Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  “But—” Agnes ignored Rose “—when you’re old—”

  “Don’t make excuses for them,” Mildred said.

  “—it’s easier to just give something up!” Agnes was practically shouting now.

  Brit found the plastic box of combs, chose a pick and stood, her shoulders stiff with almost-too-good-to-be-true hope. “So they aren’t all Joe’s cars? What about that BMW?”

  Rose and Agnes looked to Mildred.

  “A BMW? That would be... It was driven by...” Mildred closed her eyes and clamped her mouth in a squiggly line. “Why can’t I remember who owned that car?”

  “Because you’re old,” Rose said baldly. “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.”

  Would a registration card have survived in the BMW’s glove box? Could Brit sneak out there again and check?

  An image of lowered brows over glaring blue eyes loomed before her, more off-putting than a beware-of-dog sign. But she wasn’t much good at heeding warnings.

  Take cutting Joe’s hair, for instance. Those thick midnight-black locks were perfect for styling. A beautician’s dream. She’d ignored his bluster and steered through the storm even when his frigid eyes warned her away.

  Thank heavens Reggie hadn’t seen her while she was working or she’d have called her out—there’d been too much unnecessary touching going on. The man had an energy that spoke to her. She just didn’t want to learn his language.

  Yeah, cutting Joe’s hair had been sweet torture. She hoped she never had to do it again.

  Right now, she had a different cause for itching fingers—Mildred’s unfinished curls. “Can I tease out your hair, Mildred? On the house.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mildred hunched in on herself. “Are my curls that bad? Why didn’t someone tell me before Hiro saw me at the bakery?”

  “They looked fine this morning for your beau,” Agnes soothed. “You’ve just been worrying them.”

  “Into a mess,” Rose stated.

  “I wish I could see better,” Mildred bemoaned.

  Brit took that as permission, and once she got in the rhythm, the tension in her shoulders eased.

  Agnes resumed her attack on the supply cabinet, while Rose swept Joe’s hair into a dustpan.

  “I used to see every detail,” Mildred said, half to herself. “Road signs. Social Security checks. My reflection...”

  Rose interrupted Mildred’s pity party. “Brittany, my dear, can I book you for a hair appointment?”

  Brit surveyed her work. Mrs. Claus looked much less frazzled. “If you’re serious about going red...”

  “I am. Book me. Now, please.”

  “Rose, what’s the rush?” Agnes picked up a can of shaving cream that was so old it’d rusted on the bottom.

  Rose nodded toward the window. Brit glanced over her shoulder, and then turned completely around.

  Several cars were parking outside. White-haired ladies tumbled out like sea foam on a slow-cresting wave.

  “Are they all coming here?” Brit asked. There must have been a dozen of them.

  Another car pulled up, just as full as the others. The barbershop tide had turned.

  “Word must have gotten out.” Agnes dumped the shaving cream in the trash. “We haven’t had a beautician in town since Minna’s closed.”

  “She ran a salon out of her garage. Drafty as all get-out.” Mildred patted her hair gingerly. “She died about eight years ago.”

  “Tuesday morning,” Rose whispered urgently to Brit. “Nine thirty.”

  “Okay.” Brit hurried to her station, flipped open her appointment book and penciled Rose in.

  And then the wave hit.

  “Do you offer perms?”

  “Will you be doing nails?”

  “I’d like a wet set and tease.”

  In no time, she’d taken a full week’s worth of appointments. Had she thought she’d only work half days? She’d barely have time for a BMW reconnaissance, much less setting up a workshop at Grandpa Phil’s.

  It’s only the first week. The excitement will wear off, she told herself.

  Trying not to listen when a small, fearful voice inside hoped it might be.

  * * *

  “WE DON’T LOOK like we’re open for business.” Sam crossed her skinny arms over her skinny chest and gave her best impression of teenage contempt. “With all the dust and grime and cobwebs, we could film a horror movie in here.”

  Joe kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself.

  The horror had begun a month ago when the FBI confronted him outside a diner on his lunch hour. They were building a case against Uncle Turo for a number of things, including accepting stolen property, money laundering and racketeering. Did Joe know anything?

  Joe hadn’t. Not until the two feds started talking. Then his brain had shifted into overdrive, putting together pieces that seemed innocent and random before. People bringing in cars that no longer ran and receiving cash. Guys trading motorcycles for engine work on street racers. Cars sold “on consignment” for unknown clients. He hadn’t paid much attention. He was too busy working and raising Sam to realize his uncle was a crook.

  Which was why when they’d asked Joe if he knew where Turo kept numerous stolen cars, he’d been unable to answer. He didn’t know.

  “You can cooperate,” Federal Agent Haas had said, not believing Joe was that naive. “Or we can bring you up on charges of obstruction of justice and send you to prison for five to ten years.” He’d handed Joe his business card. “Oh, and by the way, I love your daughter’s softball swing.”

  The FBI had been watching his daughter?

  Joe hadn’t been able to speak. He’d sat in his pickup for several minutes before he trusted himself to drive. He wanted to call Vince and Gabe and ask for their advice, but he already knew what he’d have to do. There was only one way to ensure Sam wouldn’t lose another parent. Sell out Uncle Turo to the feds in a sting operation.

  The horror continued. The garage doors were open, but not even the breeze could clear out the dank smell. Grime. Dust. Long-neglected tools hanging from hooks attached to pegboard on the walls. The wooden shelves were strewn with odds and ends. The workbench was brown, warped Formica. An ancient tow truck sat on deflated tires in one of the two service bays.

  It was a far cry from the clean chrome fixtures of Messina’s Garage in Beverly Hills. Soon Joe would be working on junkers, not Jaguars; beaters, not Bentleys. But what choice did he have? After Turo was arrested and his assets frozen—including the bungalow Joe and Sam had lived in—Joe had to put food on the table somehow.

  “Give it until Monday,” Joe said. “Word will get out and cars in the bays will change things.”

  Sam sighed with her entire body. “Can’t we hire someone to make the garage presentable? At the old garage—”

  “I was an employee.” Joe spoke evenly, trying to keep weeks of fear and anger from his tone—none of which was directed at his daughter. “I was hired to fix cars, but had no say in how the garage was run.” Or in which laws Uncle Turo decided to break.

  “Uncle Turo...” Sam hesitated. She knew Uncle Turo had been arrested, but didn’t know why. She came to stand in the midst of the empty service bay. Almost in the exact spot Joe had been the day Uncle Turo had come to town after Joe’s mother left. Sam worked her lips mulishly. “Uncle Turo—”

  “Uncle Turo...” Joe glanced out the open doors, half expecting to hear a motorcycle rumble or explosive laughter heralding Turo’s approach.

  The only sound was a bird. It chirped and tweeted and sang like this was the best day on the planet.

  That bird was so wrong.

  Maybe he should listen to that voicemail he’d gotten earlier, the one left by the caller with the “Jailhouse Rock” ringtone.
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  Or maybe not.

  “Uncle Turo isn’t here to give you a free pass.” Joe yanked a broom from its cobwebbed cupboard in the corner and began knocking down the thick tendrils that hung from the ceiling.

  Thunder rolled in the distance. No. Not thunder. It was a motorcycle engine.

  The hair on the back of Joe’s neck rose.

  “Uncle Turo! I knew he’d come to bring us home.” Sam ran into the parking lot.

  It couldn’t be. Turo was locked up in the LA County jail, awaiting trial. Bail had been denied.

  The sound of the engine came closer, silencing the bird. Joe could relate. He couldn’t speak either. His throat was thick with damn yous and thank Gods.

  It took him a moment to register the cadence of the bike. It wasn’t the untamed, throaty grumble of a Harley. It wasn’t the deep, refined rumble of an Indian. It was the high-pitched whine of a small bike. Economical. Down-market.

  Joe lowered the broom and turned, not to see who it was, but to register Sam’s disappointment.

  He saw it in the slow slide of her innocent shoulders. The leaden creep of her arms around her broken heart. The waver to her chin as she fought tears.

  The motorcycle put-putted past under the legal limit.

  Sam’s feet broke a speed record as she raced upstairs, slamming every door. To the office. To their apartment. To her room.

  The rafters above Joe shook when she flopped on her bed, showering him in dust.

  This was his life now. He had to be grateful. He and Sam. They were together.

  It could have been worse.

  Though it was hard to think of worse when you’d hit rock bottom.

  * * *

  “DIDN’T YOU CLEAN enough for one day?” Grandpa Phil stomped into the kitchen, a grumpy expression on his face.

  Brit stopped scrubbing the refrigerator shelf she had in the sink and glared at him. “I should have taken one look at your kitchen and left.” When she’d moved into his little house days ago, she’d been too tired to register the degree of kitchen filth and had been too busy settling in to do anything about it.

  Phil shrugged. “I’m not as fastidious as your grandmother.” Who’d divorced him twenty years or so ago.

  “I was considering sleeping in my car and renting a port-a-potty.” Or bedding down in the back room at the barbershop. Her arms ached from scrubbing. Now she understood why her family had stayed with Grandmother Leona the few times they came to visit. “You can’t let things go like this. Here, it’s not healthy. And at the shop... You can bet we’ll get a surprise inspection by the state board. We have to keep things clean.”

  “The state board isn’t coming here.” He mini-stumbled on a loose square of linoleum, catching himself with a hand to the door frame before she could reach him.

  “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

  He shuddered to his full height, nearly six feet. “I’m fine. I could stand here all night.” He listed to one side a few inches and gripped the door frame tighter. “When I agreed to let you stay, I didn’t think you’d want to clean and decorate and change everything here. I’m single for a reason.”

  “Because you like to live in squalor?” Brit deadpanned.

  He made a rumbling noise like an old hound dog when roused from its nap by an intruder.

  “No offense, Grandpa—” Brit patted his shoulder “—but I’m too busy to catch every germ you’ve deposited in this house in the past two decades.”

  “I can see I’ll have no peace in my home from now on.” He lifted his face to the ceiling, practically howling with displeasure. “Or in the shop. I’ve operated my business since the country’s bicentennial. Forty years and no complaints or citations.” He stomped into the living room in that unsteady, endearing way of his. “It says Phil’s on the window, you know.”

  “I’m sorry you’re upset.” She left the shelf dripping in the sink and followed him.

  The living room was torturous to her artistic sensibilities—plain white walls, a stained and lumpy tan couch, a scratched oak coffee table. No knickknacks on the mantel. No pictures on the walls. No personality. Nothing he’d regret leaving behind if Leona wanted him back tomorrow.

  “I’m not upset.”

  He was. And she thought she knew why. “You know, I didn’t come here to take over for you.”

  Just as Phil reached the couch, he spun and dropped in a heap of scarecrow-like limbs that sent coils squeaking. “That’s not what the ladies in town think.”

  Holy wet set. “They’re wrong.”

  “Not usually.” He jabbed the remote in the direction of his boxy old television. It came on loud enough to end the conversation.

  Demoralized, Brit returned to the kitchen. She hadn’t moved here intent on building a thriving business or forcing Grandpa into retirement. She returned the shelf to the near-empty refrigerator, put away the cleaning supplies and thought about how she’d feel if someone came into her business—into her home—and began changing things.

  She walked back to the living room, took the remote from Grandpa and muted the television. “I’m sorry I took down the beer mirror.” Not sorry enough to put it back up; just sorry that Grandpa Phil was bent out of shape. “I’m sorry I went through your cabinets and cleaned the place up.” Despite it being long overdue. “And I’m especially sorry that women in town are excited to have a female hairstylist.” Because that meant less time to devote to her art.

  Her hobby. Arts and crafts.

  The terms slid beneath her skin like barbed fishhooks, snagging her pride, dragging down her confidence. What if Keira was a fluke? Everyone loved her, but plenty of artists were one-hit wonders.

  Grandpa Phil gave a full-body huff. “You know how women are—wanting a shampoo and comb out once a week. Word will get out. This is just the beginning. You’re going to be busy.”

  “Phil’s is an institution in town,” she soothed, sitting next to him, flattening the sofa’s worn, noisy springs. “I’m not trying to replace you. Heck, I’d be happier poking through these women’s garages than through their hair.”

  Phil perked up at that. “I know people in town who’d love to get rid of their junk.”

  “Great. Hopefully, they want to give it away.” Her operating budget was nil. She was going to have to put her beauty supplies on credit tomorrow when she drove down to Santa Rosa. “Donations accepted.”

  “Duly noted. Now...” Smiling, he patted her knee. “What’s for dinner? I’ve been living on frozen burritos and cereal.”

  “Dinner is whatever Grandmother Leona is making.” Brit watched his wrinkled smile fade. “I’m sorry. I’ve been summoned.”

  “It’s okay.” Phil took back the remote. “I like frozen burritos and cereal.”

  * * *

  THE MOTORCYCLE WAS RETURNING.

  Joe had completed a first pass at cleaning the garage, the first of many it’d need. He’d just plugged in the battery charger and hooked it up to the tow truck when the put-put cycle came to a stop in the lot outside the garage.

  “Hey, there.” The rider was too big for the motorcycle, too old and too misguided. He’d stuffed himself into bright red riding leathers that looked two sizes too small. It might have explained his stiff gait. “I heard the garage was reopening. I’m Irwin Orowitz. Barbara here could use a tune-up.” Irwin gestured to his very small, very sedate motorcycle.

  It wasn’t a “hog.” It wasn’t even the kind of bike you named. Brittany’s mermaid sculpture was more deserving of that honor. It was the kind of motorcycle “real” bikers made fun of with terms like scooter or two-wheeled hearse, because the rider seldom knew what they were doing. But Joe couldn’t afford to joke with what might be a paying customer.

  As Joe was in the process of swallowing his opinions and putting
on his best customer-service expression—if not to smile, then at least not to scowl—Irwin hitched up his too-tight, too-short pants.

  This was proof. There was a hell. And Joe had fallen into it.

  “Um...” Joe sought to cover his horror by rubbing an old towel over his face, as if wiping away sweat. “Bertha...er...Barbara didn’t sound so rough.”

  “My Barbara...” Irwin stopped a few feet away from Joe, propped his hands on his hips and performed a hip swivel Elvis would’ve been proud of. “She’s got no get-up-and-go anymore.”

  Joe doubted she’d ever gotten up and gone anywhere really fast. Irwin, on the other hand, needed to go get some pants that offered more room at the waist.

  Sam peered through the window in the door to the office. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair was limp beneath her cap. She pushed open the door, which squeaked—like everything else in Joe’s life lately—and drew Irwin’s attention.

  “Another generation of Messina boys in town.” Irwin beamed, his smile rounding his already round face.

  Another person who thought Sam was a boy?

  Joe’s eye twitched. “Well. There’s me.” He patted his chest. “I’m generation two. And my daughter is generation three.”

  “G3,” Sam murmured with a meek smile, coming to stand next to Joe. “Cool.”

  “Messinas are back. This is wonderful news.” Irwin’s beam brightened. “You Messinas used to buzz around town on your motorcycles.”

  He’d never buzzed in his life. Joe’s eye spasmed hard enough to pop out of his head.

  “It’s what inspired me to buy a motorbike when I retired.” Irwin rearranged his belly this time.

  “Dad,” Sam whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “Are you okay?”

  Be nice, Athena would’ve said.

  Treat your customer like your mistress, Turo would’ve said.

  “So.” Joe tried to put a smile on his face, but it felt more like a grimace. “Bet... Berth... Barbara needs a tune-up.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “GRANDMOTHER LEONA, BRITTANY is here,” Reggie called, gently shutting the door behind Brit before dragging her across the Victorian’s foyer toward the dining room. “You didn’t dress for dinner.” While Reggie had changed into a teal floral-print dress and white flats. She added in a whisper, “And you’re late.”