by Lynda Bailey
ON THE CORNER OF HEARTAHCE AND HOPEFUL—MIC
by
Lynda Bailey
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
ON THE CORNER OF HEARTACHE AND HOPEFUL—MIC
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Lynda Bailey.
Published by Linda Bailey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.
Contact Information:
[email protected]
Visit us at www.lyndabailey.net
Book Design by Hot Damn Designs
Publishing History
First Edition, 2012
Dedication:
To Suzanne and Jacqui. Thank you so much for your insightful and kick-butt critiques!
And as always, to my husband, Pat. I couldn’t do any of this without your rock solid support. I love you.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful—Mic
by Lynda Bailey
Chapter One
Michaela Anderson inhaled a breath of lilac scent. She closed her eyes, adjusted her sweaty grip, sucked her upper lip in between her teeth then slowly released the air. Her arms shook with fatigue from having been over her head for so long, but she knew she was close. So close.
She drew another long pull of oxygen into her lungs. This time, she held it and squeezed her eyes shut. A growl of frustration gurgled in her throat.
Just one…more…
The rusted nut gave way under her pressure and the air gushed from her lungs. “Got it!”
A chorus of “Yeas!” along with a smattering of applause greeted her announcement as the clatter of her ratchet wrench echoed in the cramped garage.
Before the nut was dislodged from the bolt, she stopped and lowered her arms. Blood rushed down her limbs, making her fingertips tingle. She hopped off the makeshift platform, positioned under the belly of the eight-year-old Toyota sedan, and tossed the ratchet to Abe Vincent, the best transmission mechanic in three counties.
“Think you can get this tranie ready to send to the shop in Lincoln by this afternoon?”
Abe nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem, now that we’ve got that last stubborn bolt loose.” He grinned. “You must’ve had a real restful vacation to display such strength huh, boss?”
She wiped the transmission fluid off her arms with a shop rag. “Right. That and being blessed with small hands.”
Good-natured laughter met her statement and she walked to the water cooler to refill her plastic bottle. She observed her four-man crew hustle about working, not only on the Toyota, but also doing a lube, oil, filter on a Saturn sedan.
Her gaze wandered outside, past the lilac branches swaying the gentle morning breeze, where the traffic was light. As usual. The corner of Heartache and Hopeful in Tatum, Nebraska wasn’t the epicenter of anything much except Nebraska cold, Nebraska heat, Nebraska dust and wind.
Across the street, the bus station stood empty. The one and only MC6 Coach, which had outlived the 80s but still chugged along like clockwork, had left before dawn that morning. Catty-corner from Mic’s shop sat a tiny strip mall, able to host five businesses. Three were shuttered. Just a fitness club and a yogurt shop managed to scratch out a semblance of a profit. Across from the mall was a vacant lot, boasting the last vestige of prairie grass in a forty mile radius along with a huge honey locust tree. She sighed. Home sweet home.
The ten-day visit to Denver had been restful. And unsettling. Seeing Carmen always was. Not because Mic didn’t dearly love her cousin, and Carmen’s husband and kids, but because every visit brought home what Mic didn’t have—her own family.
She didn’t have a husband to hog the mirror for his shave while she brushed her teeth in the morning. She didn’t have kids who made mud pies and needed to be hauled to baseball and soccer practices. She didn’t have the life portrayed in all those romance books she loved to read. In other words, she didn’t live in a magical kingdom where a prince charming would save her from her ho-hum life. Like life was ever magical.
Tears stung her eyes. She pivoted from the activity in the garage towards her office. She still choked up remembering how Carmen had asked her to be godmother to little Kayla Rae, the newest addition to the Rutherford family. A bittersweet honor.
Raucous laughter from behind pivoted her. Her youngest mechanic, Boyd, a high school senior working for extra credit, sprinted across the crowded floor. He dodged the various rolling tool cabinets, while escaping his brother Glenn, who had a glob of transmission fluid stuck to his cheek.
“Come back here, you little bast—”
The curse was cut short when Glenn snagged Boyd’s shirt. He put his youngest brother in a headlock and delivered a noogie with a handful of degreaser soap. Abe and Chuck looked on with wide grins.
“C’mon, man,” Boyd whined. “It was an accident.”
“So is this,” Glenn said, rubbing in the soap. “Besides, your hair could stand a good washing.”
Abe clapped his hands, chuckling. “All right, you two. Enough. Get back to work.”
With a shake of her head, Mic headed into her office. She may not have a family, but she definitely had children. The ’62 Mercury Comet pulling into the lot stopped her short and tripped apprehension across her neck.
Ester Trehune was her most loyal and punctual customer. Mic could set her clock by the octogenarian’s promptness. Ester always scheduled her tune-up appointments, and her next one wasn’t due for six weeks. She wouldn’t show up unannounced. If there was a problem, she would have phoned ahead.
When Ester’s strapping grandson unfolded his broad-shouldered frame from the vintage sedan, Mic’s uneasiness became a distant thought. Her pulse rate climbed and her breathing turned shallow. Ever since her junior year of high school, she’d had a secret crush on Scott Trehune. But then what living female wouldn’t? The man was drop-dead-gorgeous, with jet black hair, tanned skin, rippling muscles, and the most intense green eyes on the planet. She held her breath waiting to see him each time he left New York City to visit Ester.
Mic smoothed the front of her dark blue shirt and spun her Cincinnati Reds baseball hat around forward on her head. Wishing she could at least put on a dab of lipstick, she settled for biting her lips as she walked out to meet him, her long braid swishing against her back with each step.
Dressed in black slacks, a white turtleneck and a black sports coat, Scott looked amazing. Disappointment speared her because he wore sunglasses. No green eyes this morning.
“Hey!” she greeted with a smile. “Thought you were coming home for the Fourth of July. You should check your calendar. You’re a couple months early.”
Her good-natured ribbing went unanswered and they stopped several feet from each other. Mic’s anxiety returned tenfold. Even with the sunglasses, she could see fatigue lines carving his handsome face. Her smile withered. “What’s wrong?”
It took Scott several tries to swallow. He cleared his throat and turned to look at Ester’s car. “Need to, uh, get a once-over done on the Comet. Make sure she’s in good shape
. Fit her in whenever you’ve got the time.”
Mic gave a slow nod. “All right. I’ll check the book, but we can definitely get to it this week. Maybe even today.”
He coughed again. “There’s, uh, no real rush. I’ll be in town for another week.”
“Where’s Ester?”
The question hung in the space between them like a guillotine hanging by a frayed rope.
“She died.”
Mic’s lungs were squeezed too tight to breathe and tears sprang to her eyes. “What? When?”
“She had a stroke almost two weeks ago.” His husky voice caught. “She died last Tuesday. The funeral was Saturday.” He paused. “There was a big write-up about her in the Sunday paper yesterday.”
“I’ve been out of town and just got back late last night.”
In her ears, the excuse sounded paltry. Lame. And why hadn’t any of the guys mentioned this to her? She reached out to touch Scott’s sleeve, then pulled back. Her hands were still slimy with transmission fluid. How she wished she’d taken the time to wash up. She folded her arms across her chest, hiding her hands under her armpits. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do?”
He shook his head. “Thanks. Nonie had everything taken care of. I’m meeting with the lawyer this morning to go over her will and such. It’s all pretty straightforward.”
Mic nodded. “Let me get washed up and I’ll give you a ride to the lawyer’s office. Joe Prescott, I assume?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry about the ride.” Scott’s gaze shifted over her shoulder.
Mic turned to see a powder blue Ford Excursion pull into the parking lot. Behind the wheel sat the blond-haired beautiful Jaci Wagner, and the bane of Mic’s high school years.
Scott lifted a hand in greeting and Jaci waved back. He looked at Mic. “I need to get going.” He handed her the car keys. “Call me when the Comet is ready.”
“Will do,” she forced herself to reply. She watched him jog to the SUV as an emptiness bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Why would the former captain of the football team want sympathy from the grimy female grease monkey, when he could find solace in the beautiful, clean arms of a former cheerleader? Mic whipped around and went straight to her office, closing the door behind her.
She sat at the desk, the desk her late father had sat at for all those years before her. Ester was dead. How could she not know her dear friend was dead? How could no one have told her?
Pressure built against her ribcage and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Moisture slipped down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, her tears flowed unchecked.
Chapter Two
Seated in Jaci’s “land yacht,” Scott rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared out the window. He still couldn’t believe Nonie was gone. His chest felt like it’d been carved from his chest with a dull paring knife.
Ever since he’d moved to New York, and became an investment banker on Wall Street, he’d done everything he could to convince Nonie to move there too. She wouldn’t hear of it. Tatum was her home. For better or worse, she used to say. But it had never been his home. When both his parents were killed in an accident the summer before his senior year in high school, he’d come to live with his only surviving relative, his father’s mother.
While Tatum hadn’t been home, Nonie was a different story. She was his home. His bond with the feisty geriatric had been as strong as the one he’d had with his mother and father. He bowed his head. A well of emotion choked his chest. God, he missed her.
“Why were you at Anderson Garage?”
Jaci’s voice lifted his head. “What? Oh, I dropped off the Comet for a tune-up.”
“That Michaela is an odd one, isn’t she?”
“Odd?”
Jaci leaned over the center console a bit. “You know, I heard she’s a lesbian.”
He crossed his arms, his hackles rising in defense of the mechanic. “So what if she is?”
Jaci glanced his way then back to the street, straightening in her seat. “Nothing. Just making conversation. To Joe’s office, right?”
“I need to stop by Nonie’s house first to get some paperwork.”
“No problem.” She made a left turn onto Asher Street. “It was a nice service on Saturday,” she commented after silence engulfed the interior.
He uncrossed his arms and stared out the passenger window, grief lumping in his throat. “Yeah. Reverend Miller did a good job.”
“The flowers were quite lovely.”
“Uh huh.”
“How old was your grandmother again?”
“Eighty-seven.”
“Wow. My granny died in her early sixties, but then she had cancer. It must be gratifying to know yours died after such a long, fulfilling life.”
Scott’s blood went cold in his veins. Jaci didn’t know the first thing about his grandmother’s life, let alone be able to proclaim it long enough or fulfilled enough.
It hadn’t been long enough, damn it. There were still so many things he wanted to do with her, share with her. Nonie had only been to New York once. Had that been enough? She’d always wanted to vacation in Europe and Scott had been planning a surprise Christmas trip to France. Had her life truly been fulfilled?
They pulled to a stop, at one of only three traffic lights in Tatum, and Scott reached for the door handle, the sudden desire to breathe fresh air stifling him. “Listen, I need to stretch my legs. Thanks for—”
“Wait.” Alarm rang in Jaci’s tone and he eased back into his seat. She leaned close, her hand on his thigh. “I want you to know that I’m available for anything you need.” She slipped a business card into his coat pocket. “If you want to talk, or…whatever.”
Scott closed his eyes, allowing her voice, the consistency of warm butter, to seep into his brain. The various manners of her sympathy were quite clear. The hand on his leg squeezed and his groin tightened.
“Call me, ‘kay?”
The light turned green and he climbed out. He stared at Jaci, his agreement to her offer almost out of his mouth.
“At eighty-seven, guess it was your grandmother’s time to go,” she stated.
Scott closed the heavy door with care so as not to slam it off its hinges. Anger seethed through him. No, it hadn’t been Nonie’s time. He clamped his mouth shut to keep from railing at Jaci. He stepped onto the curb and raised a hand in farewell. The SUV drove off while he headed down an adjacent street, hands in his pockets.
If one more person placated him with some bullshit about Nonie’s death “being for the best” or how “she’s in a happier place now,” he’d go ballistic on their ass. Did no one in this miniscule town understand how devastated he felt?
He scoffed. The answer was a resounding no. Except maybe for Mic. The distress in her eyes almost matched what he’d seen in the mirror every morning for the past two weeks. Her sympathy had seemed genuine, like she knew what he was going through.
Scott continued on his way and soon Nonie’s two-story, white colonial came into view. Aside from getting the Comet out of the garage, this was the first time he’d been back to the house since last summer.
When he’d received the call about the stroke, he’d flown straight out and stayed with Nonie around the clock at the hospital. Though she never regained consciousness, he knew she was aware of his presence. After her heart finally gave out, he’d gotten a room at a local motel to arrange the memorial service, unable to stay at her house without the five-foot-nothing, blue-haired old girl.
At the bottom of the dozen steps that led to the spacious, wrap-around porch, he squinted against the sunlight. His chest wanted to crack apart from the anguish. With a deep breath, he compelled his legs to climb the steps, extracting the house key from his pocket along the way.
He tried to keep his mind blank, tried not to think about all the times he’d sat with Nonie on her large porch swing, drinking her homemade lemonade and talking about nothing in particular.
It didn’t wo
rk. Each step across the weathered boards caused his soul to grow heavier, his heart more empty. The skeleton key slid smoothly into the lock and the familiar sound of the tumblers turning had Scott anticipating, if for only a split moment, what Nonie had baked today. But she hadn’t been baking.
His knees almost buckled and he took a minute to fortify his defenses before shoving open the door. He inhaled the smell of potpourri mixed with lemon furniture polish. Closing the door, he crossed the three feet of entryway tile to the plush carpet he had installed last year to stave off the cold of Nebraska winters.
The eerie quiet of the house thundered in his ears. He glanced around. The grandfather clock on the wall wasn’t tick-tocking. It hadn’t been wound in over two weeks. He walked through the living room, his gaze taking in the thin layer of dust on the white, stone mantel and antique end tables. Nonie never would have tolerated such neglect.
Her favorite easy chair, parked in front of the TV so she could give those political yahoos a piece of her mind during the news, caught his eye. A small smile quirked his lips. He rounded the chair, sidestepping a basket of yarn that had toppled over, the colorful skeins scattered about.
The doctor who’d initially called him had said Nonie suffered the stroke at home. A tall fichus plant was also knocked over, the dirt ground into the carpet. She must have been walking to the kitchen when the massive blood clot—
Collapsing under the burden of his sorrow, Scott fell to his knees, scooped the jumbled mass of yarn into his hands, and wept.
Chapter Three
Michaela sniffled and reached for another tissue to wipe her still weepy eyes. Since learning of Ester’s death, she’d been on an emotional bungee-jump. Scott’s obvious distress at losing his grandmother brought back the memories of her own father’s death four years ago, not that those memories were ever very far away.
