Читать книгу His Uptown Girl - Gail Sattler - Страница 8

The electronic tone of the door chime echoed through the shop.

Bob Delanio laid his wrench down on the tool caddy, wiped his hands on his coveralls, then walked into the reception area of his auto-repair shop.

“Need some help?” he asked his newest customer, trying not to sound as tired as he felt.

The phone rang. Both lines lit up at the same time.

“Oops, ’scuse me,” Bob mumbled as he picked up the receiver. “Bob And Bart’s, can you hold?” He pushed the button and answered the second line. “Bob And Bart’s. Yeah. Hold on.” Bob hit the hold button, walked a few steps, and poked his head around the corner.

“Bart!” he yelled. “Get line two. It’s Josh McTavish.”

Bob nodded at the man still waiting at the counter. The chime sounded again. Just as Bob picked up the phone to talk to the first caller, a man who a week ago had ignored Bob’s warning that he needed a new head gasket stomped in. Bob glanced through the door to see a tow truck outside, the driver waiting to be told what bay to back the man’s car into.

Bob gritted his teeth. It appeared he was going to spend yet another Friday night working until midnight.

He handled the latest influx, then did his best to juggle his time between the door, the phone, and actually getting some work done.

At seven o’clock, an hour past their posted closing, Bart finally had the time to flip the switch on the sign on the door to Closed. Despite that positive turn, neither of them would be leaving just yet.

“This is nuts,” Bart grumbled as he dropped some change into the pop machine for a cold drink. “We can’t keep this up.”

Falling backwards onto the worn couch, Bob stretched out his aching feet. “I know. It’s great that business is picking up, but I’m exhausted.” He extended one arm toward the unfinished work orders lined up on the board. “No matter what time we get out of here, we’ll have to be back at five in the morning.”

“My wife isn’t very pleased about these long hours. At least you’re still single,” Bart retorted.

“Maybe this is why I’m still single.”

Bart turned to look outside at the row of cars they had promised their customers they could pick up sometime within the next twenty-four hours. “We have to hire some help.”

The growing pile of invoices and purchase orders on the counter, spurred Bob’s reply. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Bart turned and walked behind the counter. He grabbed a blank piece of paper and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “The newspaper charges by the word, don’t they? What should I say? Wanted. Light-duty mechanic?”

Without leaving the couch, Bob scanned the boxes of orders, requisitions, receipts and charge bills to be submitted, as well as deposit slips from the bank. “We’re busy, but we’re not busy enough to add another full-time mechanic. If we hire a bookkeeper, then that frees us up to get more done in the shop.”

Bart scratched his head, pen in hand. “But there are decisions a bookkeeper can’t make, stuff one of us would have to decide. Besides, we don’t have enough paperwork to keep someone busy full-time. When all this stuff is caught up, we can’t afford to pay someone just to sit here and answer the phone.”

“We’re nearly a week behind even on the small jobs,” Bob said, gesturing at the work orders piled under pushpins on their work board. “I’ve got an overhaul that’s been waiting three days. I guess you’re right. We need a mechanic.”

Bart stuck his hand in the closest box and lifted out a handful of papers. “It’s almost our fiscal year-end, time for our corporate taxes. Your friend Adrian always needs everything balanced, reconciled and printed out so he can file for us. You’re right. We need a bookkeeper.”

The two men stared at each other in silence.

“We need both,” Bob mumbled, “But it would be too hard to hire two part-timers. I don’t want to invest all our time and money to train someone, then have them quit for a better job elsewhere that can give them more hours when they get enough experience. Maybe we should forget about it.”

Bart shook his head. “The baby is three weeks old. I never see her except when she’s up in the middle of the night crying. And that’s when I should be sleeping, too. I can’t keep this up.”

Bob felt his whole body sag. Neither of them could continue working eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Lately, the only time Bob wasn’t working was when he took off a few hours Wednesday evening to practice the songs he would be playing on Sunday with his church’s worship team. Up until recently, he refused to work Sundays, but they were so far behind, he’d started to work a few hours on Sunday, too.

He didn’t know when control had first eluded them, but they’d reached their breaking point. Soon they were going to start making mistakes, which, where cars and people were concerned, could not happen.

It had to stop.

“You’re right. We both need to slow down. Let’s hire two part-timers, a mechanic and a bookkeeper, and we’ll see what happens.” The stack of work orders lined up for Saturday, was well beyond what they could accomplish, even if both he and Bart worked twenty-four hours nonstop.

Dropping his pen suddenly as if at a thought, Bart turned to the computer. “I just remembered something. I don’t have to write out that ad. I heard that you can do it online. I can even put it on my charge card.”

Bob stood. “You’ve probably missed the deadline for tomorrow’s paper.”

Bart found the right Website, and started typing in his usual hunt-and-peck, two-finger mode. “Maybe I haven’t.”

Suddenly Bob’s head swam as the magnitude of the process hit him. “I just thought of something. What about all the phone calls, and the time it’s going to take to set up and do interviews?”

Bart’s fingers stilled. “What are you trying to say?”

“We don’t have that kind of time. People are going to start taking their business elsewhere.”

“Have you got a better idea?”

Bob walked to the counter, and reached for one of the boxes containing incomplete purchase orders. He tore off the flap to the box, picked up the black felt pen, and began to write.

HELP WANTED—APPLY WITHIN

Part-time light-duty mechanic

Part-time office assistant

Hours and wages negotiable.

He dug a roll of black electrical tape out of the drawer while Bart watched, and taped the cardboard to the window.

“What are you doing?”

Bob turned around. “Saturday is our busiest day, and lots of people come in. If any of them are interested, we can take care of interviewing right there. We should forget about the ad.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Bob raised his hand toward the sign, which was slightly crooked. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I guess you’re really not kidding,” Bart mumbled.

Bob sighed. The business had supported both him and Bart for years, and now there was also Bart’s family. They couldn’t fail now. There was too much at stake.

“God will provide,” Bob said softly. I’ve always believed in God’s timing, and I still do.”

Bart resumed his typing. “You’re crazy. Certifiably crazy.”

Bob spun around. “Don’t you believe God can send us the right people?”

“I doubt God will have the right people simply fall from the sky. But I do know one thing. If we don’t get McTavish’s 4X4 finished, we’ll be in trouble when he comes to get it at 7:00 a.m. I’m putting this ad in the paper. I’m sure God will have the right people fax in their résumés.”

“I still think we’ll do better with the sign in the window. We don’t have the time or the energy for millions of faxes and phone calls. Besides, there’s more to hiring than just looking at résumés.”

“But that’s where we have to start, and the only way we’re going to get qualified people to send us those résumés is through the paper.” Bart hit Enter. “Done. The ad’s in.”

Bob crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to look at his sign. “And the sign is up. It looks like the battle is on.”

Bart killed the browser. “Yeah. May the best man win. Now let’s get back to work.”

“Daddy! This dress is horrible!”

Georgette Ecklington’s father flashed her a condescending smile. “The girl at the store told me you would look great in it.”

Georgette gritted her teeth and pressed her lips together so hard they hurt. The “girl” in question was thirty-five years old. Because her father was one of their best customers and always paid full price, the woman happily told him anything he wanted to hear.

Still, the woman was probably right. Georgette knew she would look “good” in yet another overly frilly, fussy, pink dress with enough lace to choke a horse. If that was the way she wanted to look.

Which she didn’t.

“Don’t disappoint me, Georgie-Pie.” Her father’s stern gaze belied the familiarity of the nickname.

Georgette stifled a scream. She hadn’t been five years old for twenty years, but whenever her father wanted something, he called her the childish nickname to remind her of something she could never forget.

She was William Ecklington’s daughter.

And William Ecklington was in control. Always.

He’d picked that particular moment to give her another dress she hated because the household staff were in earshot. She couldn’t disobey his orders in front of the staff or any of his peers. He would never forgive her for any act of defiance, or anything that might diminish his public image.

Tonight, at yet another Who’s Who function, Georgette was expected to stand at her father’s side and smile nicely, showing her support of everything he did. Besides his financial empire, the next most important thing to her father was the respect of his peers. After her mother had left him, he’d refused to marry again. He never dated because he was certain that women were only after his money. So, his younger daughter became second-best.

Georgette’s only escape from her father’s tyranny would be to do what her sister had done—to get married. But God said that marriage was forever. Georgette didn’t want to be under the thumb of a man who was a younger version of her father—a man so critical and demanding he had driven their mother away. Her influential father also sabotaged every attempt she made to find a job, completely nullifying all her attempts to become independent. Not that she needed to worry about money, he gave her a generous allowance in exchange for her work on his charity projects. But Georgette wasn’t happy.

“Be ready at five-fifteen. Karl will be driving.” With that lofty pronouncement, her father turned and left.

Georgette crumpled the dress in her closed fists, and raised her head to the ceiling in a silent prayer. She needed to escape, and she had only one place to go, the only place her father left her alone.

The garage. The garage was her haven. Some women made crafts or baked when they needed something to do. Rebuilding an engine was Georgette’s respite from “society.” She detested being involved with the social climbing of her father’s shallow world.

Working on the car, she didn’t have to be Georgette Ecklington, socialite. She could simply be, as her friends at the pit crew of the local racetrack circuit called her, George. Today it would help her prepare herself for the ordeal of another taxing night.

She walked out of the room and handed the dress to Josephine, the housekeeper. “This needs pressing. I have some shopping to do, and then I need to be left alone until it’s time to get dressed.”

Josephine smiled and nodded. Josephine often covered for Georgette when her father was looking for her.

Soon Georgette was on her way to an out-of-the-way, but spectacular, auto shop she’d discovered, where the owners frequently found salvaged items from auto wreckers for her. She needed parts for her current project—restoring an old pickup truck she’d bought from one of the families in her church. The man had lost his job and the family needed money. They wouldn’t accept charity, so instead, Georgette had bought the family’s derelict pickup truck for many times more than it was worth, a sum that would keep their mortgage at bay for at least six months. She was now working to restore the truck. Perhaps someday the thing would even run again.

As she pulled into the shop, Georgette formulated her priorities. In three hours she had to be showered and ready, so she needed to make good use of her time.

Her thoughts cut off abruptly when she approached the store and saw a cardboard sign in the window.

HELP WANTED.

Georgette’s breath caught. She quickened her pace, able to read the smaller print when she stood beside the door.

Light-duty mechanic.

She could do that. Fixing and rebuilding engines might just be a hobby, but she did it well. The pros at the race track confirmed it again and again. She’d never tackled a project she couldn’t complete. And unlike the other times her father had ruined her job chances with a phone call, her references could be her friends at the race track. Her father didn’t even know about this place, not that he’d deign to go to an auto shop any way. Georgette said a short prayer that they wouldn’t ask for more, and pushed the door open.

The phone was ringing, and two customers waited impatiently ahead of her. Bob was behind the counter, taking notes as a woman listed the problems with her car. The voice of Bart, the other proprietor, echoed from the shop, over the noise of the hydraulic hoist, as he called for another customer to come out. Help certainly was wanted at Bob And Bart’s Auto Repair.

While she waited for her turn, Georgette watched Bob a little more closely. Even though she’d been there before, she’d paid more attention to the spectacular finds he’d made for her than what either of the men looked like.

He carried himself with confidence as he dealt with his customers. Considering his job, he was relatively tidy in appearance, although his dark hair could use a cut. His olive-green eyes and Roman nose made her suspect an Italian heritage, though, the poster on the wall advertising a discount at Bob’s brother’s Italian restaurant, was a pretty solid hint, too.

As she stepped ahead in the line, she continued to study Bob.

He was a good-looking man. When he smiled, the hint of crow’s feet at the corners of those amazing eyes put him at thirtyish.

After a short conversation, the man ahead of her followed Bob to the opening between the lobby and the shop. Bob called out to Bart, left the man where he was, then returned to his place behind the counter. “Can I help you?” Bob asked as he reached for a blank work order. As he turned to her, his frown turned to a small smile. “Right. I left a message on your cell phone. Your parts are in. I’ll go get them. What’s your name again?”

Georgette’s stomach quivered. “Ecklington. George Ecklington.”

His smile widened. “Of course. George. How could I forget? I’ll be right back.”

“No! Bob! Wait!” Georgette called as he took his first step away.

When he turned back to her, she cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m here for my parts, but I see you’re hiring. I’d like to apply for the job.”

His smile widened even more. He pulled an application from beneath the counter and slid it toward her. “I didn’t have time to make our own applications, so I borrowed a few from my brother. It says Antonio’s Ristorante at the top, but just cross it out, and write Bookkeeper in the corner so I’ll put it in the right pile.”

Georgette tried not to let her annoyance show. She didn’t want the bookkeeper’s job. Usually she could understand when people in her father’s circle treated her like a frail little tulip, but to Bob, she was a customer—a customer who frequently bought parts, and installed them. Herself. She didn’t like his assumption, but she’d had to prove herself at the raceway, too.

However, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t do the bookkeeping. Having been confined to her father’s charities, she’d picked up the skill, including receivables, purchasing and handling the disbursements. She could imagine her father’s blood boiling at the thought of his daughter doing work that paid by the hour. But not a dime of the allowance he’d given her was truly hers.

This job and its salary, independent of her father, or of anyone who had any association with her father, would be.

Georgette looked up at Bob, trying to show more confidence than she felt. “Actually, I’d like to apply for both jobs.”

“Pardon me?”

“I can do bookkeeping, but I’m also a light-duty mechanic. Your sign said the hours were negotiable. Could two part-time jobs add up to one full-time job?”

Bob’s smile dropped. “I’m sorry, but we need a real mechanic, not just someone to change oil and check spark plugs.”

“But I am a real mechanic. I usually do rebuilds, but there’s no reason I couldn’t work on current models.”

“Well, maybe you could, but I don’t think—”

As she pictured herself actually working there, the things she knew she could do bubbled in her mind. “When people come in and they don’t know what’s wrong, if you just hired a bookkeeper, you’d have to stop what you were doing and listen to them. If you hired me, I would get a pretty good idea of what was wrong right off the bat, even if I wasn’t the one to do the actual work.”

Bob raised one finger in the air. “But—”

Her words tumbled over his protest. “Then you’d have the option of being able to use me in the shop or the office, wherever I was more needed at the time. Or I could—”

Bob put up his hands. “That really wasn’t what we had in mind.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying a woman couldn’t do this job?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying at all…”

“I might be a woman, but I’m a good mechanic, and that’s what you’re hiring. I would do a good job for you. For both positions. I could even start Monday.”

“Monday? Really…?” Bob’s voice trailed off. He closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bart and I never discussed this possibility. We have to think about it. Why don’t you fill out the application, and when you’re done I’ll call him in here so we can talk about it?”

Georgette tried to calm her racing heart. It was a possibility. Thoughts of her father’s vehement disapproval slammed into her, but she pushed them aside. If Bob offered her the job, she would come up with a way to deal with her father. She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more than this job.

The chime sounded behind her as another customer walked in. Georgette slid to the end of the counter to fill out the application, using her race track friends as references, though she had to list her father’s holding company as current employer.

When she finished writing, she waited for Bob to complete the work order for his current customer whom she could hear describing the problem he was having with his car.

After the man left, Georgette spoke up. “It’s the coil,” she said. “Sounds faulty.”

“You think so? I was just thinking the same thing.”

Before she could respond, Bart walked into the lobby, wiping his hands on the back of his coveralls. “You here for the office job?” he asked.

Bob glanced at Bart, then back to Georgette. “You may not believe this, but she’s here for both jobs.” He handed Bart her application along with the newest work order. “Pull this one into bay four. If it’s the coil that’s causing the problem, we just might have found ourselves a new mechanic. And bookkeeper. Bart, this is George.”

One of Bart’s eyebrows raised. “George?”

She stiffened. “It’s short for Georgette. My friends call me George.”

He scanned the application, and gave a slight nod when he saw her racetrack references. “This is good. I know Jason from the track. I’ll talk to him. But I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. Do you go to Faith Community Fellowship?”

Georgette shook her head. “No. I attend a church nearer to my house. I don’t live nearby. But I buy most of my parts here.”

“Must be it.” Bart walked back to bay four with Bob.

Her heart pounded as she watched them check her assessment, nodding as they discussed the faulty coil.

When they returned to the lobby, she couldn’t hold back any more. “Was I right?”

“Looks like it. As soon as Bart puts a new coil in and test drives it, he’s going to watch the front desk so you and I can go into the office and discuss the details. You said Monday is good?”

“Monday is great.” She marveled at her calm tone. “But I want to do my first official duty right now.”

One eyebrow quirked.

Without waiting for him to respond, Georgette turned, walked to the cardboard sign in the window, and flipped it into the garbage can.

She had a job. A real job. And she’d done it without her father.