Cody rechecks the go-kart instruction manual that Joe left for him. He can hardly make heads or tails of the technical mumbo jumbo. Fake it till you make it.
“Hey, are we gonna start soon?” asks a redheaded kid with a crew cut.
“Okay, kids, let’s get started.” He glances at the first set of steps. “We’re going to take the bottom and side cutouts that Joe made for us and lay them a hundred eighty degrees in orientation. Then we’re going to glue the outer two boards at a ninety-degree angle to the bottom board and clamp them together.”
What? Seriously, this thing reads like an engineer wrote it.
He looks up. Five bewildered faces stare back at him. Exactly how I feel.
Cody tosses the manual aside. “Okay. Watch me.” He picks up a board. “Take the bottom board and lie it flat on your workstation. We’re gonna glue the side boards to it.”
The kids nod, but most have a hard time lifting the heavy plywood.
“Okay, I’ll be right around to help.”
Cody quickly circulates to each workstation. Soon the go-karts take shape. Cody shows each kid how to hammer nails into the sides to reinforce the glue job. “Pair up and help each other. One holds the kart steady. One hammers. Watch your fingers. And the fingers of your partner. I am not trained in first aid.”
He gets a couple of concerned looks but brushes them off as he consults the manual for the next step. Just gotta stay one step ahead of them.
“Are we too late?”
Cody looks up from the cryptic instructions to see Bree lighting up the garage with her smile. David stands next to her, a little out of breath, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hey, guys. Glad you could make it. Those two stations have your names on them.” Cody points to two empty workbenches set up along the perimeter.
Cody notices Bree’s pink sneakers as she leads David to their places.
“W-w-w-what are we gonna do today?” David asks.
“Well, we’re putting together the frame of the kart.”
Cody shows them how to assemble the three pieces of wood to form a base. He holds the sides while Bree and David take turns hammering.
“Okay, you guys, now we need to glue every joint to make sure they’re nice and strong.”
More bewildered stares from the small sea of faces.
“What’s a joint?” asks the redheaded kid.
“Where the two pieces come together,” says Bree.
“That’s right, Bree,” says Cody. “Basically, just make sure there are no holes anywhere along the bottom.”
The kids squeeze glue bottles like frosting tubes over their karts, and the glue begins to puddle on the workbenches and the floor. Before Cody can prevent it, one of the kids steps in it and traipses across the floor, creating a gooey trail.
“Whoa, easy. You’re stepping in it. Shoes off!” Cody tosses rags to the offender and to each workstation. “Mop up the glue, or Joe will kill me.”
As if on cue, Joe appears holding several bags of supplies. He takes one look at the place and shakes his head. “Gone for twenty minutes. Take these, will you?”
Cody lifts the bags from his arms and leans in to whisper, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Joe.”
“You got that right, Captain Obvious. Why’d you give them each a bottle of glue?”
“They need it for the kart. Isn’t that . . .”
Joe shames him with a look. “That’s why I put out those Styrofoam bowls.”
“Oh. I thought those were for their snacks or something.”
“No. You put a little glue in those and then they use those sponge brushes I set next to each one to spread it on the kart.”
How on earth was I supposed to figure that out?
“Let’s help them clean up the glue and clamp the seams so the karts dry nice and snug, and then I think we’ve done enough for today.”
“Good plan.” Cody heads over to Bree and David, who are still hammering their side panels on. “You guys want a little help?”
David readily gives up the hammer.
“I’m good,” says Bree. “Almost done.”
Cody puts an extra hand on the kart to steady it. Bree confidently lines up a nail and drives it into the wood. “Nice skill, Bree.”
“Thanks. My dad taught me. We made a birdhouse one time.”
“That’s a father who sounds pretty amazing.”
“He was,” says Bree, lining up another nail.
Cody pours a small amount of glue in their Styrofoam bowl and hands David a sponge brush. “You want to smooth the glue over the seams. Fill in the gaps. Okay? Slow and precise. Don’t wanna glob the glue all over the place.”
David nods and dips his brush into the glue and paints it on his kart exactly on the mark. No muss. No fuss.
“Like this?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect, David. Nice work.” David glances up at Cody with a grateful smile. And it dawns on him. Patience. Precision. David has it down. And he’s only nine.
These kids don’t have fathers to show them how make go-karts. Or come watch them race. Or tell them “great job.” There’s a lot more going on here than I realized.
“So have you two started to think about what you’re going to name your karts?” says Cody.
“G-g-g-goose G-g-glider!” stutters David.
Cody nods. “I like it. Has a smooth sound. Bree, what about you?”
Bree nods. “Yep.” She dips her brush into the glue and carefully applies a layer.
“Are you going to tell us?” says Cody.
“I’m going to show you.” Bree sets the brush in the bowl and digs her hand into her jeans pockets for something. She holds it out for Cody and David to see.
“It’s this.”
Cody looks at the black patch in her palms. It contains a white eagle head and the word “Airborne” across the top in yellow in all caps.
“The Screaming Eagle,” says Bree.
“I like that. What’s the significance of the patch?”
“It was my dad’s. He was 101st Airborne. What do you think?”
“This was your dad’s?”
Bree nods. Cody notices that Joe is standing off to the side, glancing from Cody to the patch. Cody Jackson. Role model. Never woulda put that title by my name before.
“I think your dad would’ve loved it.”
“I want to paint this logo on the hood,” says Bree.
“Okay. We can do that. Right, Joe?”
“Not a problem,” says Joe.
“What color?” asks Cody.
“I like pink. But camo. Pink camo.”
Cody looks to Joe and gets the nod.
“You got it.”
As Bree starts to fill in the other seam of her kart, David pitches in to help.
“Big responsibility here, huh?” Joe says. “But I think you’re up for it.”
Cody nods. “I think so.”
chapter nineteen
No Food in the House
PATTI IS VERY pleased with herself when her plan B works. She’s able to get Rosie to tell her Amber’s work schedule. Armed with the information, she calls Amber and offers to pick Bree up from school on the two afternoons a week when Amber has to work the dinner shift. Amber politely agrees. She suspects Amber is just thin on options and energy.
Today is the first day of their arrangement, and Patti arrives at Bree’s school a few minutes later than she would have liked after getting caught up with a new MyWay consultant on the phone and losing all track of the time. She doesn’t find Bree waiting outside, so she parks the car and heads into the school building.
After a few wrong turns, Patti finds Bree’s classroom. A few straggling kids are getting help from the teacher on homework. But no sign of Bree.
“Excuse me, I’m here for Breeanne Hill. Am I in the right classroom?” she asks the teacher.
“Oh, and you are . . . ?” says the lanky brunette in skinny jeans, a tunic, and a wispy neck scarf.
“Patricia Hill, Bree’s grandmother.”
“Of course. But Bree left about twenty minutes ago. With David Pipoly. They were going to Joe’s Auto.”
“That’s odd. She knew I was picking her up. I don’t understand.” Patti was getting a touch nervous. Amber hadn’t said anything about a David Pipoly or Joe’s.
“Maybe she thought you meant pick her up at Joe’s Auto?”
“What’s going on at Joe’s?”
“Racing for Glory.”
Patti gives her a befuddled look.
“It’s a kids’ go-kart club. Sponsored by Clarksville Community Church. Joe runs it out of his garage.”
“Oh. I see. And Bree’s a part of this?”
“From what I understand.”
“Thank you,” Patti says, rushing out the door.
She drives the four blocks to Joe’s.
Inside Joe’s garage, half a dozen boys and girls are pounding and painting wooden go-karts at various stations set up around the garage. In one corner, Joe shows a boy how to drive a nail into the plywood. He misses and almost whacks Joe in the gut.
Patti searches the little faces but doesn’t see her granddaughter at any of the karts. Her worry changes to unease. What if Bree never made it to Joe’s?
“Can I help you?” A man’s voice calls to her from the other side of the stall. Patti turns to see a handsome stranger in greasy jeans.
“Ah, yes. I’m here to pick up Bree Hill. I’m her . . .”
“Glam-ma! What are you doing here?”
Bree pops out from behind her kart in the back and bounces up with a huge hug for Patti. Patti instantly breathes a sigh of relief.
“Bree, your Mom didn’t tell me you were going to be at Joe’s. I went to school first . . .”
“Grandma, Cody and I are building a go-kart!”
Cody? Who’s Cody? Didn’t her teacher say David? And what will her mother think about her pink shirt being stained with grease and paint?
“That’s nice, honey. Which one is he?”
The greasy hunk who greeted her just a second ago smiles sheepishly and grabs a rag to wipe his hands.
“Ma’am. Cody Jackson. Pleased to meet you.”
She shakes his hand and smiles indulgently, not sure how she feels about her granddaughter being with a bunch of grease monkeys. She glances around and sees a couple more girls in the mix. Her mind eases a little, but she still wonders what on earth has possessed her granddaughter to build a go-kart.
“Oh. Patti Hill. Nice to meet you. How long have you been working for Joe?”
“Cody’s a race car driver, Grandma.”
“Oh, that sounds . . . dangerous,” says Patti, with an eye to Cody.
“Guess Mom’s working late?” asks Bree.
“Yeah, it’s her dinner shift at Rosie’s. Looks like I’ve got you all to myself tonight.” Patti sends Bree a warm smile.
“Rosie’s out on old Thirty-seven?” Cody asks.
“It’s the only Rosie’s I know of.”
“They have great pancakes,” Bree chimes in.
“I’ll have to stop in and try them,” says Cody.
“Do you know Amber?” Patti can’t keep the air of suspicion out of her voice.
“Not yet. But if she’s as great as her daughter, I’d sure like to.” Cody unleashes a broad smile on Patti. Despite his good looks, an edge of disaster radiates from him. He’s exactly the type Amber would be attracted to. His build and looks resemble Darren’s. Patti is certain he’s a bit of a wild card.
“Bree, grab your things. Let’s go.”
Bree finds her backpack and waves good-bye to David, who’s putting a base layer of paint on his kart. Bree gives Cody a fist bump.
“See you tomorrow, Cody. Bye, David!”
Patti sees a small hand wave from behind a kart-in-progress.
“Nice to meet you.” Patti throws the insincere pleasantry to Cody as she takes Bree’s hand and leads her out of the garage. She doesn’t trust how friendly he’s being with Bree. Her mind leaps to the assumption that he might eventually use Bree to attract Amber. And Amber just might fall for it. She’s in that vulnerable place where a man might easily slip in and fill the void.
* * *
ONCE AT AMBER’S, Patti settles Bree at the kitchen table to do her homework.
“You hungry?” Patti asks Bree.
“Starving. Do you know how to make baked ziti?”
“Is that what you want?”
Bree nods. Patti searches the pantry for the right ingredients and quickly becomes disappointed by the lack of food.
“Grandma, do you know how to do percentages?” says Bree, squirming at the table over a math worksheet.
“I use them all the time. You need some help?”
“Yes, please.”
“Your mom sure doesn’t keep much in the house, does she?”
“Sometimes she brings home leftovers from the restaurant.”
Patti opens the fridge. Little scraps of this and that—moldy cheese, expired sausage links, wilted broccoli—nothing she can make a meal from. She tosses the bad food in the trash.
“How about pizza?” Patti reaches for her phone.
“Grandma, what number is twenty-five percent of two hundred?” Bree looks up, frustrated from her math paper.
Patti grabs two apples and a knife. She begins to slice up the first apple.
“Okay, this apple is one hundred percent.” She quarters the apple. “Now how much is each piece?”
“Twenty-five,” says Bree confidently.
“Good. Now let’s take this other apple and”—she quarters that one—“how much is each?”
“Same. Twenty-five percent.”
“Good. So what is twenty-five and twenty-five?”
Bree takes two slices and suddenly sees the answer. “Fifty!”
“Perfect!” Patti says, and Bree scribbles down the correct answer on her sheet as she pops a slice of apple into her mouth.
“Cheese and pepperoni okay?”
Bree nods with her mouth full of fruit.
As Patti dials the Pizza Ranch, she sees the unopened MyWay cosmetics box on the kitchen counter, tucked behind some plastic containers left out for recycling.
“Yes, I’d like to place an order for delivery. Patti Hill. Oh, hi, Caroline. I thought I recognized your voice. Yes, I have more Butter Biscuit eye shadow. Stop by the house tomorrow. Medium. Pepperoni and cheese only. Thanks.”
She hangs up. Caroline has been a client for five years, drawing in the entire female side of her family and half the Pizza Ranch customers. And she’s just one of many examples of how deep Patti’s MyWay empire extends into Clarksville. She would gladly let Amber dip into the pool if she would only have half an ounce of humility and common sense.
chapter twenty
Take a Deep Breath
AMBER’S MOOD REFLECTS the gray, early-spring skies and the drizzly mist that clings to the air and mats her hair as she rushes from the parking lot into Rosie’s. Anxious thoughts whir through her mind. How to pay off the mortgage? The gas? The electric? The water? And then . . . what’s left over. Only seven days until Jim Wellington can’t stop the foreclosure. She needs to prove to Rosie she’s worthy of the promotion.
“He came in here asking for you,” says Rosie as she sets a stack of dirty dishes in the bin under the counter where Amber fills syrup jars.
She cocks her head in Rosie’s direction. “Who’s that?”
“That nice-looking fella with the lonely face.”
“Rosie, you just described the entire Monday-morning senior men’s coffee klatch.”
Rosie chuckles. “Like that sense of humor poking through.” Rosie nods discreetly to the handicapped table by the front door. “Him. The one in the wheelchair. The young guy.”
“I don’t know.” But Amber knows exactly who Rosie’s talking about. She had seen pictures of Nelson on Darren’s Facebook page. And she had met him once or twice on Skype calls b
etween her and Darren. Amber grabs a bag of sugar packets and moves around to each table, restocking the containers.
“How do you know him?”
“He’s been coming in here lately, asking for you. Tells me he was in Darren’s unit. I don’t think he’s going to be in that wheelchair for long,” Rosie says, wiping off the countertop.
“Oh? What do you mean?”
“He tried to stand and hang up his coat.”
“I thought he was paralyzed.”
“I did, too. But there he was, trying to balance on those skinny chicken legs.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“I tried to help him, but he wouldn’t have it. And after that, I wasn’t going to pry.”
Amber has often wondered about Nelson’s story and what he knows about the events surrounding Darren’s death. But she’s been afraid to ask. Rather, afraid that knowing may rip open old wounds barely healed. And who needs deeper scars? Not her.
The bell on Rosie’s Diner door dings and a handsome young man saunters in, catching Amber’s eye as she fills the last container with sugar packets. “Take a seat anywhere you like. I’ll be right with you.” The guy smiles at her like he knows her. He grabs a stool at the end of the counter.
Amber moves around to the counter, reaching for her notepad and a pen in her apron pocket. “Hi there. What can I get you to start?” Amber looks up at the man sitting in front of her, and her stomach makes a quick flutter. The same feeling she had in high school when she first met Darren. What’s happening? This feels weird. Not right.
“Hi. Coffee. Black. Please.” She recognizes something comforting and familiar in his warm smile and soft brown eyes. She catches herself staring.
“Cream and sugar?” Amber glances at his place setting. No mug.
“Nope. Black.”
“Oh. Yeah, you said that. Sorry.” She reaches behind her for a coffee mug and saucer and places it in front of him. “You want to see a menu?”
“I hear you have great pancakes.”
Amber walks to the coffee station and grabs a fresh pot. “We’re famous for them.” She fills his mug and returns the pot.
God Bless the Broken Road Page 8