Right Brother

by Patricia McLinn

  He clicked off the phone and folded it shut with a snap.

  “Were you looking for me?” he asked.

  “No. I heard your voice, and just wondered…”

  “Linc,” he said, looking away. “Listen, I’ve got to run an errand, might be a while. Do you need me for anything this afternoon?”

  “No. I…is everything okay, Trent?” she asked tentatively.

  “Fine. See you later.” He got up and strode past her, then stopped. His face carrying an ominous frown and his tone still angry, he added, “You look very pretty today.”

  Pretty is as pretty does.

  She’d been in middle school before she’d realized people used that phrase to mean you had to be nice in order to be truly pretty.

  Her mother always said it meant you had to work hard to be pretty. You had to eat right and walk right and talk right. You had to try on clothes for hours. You had to give up diving for dance lessons, because dance could be used for talent competition.

  But it was worth it. Because when you’d come home with a trophy, Daddy smiled and said, “Way to go, Pretty Girl!” and put the trophy on your shelf amid all the shelves of Mark’s trophies.

  “You didn’t turn the alarm back on when you came in this morning,” Trent said from outside the open door of Jennifer’s office.

  Office? More like a locker, with just space for a normal-size person to edge between the desk and the cabinets and the bookcases lining walls uninterrupted by any windows.

  Although it sure smelled better than a locker. He sniffed. Some sort of flower-something. Light. Clean.

  When he’d returned from home—California, he corrected himself—four days ago, he’d discovered she’d ensconced him in the big office with the window to the showroom. The one where his father had once sat. The one where Eric had once sat. The one where he felt like a monkey in the zoo.

  He’d protested, but she’d been implacable. Just kept saying he was the general manager, and that was the general manager’s office.

  “You came in not long after me,” she said.

  “You couldn’t know I was going to. Set the damn alarm when there’s nobody else here.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue more, adding, “What time’s the first interview?”

  “One-thirty.”

  She’d been right about the want ads. Not only had applicants come in at a good clip, but people—non-job applicants—stopped by and called. Many said how glad they were to have the dealership getting back on its feet. More were curious. All were treated like honored guests by Jennifer.

  Which wouldn’t be so bad, except she invariably ushered them on to him, either by bringing them into his office or by transferring the call to his line, clearly expecting him to win them over with a course of schmooze.

  “Okay. I’ll be back by then. I’m going to lunch with Coach.”

  Her left eyebrow twitched.

  “I’ve gotta eat.”

  “Of course you do. And I’m sure you’ll be back in plenty of time to go over exactly what we’re looking for with Jorge and me.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll be back by one.”

  “That will be perfect.”

  She smiled, and he felt as if he’d salvaged himself from that eyebrow twitch. He didn’t like how good that made him feel.

  Then she did him a big favor.

  She got that look women sometimes got. That “ahhh, now I understand” expression. As if they’d just opened the top of your head and peered down to your toes. And she said, “You’re quite close with Coach Brookenheimer, aren’t you?”

  He expelled a breath through his nose, as if he was really irked. But he wasn’t sure it counted as really irked when you were partially glad to be irked because it meant you weren’t feeling so all-fired pleased to have salvaged yourself from an eyebrow twitch.

  “He’s not a second father or a father figure. Just a good man I’ve known a long time, who taught me a hell of a lot of football and a little about life.” He’d had that friendship pop-psyched before by women.

  “I’m sorry.” She dropped her head, apparently staring at the keyboard. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s none of my business.”

  “For crying out loud.” And it was a damned miracle that was the phrase that came out of his mouth. “You didn’t offend me. And you don’t have to go getting all meek and subservient because—”

  That popped her head back up. And had her eyes burning. “I am not meek or subservient. I—”

  “Good,” he half roared.

  She snapped her mouth shut. He actually heard it.

  “Good,” he repeated in a more temperate tone. “Because I’m not paying you for obedience. Or agreeing with me. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Then I’m going to lunch.”

  “Before you go,” she said in a tone of laserlike precision, “do you have a moment to look over these figures before I e-mail them to Linc?”

  He still wasn’t quite clear how that connection had become so strong so fast. Linc, as his best friend and a financial whiz, had come up his first day back when he’d been probing to see if Darcie had told Jennifer about the inquiries.

  He’d known Darcie hadn’t when Jennifer asked if he thought Linc might be willing to answer a few questions. He’d said sure, because he figured Linc owed it to her as compensation for the nosy questions he’d been asking about her, even if Jennifer didn’t know it. So, he’d called Linc, then handed the phone over.

  That night, Linc had called him at the motel.

  The man was smitten. There was no other word for it. Smitten. With Jennifer’s good sense, willingness to learn and quick grasp of financial concepts. Cautious, but smitten all the same.

  Which made Trent all the more annoyed for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

  “This is the breakdown of average profitability and expense percentages for auto repair operations that I was telling you about. And here I’ve estimated ours. Payroll and utilities and office expenses. I do think we can do better than the average on expenses for legal fees and advertising, though, don’t you?”

  Trent bent to look over her shoulder at the figures she indicated.

  His gaze didn’t reach the computer screen.

  Pushing herself to one side of her chair seat to give him a clear view of the screen had shifted the fabric of her top. On the shoulder so close to him that all he’d have to do was bend his waist and his mouth could touch it, the result was that a short section of her bra strap was visible.

  A couple of inches of white material arcing up, then down in concert with the slope of her shoulder. Nothing extraordinary.

  And he was getting hard.

  He shifted back, hoping to ease his libido and its consequences.

  That put him in line to see down the otherwise demure V-neck of her top. He could see the rising curve of her breast where it disappeared under the white caress of her bra.

  That was plenty.

  Good lord, what was his problem?

  A bra strap and a glimpse of a covered breast. As if he hadn’t seen women showing more than that most days on the street. Not to mention some outfits teams dressed—or barely dressed—their dance teams in. It was some big fashion trend to have bra straps out in the open.

  So why was the area between his legs so eager to report for duty?

  He had a bad feeling it wasn’t because of a view of a few inches of material and a few more inches of skin. But because it was Jennifer’s bra strap, Jennifer’s skin.

  This was trouble. Definitely trouble.

  She had never appealed to him when she’d been the town’s acclaimed beauty. Why would she now?

  “Trent?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Good. I wanted your take on that before sending the figures to Linc.”

  “I don’t know how much longer he’ll do this.”

  “You don’t want to impose on your friendship,” she said with u
nderstanding.

  A crack of genuine laughter coming from his own mouth surprised him. But it felt good.

  “I’d impose on our friendship for all I was worth if I thought it would get me anywhere, but Linc won’t stand for it. It’s part of what I like about him. He knows his own value.”

  “Ah.”

  There must have been a million meanings behind that syllable. He didn’t have a clue what even the first dozen were. He considered himself damned lucky to have recognized that any existed.

  “Yeah. Well, you better add to that list of yours that we’re going to need someone to do the books.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then down across his shoulder in an all-too-familiar gesture. A shoulder, the doctor had once told him—with ghoulish interest to Trent’s mind—was the best candidate to develop arthritis in a joint he’d ever seen. “And while you’re at it, put on that magic list of yours some way to get money coming in sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  Trent twisted around to look at her so fast that the muscles around his shoulder fisted tight.

  “What’s wrong?”

  How the hell had she known something was wrong? He hadn’t grimaced. He’d learned real early not to give coaches or trainers any excuse to hold him out of a game. Without the physical skills of some players, he’d figured out fast that what he could bring besides smarts and determination was reliability. Showing up and playing. No matter what.

  “Nothing. Any conclusions from that thinking you’ve been doing?”

  She was biting her bottom lip the way she did.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  Chapter Six

  He’d felt pain—real pain—when he’d turned. He’d covered it fast. So fast that Jennifer suspected Trent had a great deal of practice at covering it up.

  If he’d had to retire because of injuries, his financial situation might not be as good as people said. On the other hand, maybe he’d had the injury for a long time and covering it up had become second nature to him.

  She suspected he’d had a great deal of practice covering up other kinds of old injuries.

  Memory flashed vivid in her mind. A Sunday dinner at the Stenner house when she was Eric’s new girlfriend. She had not yet realized that this meal had followed a common pattern—Franklin and Eric talking, everyone else silent. Trent had looked at her for a moment with total lack of interest.

  She’d seen Trent watching his father and Eric with a cool indifference that caught at her, making her want to break into the conversation, to widen the circle to include everyone at the table, even herself.

  Of course she hadn’t.

  But remembering that moment, it did feel as if it united them in a strange way. They might not be in the same boat, but they seemed to be in the same fleet.

  “Parts,” she blurted.

  “Sorry?” He tipped his head, obvious confusion easing the pain-pinched tightness around his mouth.

  “I’ve been thinking about parts.”

  “Buying them?”

  She shook her head. “I mean, yeah, we’ll need some, of course. But I was thinking…remember all the old inventory in that building?”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t be surprised if my father cornered the market on some old part, just because someone else wanted it. It’s too bad the building’s metal or we could burn the place down with all that junk in it.”

  “No! It’s not junk—that’s what I’m saying. There’s a demand for old parts.”

  “Around here? C’mon, Jennifer. You’re dreaming.”

  “I’m not talking about a demand in Drago. We can sell them anywhere. The Internet,” she added, unable to contain a surge of triumph.

  “The Internet?”

  “Right. We create a Web site for our inventory, and become a source for old parts. You should see the prices these things are going for.”

  “You’ve checked this out already?”

  That level voice cooled her enthusiasm. Had she over-explained? Maybe she shouldn’t have told him yet. Maybe she needed to do more research first.

  “Yes,” she said. Then she waited.

  He ducked his head in a “Well?” gesture. “So, you’re thinking eBay? Something like that?”

  She eased out a breath.

  “Maybe a few items, to start, as a way to get the name out. But we’ll have more control with our own site. We can link from car enthusiast sites.”

  “Car enthusiast sites, huh?” He sounded as if such a concept were far-fetched. “How expensive would this Web site be?”

  “It doesn’t have to be fancy. These folks aren’t wowed by graphics. But they get downright poetic about a 1960’s carburetor.”

  “Huh.” He looked from her to the computer. “You think it’ll work?”

  “Yes.” She allowed none of the doubts burbling inside to seep into the word.

  “One condition— I don’t have to have anything to do with it. Selling cars is bad enough.”

  “Deal,” she said immediately, relieved he hadn’t quashed the idea.

  “Okay, then.” He grinned. “Turning lemons into lemonade—great idea, Jen.” The grin slipped. “Sorry. Jennifer.”

  “You’ve been working hard these past two weeks on that research.”

  Jennifer’s head snapped up from the computer screen. Her neck muscles screeched a double protest—at being in one position too long, then at being moved so abruptly.

  Trent had been distant since giving the go-ahead to sell the parts. But she’d heard from Loris, Mildred Magnus and two other acquaintances that Trent had had a private meeting with Judge Dixon. Not only hadn’t Trent said a word about it to her, she didn’t feel she could ask him.

  Her mind said she could—they were business associates, after all. But each time she tried to broach the topic, her stomach threatened to lurch into her throat. She knew the reaction was a residue of her years with Eric, but knowing hadn’t defeated that throat-clogging response. It made her downright cranky.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t? And it’s not just the research.” With the grand reopening at the end of July, she had a daunting to-do list. “Do you know what I’ve been doing this morning? Straightening out tax filing requirements, going over employees’ W-4 forms, negotiating for benefits—”

  “Hey. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed. I’ve been working hard, too. Roofers come tomorrow, and the painters next week.” He dropped into the chair, seeming to rest on the middle of his spine, legs extended, arms dangling. “We deserve a break. At least I do. Since I’m not allowed to make any reference to how hard you’re working, I can only vouch for myself.”

  “Very funny.”

  “How about some lunch? Not at your desk, either. A real lunch. Where someone else makes it and serves it. And something other than that rabbit food you eat. You know, something real, like a hamburger, potato salad, watermelon, peach pie and cinnamon ice cream.”

  “Good grief. That’s not lunch, that’s a Fourth of July cookout.”

  He groaned. “I can’t wait for lunch until the Fourth of July.”

  But Jennifer’s mind had left lunch and Trent. “Did I tell you Zeke’s company is sponsoring fireworks this year for the Fourth?”

  He grunted.

  “Drago hasn’t had fireworks for several years because of the expense. So it will be a big deal. More people coming—both because they’ve missed the fireworks and because they’ll be curious what kind of job Zeke-Tech does.”

  “Uh-huh. This is fascinating. What does it have to do with lunch?”

  “We’ll hold a Fourth of July cookout.”

  He looked at her as if expecting more.

  And there was more. Her mind was already zipping through details. She pulled a fresh notepad from the papers on her desk and started writing.

  “We’ll have to order the meat. Premade hamburger patties would be easier, but that might be too expensive. I’ll price it both ways. Hot dogs for kids.
Buns. Ketchup and mustard. Something else. What else did you say? Oh, right. Sorry, Trent. No potato salad. Potato salad can go bad in hot weather because of the mayo, and we’ll need the cold storage to keep the meat. But we’ll have chips and sodas. And watermelon.”

  “Uh, Jennifer?”

  “Hmm?” She was writing notes.

  “You keep saying we.”

  “Of course.” Loris might help her with sources for food.

  “Well, my motel room doesn’t have any place for a cookout and I’ve seen your place and, no offense, but where would you put people?”

  Motel room? Her place? He thought—?

  She burst out laughing. A sound so unexpected that it surprised her. It seemed to catch Trent by surprise, too, judging by his intent expression.

  “Not my apartment, and not your room. Here, at Stenner Autos.”

  His expression lost some of its intensity. “Here? You want to feed the whole town here on the Fourth of July?”

  “I seriously doubt it will be the whole town. People go away and others have their own cookouts. But it should be a good crowd. We’ve talked about the grand reopening, and how hard it can be to entice people when they know we want them to buy a car or get service or do something else that costs them money. This way, we get them to come to get something for free.”

  “Free for them. How much for us?”

  “How much can it cost?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll price it out. But think about it. You can’t beat the PR of feeding people for free. And it’ll imprint in their minds that Stenner Autos is back. Think of the goodwill. We’ll have grills, get employees to cook and serve. That’ll give everyone a chance to mingle with our employees in a relaxed atmosphere.”

  “I have one condition, Jen.”

  He’d been calling her that more often lately. “What’s that?”

  “We talk about this over lunch.”

  “In a lot of ways he’s easy to work with. He certainly isn’t a micromanager. In fact, sometimes I wish he’d get more involved.”

  “That’s what’s worrying you?” Darcie asked, sipping her wine on the apartment balcony that held two chairs, a tiny table and Jennifer’s solitary rosebush in a wooden planter. “You want Trent more involved in running the place? Sounds like he’d just get in the way of you being the big boss.”