her Tahoe?”
“Of course I have, Machaela. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But you like her,” I muse. I peer past my dad, to Bobby. “Did you know about this?”
Bobby can barely contain a smile and he shrugs. “You know as much as me.”
My dad glowers, his narrowed stare shifting between us. “Knock it off, you two. I thought I raised you better than to listen to the gossip mill. Worry about yourselves, please.”
His tone brooks no further argument so I say nothing more, even if he is being uncharacteristically annoyed about it. I focus on the coffee dripping into the pot. He’s been in a mood of sorts the past few weeks, and now it makes sense. I’ve never been a fan of Alison, not since she married Sam’s dad and everything started falling apart at the ranch, but she’d been growing on me since she started going to counseling with Sam. Alison has been trying to give Sam the family she needs and deserves—to be some semblance of a mother to her—and I appreciated that. Plus, she’s young and pretty and a widow. It really doesn’t surprise me that she might be interested in my dad, even if it is a strange pairing to picture.
“I’m jumping in the shower,” I say, feeling itchy as my sweaty skin begins to dry. “Please don’t let Bobby drink all the coffee and you”—I point to my dad—“don’t sneak anything into your lunch because I’ll know.” With a warning glare, I jog up the stairs toward my room, wondering how serious this situation with Alison really is and why Sam hasn’t said anything to me about it.
Toeing off my running shoes behind the door, I stare at the shoe holder that hangs there—one of two, the other hanging in my closet. I pick out shoes first and build my outfit around them for the day, something Sam—my best friend and confidante since elementary school—has never understood, but then why would she? She owns a total of four pairs of shoes, and even that might be exaggerating.
Deciding black calf-skin boots and jeans will do nicely for a brisk December day, I skim through my closet for a top to match. Pinks, blues, purples, greens, black … the only color I refuse to wear is anything resembling white. It’s a necessary sacrifice given the grit and grease that has surrounded me all my life. I decide on a gray sweater and call it good. After laying everything out on my bed, I snatch my robe from the closet and head for the bathroom.
Just as I’m about to shut the bathroom door, I hear my brother groaning from down the hall. “I was going to jump in the shower.”
“You snooze, you lose. Maybe you should wake up earlier!” I shout and turn the water on. “Be out in ten.” We both know it will be more like twenty, but Bobby doesn’t argue. He can’t because he knows he takes longer in the shower than I do, even though I shave and he doesn’t. I have long hair past my shoulder blades while his is barely an inch.
After squirting the last of my body wash into my hand, I scrub the sweat from my skin, rinse my hair, shave my legs and armpits—both things I very much dislike doing for some reason—and step out of the shower. Throwing my hair up into a towel, I dry off, lotion up, and don my robe. I check my phone. Ten past seven. “Only sixteen minutes,” I say with a self-satisfied grin, and I head out of the bathroom, a puff of steam filling the hallway behind me.
Bobby’s leaning against the wall beside the door, clean shorts slung over his shoulder, unamused.
“Like a pro,” I say and brush past him, but he’s too irritated with me to banter. I push my bedroom door shut with my foot and let out a long, steadying breath. Time to get ready for work.
I start my hurried routine to pull myself together to get out the door. They’re generally well-oiled machines, these daily routines of mine; they have been since I was nine. But when I look into the oval-shaped mirror that hangs above my dresser, I pause. Leaning forward, I study my complexion. The natural sunlight that fills my room illuminates the faint dark circles that shadow my green eyes; I look tired. Apparently, the pace of my daily life is beginning to take its toll. It seems I’ll need all the cosmetic help I can get today.
With a sigh, I get back to business. After a quick blow-dry, I settle on a sock bun and more makeup than usual to cover up the “exhausted.” I throw on my outfit, complete with a pink-and-black polka-dotted scarf for extra pop.
My eyes wander the room as I zip up my boots. I still, staring at the black-and-white photos of me, Sam, and Nick that clutter the far wall. Interspersed are photos of some of my college classmates and a few candid shots of my dad and Bobby. I can’t remember the last time I even picked up my camera. Then my gaze rests on the first photo I’d ever taken—one of David on his seventeenth birthday. It’s discolored and bent, but he’s actually smiling. I grow angrier with him for being such a shitty brother the longer I stare at it.
My dad hollers a time check from downstairs, and I blink the shadows of the past away. I grab my purse from the foot of my bed and head out. With only a few minutes until the shop’s supposed to be open, I head downstairs to claim a cup of coffee and grab my lunch.
“Here,” my dad says, handing me my to-go cup. “Just like you like it.” He holds out my Batman lunch box.
“You’re the best.” I wipe a smudge of jam from his goatee. “And a mess.”
Dad smiles. “I was saving that for later …” His easy smirk wanes as he assesses me, and his brow furrows.
Confused, I peer down at my outfit. Nothing’s exposed, everything is in place. “What?”
“Haven’t we ordered you a uniform yet?” he asks, a little offhandedly.
“A uniform? Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” My sweater is nice, my jeans are, well, jeans, my breasts aren’t hanging out … I wait impatiently for him to answer.
“It’s just very formfitting,” he says, turning away from me and heading to the coat closet.
A leaden knot takes root in my stomach as unwanted memories of Sean darken my thoughts. I take a deep steadying breath in through my nose and exhale. Suddenly, I feel more self-conscious than ever and a spur of anger ignites a bit of sass. “Seriously? Since when have you had an issue with what I wear?”
“Since we have new blood in the shop.”
It takes me a minute before I understand his meaning, and I practically laugh. “You’re worried about Colton ogling me?”
With a bored expression, my dad hands me my jacket.
“Dad,” I start, pulling my jacket on. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not the best of friends.”
His dark, bushy eyebrow lifts.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say impatiently and hand him his lunch. “I’m sorry I don’t dress like a man and have the stench of sweat following me everywhere.”
He gives me the look. “Tone,” he warns.
I shake my head, not even bothering to look back at him as I head out the door. “Hey.” My dad’s voice is stern, commanding me to stop and look at him. I do out of habit. “You’re my daughter. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, I just—it’s my job to worry about you.”
“I understand that, Dad, but I’m not a little girl anymore.” My curves and a few resentful thoughts are all I have left of my mom. “Unless you want me to tape my chest down and wear a bag to work, this is what I have to work with.”
My dad’s mouth quirks up in the corner and he glances up the stairs. “See you after practice!” he shouts, and we step outside to start another day.
The drive to the shop, only a few miles from home, is much the same as it always is. My dad glowers at me as I hurry through stop signs and honk at inept drivers on the road. I blast the heater, he turns it down. I turn up the radio, he turns it down.
“When are you going to hire some help for the front?” he asks as we draw closer to the shop, his voice booming in the small Jeep. He seems too large for it, but I should be used to seeing him folded into the passenger seat when he retires the Harley for t
he winter.
“When I get a chance,” I say and turn into the shop’s parking lot. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s the point of hiring help—so you’re not so busy.”
I shrug. I know he wants me to take a new hire on, he’s brought it up a couple times now, but I don’t have time to worry about training someone. To my dad, taking on new staff makes sense with how busy we always are, but then everything gets put on hold or slows down during the learning curves. Sometimes it’s easier to just keep chugging along at my own pace, doing things my way.
I can feel my dad’s reproving gaze on me as he unfastens his seat belt.
Luckily, I hear the Rumbler pull up, followed by Colton’s blacked-out Ducati, which means we’re done with this conversation for now. I climb out of the Jeep.
“Morning, gentlemen,” my dad says, and I hand him my coffee mug and lunch pail before I head over to unlock the front door.
“Mornin’,” Reilly says and reaches into the back of his truck. He lifts out a small ice chest, and I realize how routine him being here has become. Five months ago, he was debating whether or not to reenlist in the Army, and he and Sam were still trying to figure things out. It’s crazy to think how much has changed and how quickly. In fact, I see Reilly way more than I see Sam these days.
I hear the settling metal of Colton’s motorcycle behind me, and against my better judgment, I peer over my shoulder. He pulls his motorcycle helmet off, then flings his leg over his bike. It’s getting icy; within the next week or so, it will be too dangerous to ride each morning.
The instant he turns around, our eyes meet. His nose is pink, his brilliant blue eyes glisten from the cold, and white puffs of breath dissolve around his face. Then he frowns, or maybe it’s a scowl, ruining the picturesque moment, and I turn back to the door.
He’s been working with us since summer, and we haven’t made much headway in our work relationship. But, true to his word, he’s great at what he does. His pace is a little slow, but then again, he’s a perfectionist, and slow is better than sloppy.
Nothing But Trouble (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 2) Page 2
