Читать книгу Her Road Home - Laura Drake - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

NICK STOOD IN Josh and Annette’s backyard, alternately flipping burgers and throwing passes to their nine-year-old, JJ. The other twin, Courtney, was in the kitchen “helping,” making cookies. He’d have to apologize for the mess when Annette got home.

He’d agreed to watch the kids for his friends’ weekly “date.” With two crazy-active children, they needed it.

“Go out long, JJ.” Nick waited, then lofted a bomb, which JJ scooted under for a neat catch. “And the crowd goes wild!” The kid’s face lit up. God, Nick loved spending time out here at the Bennetts’.

Thirty wasn’t old, but lately he’d been thinking about wanting kids. But in his mind, kids didn’t come without marriage. And marriage didn’t come without dating. He fielded the wobbly pass from Josh, and fired back a hot one. If it were up to him, he’d skip the whole dating thing. Who needed the angst, the awkwardness—the judgment? Especially given his history.

Looking back now, from the long end of the telescope, it wasn’t surprising when his home life had imploded that he’d gone a bit wild. He’d had so much anger built up and nowhere for it to go. Booze was the only antidote he’d found, and he made a career of partying for a couple of years, post high school. Thank God for friends; Jesse, Carl and several others staged an intervention, making him see where he was and where he was headed.

It actually worked for a while. He decided he wanted to be an auto mechanic, and enrolled in a school in Los Angeles. Once there, though, he’d gotten caught up in the bar scene, many days arriving for school in the same clothes he’d left in the day before.

That bender ended the day he’d woken up on someone’s floor, and had been on his way to school when a kid darted out in front of his car. He swerved, took out a parked car and a fire hydrant, but thankfully, not the child. He still woke up some nights in a puddle of sweat, dreaming of what could have happened.

Luckily, since he’d finished his class work they allowed him to graduate, though he’d spent the day of the ceremony holding down a seat in a county drunk tank. When Nick sobered up, he looked around at the jail population and had a revelation—he fit right in with the drunks and losers. His mother would have been so disappointed. Hell, he was disappointed in himself.

Nick needed a plan. By the time he’d served his six-month sentence, he had one. He left L.A. with a twelve-step card in his pocket, an idea for a business and a bad case of homesickness.

Now he needed another plan. “JJ, go get washed up. Your parents will be here in a minute, and dinner’s about ready.”

Almost all the girls he’d known in high school were married now. When he first moved back, he’d tried dating, but between the hours he had to put in with the shop and the awkwardness of discussing his past, he gave it up. He hadn’t met anyone who, an hour after spending time with them, he missed.

Time to check the cookie progress, and assess the damage to the kitchen. He turned off the grill and lowered the lid. The sound of the twins squabbling in the kitchen made him smile.

Maybe it was time to try again.

* * *

SAM CRUISED PACIFIC COAST Highway back to town, breaking into a goofy smile when she drove around a bend to see the ocean, stretching like molten metal, to the horizon. It had transformed overnight from a moody, white-capped, gunmetal gray to a California picture postcard. Foam rode the small blue rollers that combed the creamy beach sand. The ocean’s chop fractured the sunlight into blinding silver slivers.

Turning inland, the road seemed guileless in the sunshine, but as she came upon the scene of yesterday’s accident, a shudder rippled through her. Her shoulder protested with an electric arc of pain. She studied the scene, but still couldn’t see anything she’d done wrong. Even if she had seen the Mercedes, she had nowhere to go. Now it appeared the accident had led her to another job.

Sam wondered how she’d look back at her time in Widow’s Grove. Each of her project pauses on her way across country seemed like a separate lifetime—as if she’d tried on different lives, to see how they fit. When she shook her head, the thought blew away in the wind ripping through her hair. Nowhere fit. That was just the way of things. A dark wisp of the nightmare edged across her light mood. Best to keep moving.

She rolled back through Widow’s Grove. The town had morphed overnight to a sparkling jewel. Tourists wandered, ducking in and out of shops. In the park, a group in bright spandex sprawled next to their bicycles. The coffee shop did a brisk business, the umbrella’s flirty skirts flipping up in the breeze.

A picture-postcard town.

And that can only help the resale value of the house.

But time spent dreaming would be a waste if the owners didn’t take her offer. She had learned the hard way not to want things—it was less painful.

Pulling up in front of her run-down cabin, she shut down the engine and unbuckled the seat belt. She ran her hand over the sun-warmed leather seat. Someone spent a lot of time and money restoring this; even the eye-scorching yellow interior was spanking clean and perfect. Nick, obviously, but why? Clearly he didn’t take it out much. Why put good money into a garage-dweller? She stepped out of the car just as her cell phone belted out the first notes of an old Jethro Tull road song.

Her heart sped up when she recognized the soft voice on the line.

“Miss Crozier? It’s Honey, from Homestake Realty. I was able to contact the Sutton family this afternoon. I’ve been trying to get you for an hour.”

“I guess I couldn’t hear the phone for the wind.”

“Yes, well. I’ve been in touch with the family.” She hesitated. “Look, I know you don’t negotiate and I don’t mean to offend you. But the sellers find it hard to reach a consensus, and...”

From the undertone of frazzled in Honey’s voice, Sam could imagine what that conversation was like.

“The bottom line is that they won’t take less than their original asking price.”

Crap. This disappointment bit a layer deeper than most of her letdowns. She recalled the Victorian’s stately bone structure, peeking out at her from under years of neglect. Uncovering those bones would have been such a challenging project. Fun, too. She sighed.

“Ms. Crozier?”

She realized it was the second time her name had been called. “What?”

“Why don’t I call you in a couple of days? There’s no reason to make a hasty decision.”

Sam took a breath, fully intending to nix the deal. Instead, she heard herself say, “Let me think about it. I’ll call you.” She hung up, but continued staring at the phone.

This was business. Either a deal worked, financially, or it didn’t. This one didn’t. So why did it matter so much? Sure, it was a neat project, but she’d learned there were great projects scattered all across the U.S.

So what was with the soft tug in her chest?

* * *

FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Sam didn’t have much else to do but think. The rest was good for her battered body, but the forced inactivity wasn’t good for her mind. The distraction of staying busy had always been her first line of defense against dark thoughts and bad dreams. That, and traveling. Grounded and idle, they were catching up with her.

She’d taken to walking, stalking the country roads around the cabins. Something about the green rolling hills and live oaks calmed her, but today she’d gone farther than usual, and her feet dragged the dusty roadside.

In spite of repeated admonishments, her mind kept returning to the puzzle of the house. Somewhere in the country miles, she’d solved the problem. If she demolished the top floor on the water-damaged side of the house, along with the rooms below them, the entire right side would become a master bedroom loft, looking down into a huge great room. That would leave the house with only one bedroom, but what a bedroom! She imagined the fieldstone fireplace, and the firelight reflecting off a burnished hardwood floor.

There was the carriage house—the second story was one huge open room. It could be converted to guest quarters. There was enough room for two bedrooms and a bath, easy.

Damn, that would be nice. She turned in at the cabins.

But she’d done the math more than once. She’d always turned a good profit, thanks to sticking to strict budget guidelines. This one didn’t fit them.

But the location! Property values always skyrocketed near tourist towns. Maybe they hadn’t peaked yet. If she took this deal, she’d be betting on the come.

But Sam wasn’t a gambler. Gambling was for people who could afford to lose.

Screw it. I’ll just move on. After all, there would be another project down the road. She opened the hideous car’s door, gingerly lowered herself into the seat and fired it up.

Mind made up, she kicked the disappointment to a back corner of her mind. Maybe she’d head up the coast, see San Francisco. She liked the idea of working on a Victorian, and she heard they had a bunch of them up there.

I’ve got to pressure that mechanic to move faster on the bike. Without a project, she had no money coming in. She could have the Jeep sent from Telluride, but traveling was no fun on four wheels.

She turned at the Farm House Café parking lot. Listening to local gossip would be a good distraction from her thoughts. She’d just grab a cup of coffee. Her phone rang with the distinctive drum riff to “Radar Love.” Only having full use of one hand was getting old, fast. She zipped into a parking place, put the car in Park and picked up the phone.

“Ms. Crozier? It’s Honey, Homestake Realty.”

“I was going to call you, later today. I’ve done the numbers, and they just don’t add up. I’ll need to—”

“Would you still be interested if I told you the family would be willing to split the difference with you? It was a fight, but I got them to agree to accept ten percent lower than the asking price.”

Sam stepped out of the car, recalculating the spreadsheet in her head. That would work. Just.

“When can we sign papers?” She kept her voice deadpan, a hard task while grinning ear-to-ear.

“Would you like to meet me in the office in the morning, say nine o’clock?”

Sam hung up, and did a gingerly happy dance, complete with fist punch. “Unh.” Stabbing pain made her pay for forgetting her ribs. She grimaced, taking shallow breaths. But it couldn’t wipe her smile.

Sam hobbled inside, holding her ribs.

“Well, that looked like good news. I think.” Jesse stood watching, hands on hips, behind the counter. Her hair was in a different style than the last time Sam had been in, but it was just as big, and the short dress just as tight.

A book lay face down on the counter. Sam read the title. Mensa Sudoku.

“The best news. It looks like I’m going to be your neighbor for a while. I just bought the Sutton place.”

“You what? What would you want with that wreck?”

Sam’s stomach woke, growling to the delicious aroma of grilling meat and frying potatoes. “I’m a building contractor. That house has potential.”

“From what I’ve seen, the biggest potential that house has is to fall down.”

“Well, it will be a challenge, I’ll admit. My biggest to date. But I’ve renovated four other houses on my way across the country. I can handle it.”

Jesse glanced at Sam’s sling, but said nothing.

Sam claimed a stool at the afternoon-empty counter and dropped the DayGlo flower keychain on the counter.

Jesse’s penciled eyebrows shot up and she raised her head to look past Sam to the parking lot. “I heard about that.”

“Heard about what?”

“Nick must have thought a lot of you to let you borrow the Love Machine.”

“And here I thought I had the booby prize.”

Jesse’s solemn look stopped Sam midlaugh. In a quiet voice, Jesse said, “That’s his mother’s car.”

Before Sam could ask for that story, Jesse turned a sharp eye on her. “You are a surprise, sweetie. How did you ever get involved in that career?”

“I’ll tell you, if you promise to explain the math-whiz thing to me, sometime.”

When Jesse nodded, Sam picked up the menu in front of her. “My dad wanted a boy—bad. My mom was the love of his life and she died when I was born, so I was as close as he was going to get. He taught me what he loved. Growing up, partially built houses were my playground.” Sam perused the menu. “By the time I was old enough to realize that all kids didn’t spend their summers crawling around construction sites, I was hooked.”

“Well, then I’m glad you’re buying it. Fighting over the estate, the family priced it out of the market. By the time they got real, it was in such bad shape, it wasn’t worth much. I’ll bet they just jumped at the chance to unload it.”

Jesse started to fill Sam’s coffee cup, but paused, midpour, looking off with an unfocused stare. “It used to be such a beautiful thing. I went to a Christmas party there once when I was a kid. You should have seen it. White lights strung along the eaves, huge Christmas tree in the front windows. It sure was pretty.” Jesse finished pouring, then raised her voice. “Hey, everybody—this is Samantha, and she’s just bought the old Sutton place. I expect y’all to make her welcome.”

Embarrassed to be singled out, and unsure of her reception, Sam glanced around to see smiles and some curiosity, but none of the suspicion or animosity she expected. Being a woman, traveling cross-country on a motorcycle, she was used to people not knowing how to react to her. A few customers raised their coffee cups in salute.

Jesse smiled down on Sam. “Well, honey, anything we can do to help, you just let us know. That hunky guy in the kitchen is pretty handy. And I can help you plan the housewarming!”

“Whoa up a minute, Jesse. It’ll take me close to a year to complete the renovation, since I do most of the work myself. I think it’s a little early to be planning a party.” She smiled. “But I appreciate the support. It can be hard to fit in to a new town.”

It is, usually. But a tiny dust bunny of contentment had nestled in her chest, the past few days. It felt odd there, but she thought she liked it.

* * *

SAM CONTACTED THE storage company in Telluride where she’d finished the last project and arranged for them to send her meager furnishings, the Jeep and her father’s precious tools to Widow’s Grove. She planned to bivouac in one of the rooms while she worked on the rest of the house.

One morning a few days later, she glanced out her cabin’s window to see the old manager shuffling by, huge wrench in hand. His attire hadn’t improved, except he now wore mirror-shined brogans.

Sam stepped onto the porch. “Excuse me, Mr. Raven?”

He stopped and squinted at her. Sam was relieved to see he’d put in his teeth.

“Could you tell me where I’d find a lumberyard or a hardware store around here?”

“Well, there used to be Lincoln Hardware, downtown.” He frowned, and his lip curled, just a bit. “But they cancelled Dave’s lease last year. Guess the landlord thought he’d make more money off another antique store. Now there’s just Coast Lumber, on the way to Solvang.”

Sam stepped off the porch into the morning sunshine. “Mom-and-pop yards can’t compete with the big chains anymore. But it’s the local builders that suffer, since the smaller places catered to their localized needs. The box stores couldn’t care less.”

He extended a gnarled, arthritic hand. “You’ve been here a week and a half—the name’s Tim.”

Those fingers looked painful. She shook his hand gently. “And you can call me Sam.”

“Sam it is, then. Give Coast a try, they’re better’n most. I traded with them when I had my plumbing business.” His blue eyes twinkled as he hefted the iron wrench. “That’s a’fore I retired, you see.”

Sam smiled. “Thanks, Tim.” She turned and walked to the borrowed car where it sat looking like a tavern slut in a church pew.

The drive to Solvang only took twenty minutes.

Sam had the same emotional connection with hardware stores that many women had with lingerie boutiques. She stood in the tool aisle, inhaling the clean scent of cut pine, debating the quality of power saw brands with a clerk.

She noticed a man eavesdropping. He examined a band saw, but glanced at her often. As her conversation ended, he approached.

“Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I overheard you say you’re a contractor, starting a large project. Do you mind if I ask what it is?”

Sam eyed him. He was short and round, a fringe of dark hair around the edge of a bald head. His demeanor didn’t seem threatening, but there was no reason to announce that she’d be living alone, way out of town.

“Let me explain why I’m interested. Then you can tell me to get lost if you’d like.” His smile was harmless, anyway. “I’m Dan Porter, the shop teacher at Widow’s Grove High. I teach occupational programs to give the kids usable skills. I’m always looking for sites for my kids to get some real-world experience.” He extended a broad, hairy paw.

After a brief hesitation, Sam shook it. “So you stalk the aisles of lumber stores, springing yourself on contractors?” She smiled, imagining this little Friar Tuck in his Hawaiian shirt, stalking like a big-game hunter.

“Yeah, something like that. I’ve approached several about my idea, but haven’t had any takers yet.”

“Fear of lawsuits, right?”

“No, I’ve worked that out with insurance through the school. They just don’t want to be bothered. Not that I blame them. They’re in business to make money. But I know they’d see a benefit to their business as well as the kids if they’d give it a shot.”

That’s all she needed—a bunch of left-footed teenagers, falling off her roof. “How much experience do these kids have?”

“Some of them are really good. They’ve gotten all the classroom experience I can give them and they’re familiar with all the tools from my class.”

She thought of the deep-grunt demolition work ahead. And her damned collarbone. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed help. “I’d need a lot more information. By the way, I’m Sam—Samantha Crozier. I bought the old Sutton place outside of Widow’s Grove.”

He let out a low whistle. “Now, that is an ambitious project. Are you planning on subbing out the work?”

“I’ll do most of it myself.”

“Not for a while, you won’t.” He eyed the sling. “Why don’t you stop by the school sometime, to see our setup? You’ll get an idea of the kids’ skill levels, and I could introduce you to some of them.”

“Let me think about it.”

“I only teach shop classes, so you could stop by anytime during school hours.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed her a business card. “You have no idea what this would mean to these kids. And remember, you’d be getting young muscle, cheap!”

Sam didn’t notice the products on the shelves as she wandered the aisles. The hardware store ambiance was a soothing backdrop to the battle waged in her head. She liked working alone. The projects took longer to complete, but at the end, she could admire the quality result and know she’d left a mark on the landscape as she passed through. She’d know she was more than an anonymous biker in leathers. She liked working in peace, no one talking, interrupting or getting in the way.

Oh, sure, she usually subbed out plumbing, and an occasional electrical job. But teenagers? They were a seething batch of hormones with big feet. Unsafe, unfinished, unknown.

When she lifted her shoulders to shrug off the idea, her collarbone shot a bolt of pain down her arm.

Dammit. She didn’t have six weeks to wait to heal. Every day, money was trickling out of her account. She could hire professionals, but they came dear, and had opinions about how to do things. With kids, she could be sure it was done her way.

But was she prepared to take on a babysitting gig?

* * *

SINCE WORK COULDN’T begin on the house until the deal closed, Sam found herself once more, with too much time on her hands.

Late afternoons, she usually walked to the Farm House Café. During slow hours, she and Jesse would sit drinking coffee and “shooting the poop,” as Jesse called it. Sam got acquainted with the town through Jesse’s stories. Sam considered it research, learning more about the market without having to meet the people.

She’d also found Jesse a fascinating study in opposites; she looked like Flo, from the old sitcom, Alice. But she also appeared to be a savant with numbers, and Sam had seen enough to know that she was the force behind the diner’s popularity.

Today, she’d sat at the counter talking to Jesse long enough to get the coffee jitters.

You don’t have to like asking for help with the house; you just have to do it. “Jesse, do you know Dan Porter, the shop teacher at the high school?”

Jess refilled Sam’s cup. “Of course I do. Why?”

“I’m looking into the possibility of using a couple of his students for a couple of weeks.” She lifted her damaged arm, then winced, and put it down. “Only till I heal.”

“Oh, Dan’s one of the good guys. He got Teacher of the Year, back in ’09. Kids who aren’t going off to college need skills, to get a job. He’s helped out a bunch of them.”

The clanging of the cowbell against the glass café door brought Jesse’s head up.

“Hey, Nick.”

Sam’s mechanic sauntered to the counter. “Hey, Jesse.”

Sam leaned away. It wasn’t that he stood close. His presence itself seemed to crowd her, taking more space than his body. His scent enveloped her, an odd blend of smoky aftershave with an undertone of engine oil that shouldn’t smell pleasant, but did. He smelled like a blue-collar man. He smelled electric. He smelled like danger.

He looked down at her. Not with the “hunting coyote” look. More of a “who are you, under the Biker Chick?” look. The open curiosity seemed kind and well-meaning. She wouldn’t have trusted just a look—faces were just masks men wore. But something in his loose posture, his sincere mouth, his quiet waiting telegraphed his question; she knew it as true as the skill in her hands.

He slid onto the bar stool beside the one she’d begun to think of as hers. Her skin prickled with awareness. The hair on her arm rose, waving like a charmed snake.

God, she hated this. She lived well by herself, but every once in a great while, her traitorous body craved touch. Not a jump-in-the-sack touch. Just a simple longing for human contact that was almost stronger than her ability to quell it. It hit at random—in line at a store, she’d be suddenly and completely aware of a stranger ahead of her. Time would slow. Details would come into sharp focus: working hands with heavy-boned fingers, dark hair on a tanned forearm, set off against a stark white cotton shirt. A core-deep ache would bloom in her chest and she’d have to fist her hands to keep from reaching to touch the pale, vulnerable skin at the inside of a stranger’s elbow.

She shuddered, shivering the feeling off like a dog shakes off water.

“You know, Jesse,” Nick tipped his chin to the pie safe next to the cash register “That pie looks familiar. In fact, I think it’s the twin of the one I found on my front porch this morning.”

Jesse raised her pert nose and sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pinelli.” She turned to the kitchen window to pick up an order.

“I do appreciate it, Jess, but I’m not in high school anymore. I can cook, you know.”

Eyes straight ahead, Jesse swished by, a food-laden tray gracefully balanced on her shoulder.

“Hey, Samantha.” He turned his attention back to her. “What did the doctor say?”

She fingered her empty coffee cup. “Who needs a doctor? What I really need is a time machine to speed up the healing.”

Nick gave her the hairy eyeball. He opened his mouth, but apparently thought better of it. “I’ve been checking online parts boards every day, but nothing new has come up for the Vulcan. From the look of things, this may take a while.”

“That’s okay. As it turns out, I’m going to be here awhile.” She told him about her plan to buy, renovate and sell the house. “My Jeep will be here in a week or so, and I can return your car then.”

“No rush.” Nick pulled a menu from the stainless clip at the edge of the counter. “Did you feel like the bomb, riding around town in the Love Machine?”

Jesse walked by frowning, and gave her a barely perceptible headshake.

Sam said, “Yeah, the bomb.” Nuclear bomb.

A stout middle-aged man stopped on his way to the register, dollar bills in hand. “Hey, Nick, I thought you were coming by this morning. Are you picking up bread tomorrow instead?”

“I don’t have a car at the moment, Bert. Can I make it Wednesday?”

“Sure, that’ll work. I’ll leave the back door open at seven.”

Jesse strolled up. “Nick picks up day-old bread at the bakery and takes it down to the homeless shelter once a week.” She glanced at Sam.

Through the years, Sam had enough people try to set her up to recognize the matchmaker gleam. Sam ignored Jesse’s grin as an awful thought surfaced. “Did I take your car?”

Nick looked up. “Nah. That’s my mom’s car. I don’t own one.”

Remembering Jesse’s cue, she wasn’t going near that one. She closed her open mouth. “You run a garage that fixes cars, but you don’t own one?”

“Nope. Don’t need one, most of the time. When I do, I just use one of the shop’s loaners.”

Ah, an opportunity! “Why don’t I swap your mom’s car for another loaner? I’d hate to have something happen to—”

“Nah, you keep it as long as you need. It needs to be driven now and again.”

He snapped the menu closed and ordered a burger with fries from Jesse, then turned his attention back to Sam. “So where are you from? Originally?”

“Ohio.” Sam felt speared, by his interest and his gaze, as the moment spun out. Caffeine zinged along her nerves.

He cocked his head. “That’s odd.”

“What?” Her tone teetered on bitchy. “A woman shouldn’t ride a motorcycle? Shouldn’t be on the road, alone? Shouldn’t have a man’s job? What?”

His open smile disarmed her. “I’m just surprised anyone would want to travel so far from home.”

She examined the dregs of coffee in the bottom of her cup. “Well, not everybody grew up in Mayberry, Opie.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t sound happy. “And not everywhere that looks like Mayberry, is.”

Hmm. Maybe, like Jesse, there was more to Nick than bedroom eyes and a great smile. “So, tell me how a guy who doesn’t own a car came to own a tow and repair shop?”

“I’ve been a mechanic for a long time. I came into some money about eight years ago.” His eyes sidled away. “I bought the shop from Bud Proctor, who was retiring. I added towing—” he looked up, and winked at her “—and wrenching on injured classic babies, which I do for pure love.”

Damn, he’s good-looking. But it was his focused interest that made her hop from the stool and make a hasty exit.