Читать книгу The Chance - Robyn Carr, Robyn Carr - Страница 9

Three

Laine brought her midsize SUV to Eric on Tuesday, the day after they talked. It was a new model and in excellent condition. If he subtracted the cross-country miles from the odometer, she’d only put a few thousand miles on it in a year. Ordinarily he’d have Norm or Manny service the vehicle, but he did it. He found nothing wrong with the car, so he washed and detailed it. Himself.

Eric had four employees. Norm, who had sold him the station, was trying to avoid going on cruises and Elderhostel trips with his wife, so he kept working. No doubt he told the missus it was absolutely necessary to help out during this ownership transition, but he was more honest with Eric—he wanted to unload the station and put the money in the bank but he wasn’t quite ready to indulge in retirement activities that sounded like sheer torture to him. Nor could he fathom spending day after day with his wife.

Manny had come with Eric from Eugene after Eric sold his body shop there. Manny was a good friend from way back and had a wife and a passel of kids. Howie had worked part-time for Norm, was about the same age, didn’t do much—if any—mechanical repairs and the two of them gossiped, drank a lot of coffee and pumped a lot of gas. From the look of the place when Eric took over, neither one of them ever pushed a broom or applied a rag to windows or other surfaces. Both of them might quit before too long because if there was one thing Eric hated it was a dirty shop. Classic car collectors especially liked the garage to look like an operating room. He pushed both of those old boys hard.

And then there was Justin Russell, a lanky, moody seventeen-year-old, who was either troubled or very shy and reminded Eric of himself at that age. Eric suspected he’d hired Justin out of some desire to groom him. It was almost like some sort of psychological experiment, as though by straightening Justin out he could make up for his own delinquent youth. So far that wasn’t happening. But Eric was, if anything, stubborn.

Justin worked hard, had good hands under the hood and remarkable instincts for a kid who hadn’t tinkered with engines much.

Eric went into the bathroom, scrubbed his hands, swiped water over his face for good measure, rinsed his mouth and gave the mirror over the sink a shot of glass cleaner. He wiped out the sink with the paper towel he’d used to dry his hands. Then he appraised himself in the mirror. He had taken off his coveralls and was wearing a mechanic’s uniform—dark blue pants, light blue shirt, Lucky’s sewn onto the shirt. His name was embroidered on the pocket. He’d opted for the new business name since he’d been feeling pretty lucky. There was a part of him that wished he were dressed as a civilian, but this was who he was—a mechanic, a body man. His uniform was clean—he always donned a jumpsuit over his clothes when he got into or under a car engine. His hands were clean, even under the nails.

And then he found Manny and said, “I’m going to deliver a car. I won’t be gone long.”

“Yeah, boss.”

He drove the few short blocks to Laine’s house. He turned off the car. He had her cell phone number and called it from the driveway. “Is this a convenient time to drop off your car?” he asked.

“You don’t have to drop it off,” she said. “I’ll come and get it in an hour or so.”

“Ah, I’m in your driveway,” he said. “If I can just leave the key fob somewhere, we can settle up when it’s convenient.” She didn’t say anything and he waited. “Laine?” he asked. And then he watched as the front door opened and she walked outside, an astonished look on her face. She was dressed the same way as when he’d seen her other times in the diner—yoga pants, heavy short-sleeved sweatshirt over a long-sleeved T-shirt, tennis shoes, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looked like a young girl. A very pretty young girl.

Eric got out of the car and handed over the key fob. He pulled out a receipt from the inside pocket of his jacket. “We serviced the brakes, changed the oil, gave it a lube, rotated the tires and I checked over everything. You’re in very good shape, no surprises. I’d recommend service checks regularly, which depends on how much driving you do. Your car is well cared for.”

“You should’ve just called me,” she said. “I would have come for it.”

“No problem. I was happy to bring it over.”

“But I was going to use plastic to pay for it.”

He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket. “You can do that now if you want to or you can come by the shop another time.” He popped an attachment for scanning onto his phone. “Whatever works for you.”

“I didn’t expect you to get to it today,” she said, obviously still surprised.

“We weren’t busy. But there’s no rush on—”

“No, I can pay you now. Come inside, Eric.”

“I don’t mind waiting....”

“For Pete’s sake, come inside!” And she turned to precede him into the house.

Eric stood there for a second. He hadn’t meant to disrupt her day, just wanted to make an effort, show he was both a businessman with great customer service and...well...a gentleman. He followed her a bit slowly. She’d left the door standing open and he entered. It was just a few steps past the foyer staircase into the great room.

“Wow,” he said.

There was a fire ablaze in the hearth, cozy furniture complete with pictures and hangings on the walls, throws on the chair and sectional sofa, a panoramic view of the bay out of the back windows, flowers on the table and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. Something was simmering on the stove and Laine used an oven mitt to pull something out of the oven.

“Wow?” she asked.

“It’s so...domestic,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair, looking around. It was earth tones with splashes of lavender and blue here and there. And there was some red but just some, not much. Welcoming. Warm.

“It’s a home,” she said with a laugh.

“I know, but aren’t you single?”

“I am.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve only seen you out for a run and you said you do computer research. The only girlfriend I’ve had in the past few years was that web designer. I don’t think she knew where the kitchen was. And she was allergic to housework. But she loved her computers.”

Laine took off the oven mitts and grabbed her purse. “If I’m going to live here, it’s going to be comfortable. And I like to cook. Not all the time, but it relaxes me. I’m having company for dinner tonight, but I also do this for myself. What happened to the girlfriend?”

“She dumped me for a computer programmer. I bet they live in squalor and are either thin from starvation or getting fat on take-out.”

He saw a framed picture of Laine with a man—a very good-looking man. They appeared so happy. Then there was a second picture on the sofa table, a picture of two little girls. For a second he felt almost sick. She couldn’t have lost her family! That would be too cruel.

She found her credit card and presented it. “My nieces,” she said. “You don’t seem to be too traumatized. About the computer girl.”

She didn’t explain the man, but that was all right. He swiped the card and presented the screen for her to sign. “We probably weren’t right for each other anyway. The biggest thing we had in common was that we worked a lot.”

“Well, what drew you together? Ever ask yourself that?” She scrawled her name across the small screen.

“A friend. You know—one of those friends who can’t stand to see a single man on the loose and has to do something to hook ’em up. Don’t friends do that to you?”

“No,” she said. “Apparently none of my friends were ever concerned.”

“Never married?” he asked.

She just shook her head. “I haven’t dated that much. I travel a lot in my job.”

“But you do computer work. How do you travel for that?”

“No one likes sending people to training, seminars, leadership workshops or temporary duty to other divisions like the government does. To me, the computer is a tool. I’m no more fascinated by it than that. When I’m not working overtime or on the road, I have other interests. I’ve always liked to cook. It reminds me of my mother, who loved to cook.”

“Wow.”

“You’re getting turned on.” She put her card back in her purse. “You just met a woman who likes to cook and live in clean environs and you’re actually getting turned on.”

“No, I swear...”

“Yes, you are! I think you’d marry me right now if I’d promise to love, honor, vacuum and cook.”

“Seriously, no...”

“It’s because you live in a motel. And probably because none of your friends are trying to fix you up,” she said. “You’re looking for a domestic.”

“Hey, I am not. I’m a good cook, too. Very good. In fact, I’ll be happy to cook for you....” He stopped and rubbed a hand around the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I’d have to borrow your kitchen, however.”

She laughed.

“I’ve been renovating and updating the station. From early in the morning to late at night...”

“You’re welcome to join us tonight, if you like. It’s just my friend Devon, her fiancé, her three-year-old and her friend, Rawley.”

“Thanks, that’s very nice, but I don’t want to intrude.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll probably run into you at the diner or something. Let me know if the car is unsatisfactory in any way.”

“Can I give you a lift back to the station?”

“Nah, I like the walk. Have a nice evening.”

He walked outside, into the brisk, moist air. He took a deep breath.

Not only had finding a woman been the last thing on his mind, but he also thought it made perfect sense to avoid such attachments in a little town like this, a town where he needed to make a living, needed to be respected by his friends and customers. He really couldn’t risk things like romantic drama. Plus, the only female who really had his attention was Ashley, his seventeen-year-old daughter. And he was making a real effort not to dominate her time—she was a high school senior and had better things to do. Besides, he needed little more than work, peace of mind, a little time with Ashley and an opportunity to watch her complete her growth into a fine young woman.

But then he noticed Laine. And damned if all those resolutions started to grow weak.

* * *

Laine had a very nice dinner with her friends. Spencer brought his son, Austin, a polite and funny ten-year-old. She got the biggest kick out of Rawley, who did very little talking, but was constantly finding things to point out to Mercy. He asked if she wanted her doll to sit at the table with them, prompted her to scrape up red sauce onto her garlic toast, asked if she had drawn any pictures of him lately and wanted to know what movies she’d been watching on her hand-me-down portable DVD player. To the adults, he didn’t have that much to say unless he was asked a direct question.

Two days later she ran into Eric in the diner. True, she thought she might and timed the end of her run specifically for that purpose. And of course he asked about her little dinner party and if her car was running all right. Two days after that she saw him walking into the deli and she decided it was time to get a pint of Carrie’s fabulous crab salad. He asked how her car was running. Two days after that she saw him in the diner again and he asked her what she’d been cooking lately and...how the car was running.

She could tell he liked her. When he saw her, he brightened. His face opened up a little and she got a good view of that wide, white smile. He kind of leaned toward her to talk. He was starting to really piss her off! She was going to have to make the first move.

It had been ten days and five random meetings since he’d delivered her car. Then she ran into him again. She was going home from the diner, he was headed there. There was the usual small talk—weather, car, cooking—and she said, “This is getting really old, Eric. Why don’t you ask me out? Am I that unappealing?”

His eyes got round and his mouth fell open. “Huh?”

“Very eloquent, but for God’s sake, my car is running just fine, I don’t cook big meals every day but when it’s cloudy, dark and wet, I like soups, stews and casseroles, and I can tell you like me. I can’t tell how much you like me, but I’m sure I’ll get a fix on that in no time. So—we’re both new in town and we only have a few friends. You probably have more than I do, being in business and all, but since we get along, like each other, aren’t dating anyone else, why don’t we go out? We’ll just go eat something. Maybe we can talk about anything other than my car, like our hobbies or something.”

The look on his face was priceless. He was clearly stunned. “Sure,” he finally said.

“Friday night. And I’m not cooking for you. That hungry, desperate look you get in your eyes when you come face-to-face with my domesticity is alarming. I’m not looking for a man to take care of. Or one to take care of me, for that matter. But I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house for more than a run. And I haven’t been out on a date in so long... Well, you wouldn’t believe how long. I’ve been working. Then I’ve been... I’ll explain another time. So, Friday night?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Friday night.” Then he grinned hugely. “You asked me out on a date. You asked me.”

“I got very tired of waiting,” she said with a bit of superior impatience.

“I’ve never been asked out on a date before.”

She looked him up and down. Six-two, one-eighty and built, copper hair, the most enviable green eyes she’d ever seen, a little shadow of beard. Really gorgeous. Those eyes. God those eyes. “You big liar,” she said.

He shook his head and gave a shrug. “Not since the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade.”

“But people fixed you up all the time,” she reminded him.

“That’s when you go to the same birthday party or wedding reception. That’s not a date. And if I liked the woman, I asked.”

She frowned in doubt. “Are you wearing contacts?”

He shook his head again, but he was still grinning like a fool. “A gift from my mother. So, do you like seafood?”

“I’m from Boston,” she informed him.

“I’ll find something. I’ll pick you up at six. Is seven too late for dinner? Because I have to—”

“Shouldn’t I pick you up? Find the restaurant?” she asked.

“Nah, you did the hard part, the asking. I’ll do the rest. And by the way, I’m glad you asked. Thanks.”

“Were you ever going to?”

“I think so, yes. I was being cautious. Not for my sake. For yours.”

“Hmm. You’ll tell me more about that at dinner.”

“Fair enough. And you can tell me about the exciting world of research.”

She shook her head. “I really want you awake on this, our first date.”

* * *

Laine was very good at not overthinking things; she rarely found herself dwelling. On the Friday of her date, she dismissed it from her mind and focused on other things—a computer search for the right new rug for in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. She read a few chapters from a book she’d been into, put in a call to Pax and did a load of laundry. She was highly trained and knew how to place focus exactly where she wanted it. She had proven herself disciplined long ago—it was especially important in deep cover.

She could manage not to think about the fact that she hadn’t been on a date in a year and a half. How the devil had it been that long?

She also added a layer of blue polish to her toenails. It was funny the things one missed during a deep-cover assignment. The first two she’d been on had been relatively short—two weeks in a clinic that was suspected of drug trafficking and then four weeks working in a trucker’s dispatch office trying to ferret out the human trafficking connection. But it was over six months in The Fellowship and what she’d really come to grieve was toenail polish, perfume and bath gel. Not to mention hair products. Just because Laine was an FBI agent and an expert markswoman didn’t mean she was a thug or a tomboy. No, sir. She was actually a girlie girl. Yes, she could throw a big guy over the hood of a car and cuff him. And yes, she’d been in some fights—not by choice, but hell, sometimes duty called. She was strong, tough, fearless and feminine.

Finally it was nearly time and she showered, blew out her hair and donned a pair of nice wool slacks, boots, sweater, jacket and long silk scarf. The boots had thin, high heels—Eric was a solid six-two. She could use a little lift.

Her first surprise when she answered the door was how well he cleaned up. She nearly laughed at herself. Had she expected him to arrive in his mechanic’s uniform and sensible lace-up boots? He wore dark jeans, a nice sweater, suede jacket and black cowboy boots. And his name wasn’t sewn anywhere on his outfit.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said, turning to lock the door and flinging her white fringed scarf over her shoulder. He stood aside to let her proceed and she suddenly stopped because there in the driveway was the shiniest, cranberry-red, restored car. “Wow.”

“I guess you can appreciate an old car.”

“Nineteen-seventy Chevy El Camino. Car or truck? That’s the question.”

“You know your cars,” he said, coming around her to open the passenger door. “You into cars?”

“Not in a big way, but this is beautiful.” But she did know her cars. She could identify just about any vehicle make and model on sight. That was part of police work. She could also remember license plates without the need to write down the numbers—not exactly a common thing among law enforcement officers, but she had a skilled memory. Beyond skilled, really.

A beautiful restored classic was all about aesthetics and Laine had a sudden and respectful appreciation for what Eric could do. When he joined her in the front seat she was caressing the dash. “Did you do this?”

“I did,” he said, turning the key and bringing the engine to life. “A friend saw her at a farm, a nonworking farm, along with four other old, wrecked cars. The property owner was ancient and didn’t give a hoot about those junkers, so I went there and made him a quick deal, handed him some cash and hauled them back to Oregon to work on. This one, I got attached to. I upgraded it, obviously—it’s not all original.”

“So you buy and restore old cars?”

“Sometimes. I have a steady clientele that comes to me for body work and I’m always on the lookout for deals, steals and old abandoned classics, not to mention original parts. Just body work...”

“This isn’t just body work,” she said, running a hand along the smooth dash. “This is art.”

That made him smile. “That’s my business.”

“I thought your business was mechanics, maintenance. And gas.”

“That’s part of it. We mean to take care of the town if we can. But body work and restoration is my first love. We’re finishing up a new paint bay in the shop. I left a lot of our specialty tools behind and this is a little like starting from scratch, but building a business makes sense. And it’s already working.”

“Wait a minute—left behind?”

“Oh,” he said with a laugh. “Okay, here’s how it went. I bought a failing business a little over ten years ago in Eugene. Over the past decade, with the help of some great mechanics and body men, we made it good and developed a loyal clientele and then some moneybags comes along and wants it bad enough to keep upping his offer until I started looking around for another place to work. Norm’s station had been for sale for years. It’s not much of a garage, really, but it sits on a real nice piece of land with plenty of room to expand. Norm never paid much attention to the space he had—all he wanted to do was pump gas, fix small stuff like brakes. He let a lot of junk collect on his lot rather than putting the space to use. I bought it, cleared it, poured a big slab and we’re expanding, literally one wall at a time. Plumbing and wiring takes more time than anything and in three months, we have a body shop and full-service garage up and running, not to mention new pumps. I’m hoping a couple more former employees from Eugene decide to join me here. We work well together. And I like the ocean.” He glanced at her, eyes twinkling. “Nice little town.”

“Nice little town,” she echoed.

“You’re the mystery,” he said.

“Me? Nah. I’m just someone who finagled an off-site telecommuting job because I had shoulder surgery. We can call it rehab plus leave of absence plus vacation, but it really boils down to—I can’t travel or manage temporary duty assignments, so I get to work from home when I can. And home can be anywhere, right?”

“Yet you drove three thousand miles to get ‘home’?”

“I can trust you to keep your mouth shut about that, right?”

He shrugged. “Who am I gonna tell?”

“Good,” she said.

“No, Laine. I mean, who am I gonna tell?” Then he peered at her with those haunting green eyes.

“The IRS? Because those sons of bitches are mean as snakes.”

He laughed. “Who’s your boss?”

“President Obama. And there could be a supervisor or two between me and Mr. President.” Then she gave him her teasing smile.

He laughed. “Why Thunder Point?”

She sighed. “The short answer is, I have a friend here. Devon is a friend of mine and once she moved here she just couldn’t shut up about this little town. I went online—my specialty, remember—and got a Realtor to send me a bunch of pictures. The longer answer—I put together a plan to take an extended leave from the government job, time to rehab, to think about whether I want to continue to live in the D.C. area, to work that much, that hard. To think about whether my heart’s still in it... It’s complicated. The pressure is terrible sometimes. I’m good at what I do, but seriously, what’s too much? I mean, do you have pressure?”

“Yes,” he said instantly. “But only the kind I like. And that wasn’t any brilliance on my part. I chose this—I like the kind of pressure I have. I serve some pretty high-dollar masters and their half-million-dollar classics. I can’t make too many mistakes. But then, I don’t make too many mistakes. Not at that, anyway.”

I don’t make many mistakes, either, Laine thought. I’m the best at what I do. Yet I can’t keep doing it.