And still she hesitated. “Stacking rocks doesn’t take as much skill as working with metal.”
“I’d argue that it takes the same amount of skill. There’s geometry and load-bearing math in the rock Volkswagen. You’re planning to stack stone in curves.” His fingers worked the muscles in her neck and shoulders as if it was something he did for her every day. “Same amount of skill. Different skill set.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure if it was his words or his touch that was swaying her.
“My uncle once told me that the great ones don’t give up when the going gets tough. They don’t crumple like a fiberglass fender at the lightest bump either. They hang tight and chip away at the task.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “One sledgehammer strike at a time.”
Her foundation shook without his touch. She struggled for balance. “Your uncle didn’t say that last part.”
“No, but he could have. He was the ultimate dream weaver.” Joe’s gaze drifted to the garage apartment. “He could tell me things... If anyone else had tried to tell me, I wouldn’t have believed it. But from Uncle Turo...” He tsked, a sad sound. “The man had game.”
A numb feeling of dread took hold of Brittany. Something bad had happened between Joe and his uncle. Perhaps not as awful as when Joe lost his wife, but something bad nonetheless. “Uncle Turo is the one in prison?” People were talking about it in the shop.
“Yeah. He loved fast, expensive cars.” Joe turned his attention back to her. He slid her keys off his finger and pressed them into her hand, much as he had pressed his phone number into her hand days before. “He just didn’t like to pay for them. The FBI says other chop shops would bring him parts and trade for goods. It didn’t seem odd to me that we’d have go-karts and motorcycles, quads and Segways. They’d come and go in trade.”
“In barter,” Brit said, catching on.
Joe nodded. “Barter doesn’t require a paper trail, which is an advantage when peddling stolen goods.”
That’s why he’d refused to barter the grille for a haircut. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s in jail. We’re here.” He met her gaze. No smile on his lips, but warmth in his eyes. “And I met you.”
They stared at each other. Not smiling. It felt more special without the smile.
Unsure of what to read into his look, she glanced away. Joe opened the truck door, an invitation for her to leave.
“You never said anything about the other day.” Joe’s gaze drifted to the river and then back to her, full of mischief. “About our own special way of sealing a deal.”
Brit was not having a conversation about his kiss. She could feel her cheeks heating and didn’t want him to see that this ugly duckling longed for things she couldn’t have. Like him. A man with too much on his plate. By the time his life was in order and the turmoil over his uncle’s arrest was settled, he’d realize an ugly duckling wasn’t the right choice for him. “Why do you think the Volkswagen got dropped here without an engine or dash or seats?”
“Someone stripped it.” Joe let her change the subject, but didn’t let go of her door.
“Maybe it was Mildred.” Brit didn’t believe it, but she tried to sound pert and chipper. It was how Reggie sounded when a good man was in her viewfinder.
“That’s not even a good guess.” Joe was looking far too serious and she had no idea why.
The mayor rounded the corner, whistling, wearing a purple-and-green tie-dyed shirt.
“We’ll talk later.” He closed her door and walked away.
* * *
AT PHIL’S HOUSE, Brit opened the garage door and stared at the empty spaces. Joe thought she could face down worry and uncertainty with hard work. She began setting up her workbench, attaching it to the studs on the far wall for stability. She unpacked equipment and taped her sketches for the BMW gate on the same wall. The grille wasn’t fancy, but it’d be a statement. She also taped up her ideas for the river exhibit, the ones that included the mermaids she’d sketched last night, the ones she’d never thought would see the light of day until Joe gave her permission to hope again.
“This looks like Dad’s garage.” Reggie stood on the threshold of the driveway, elegant in black slacks and a long black tunic. “You took over there, too.” There was hurt in Reggie’s finely made-up eyes.
“He loved us both.” Brit set her welding helmet on the workbench.
“I know he did.” Reggie walked into the garage with fluid, graceful steps. “I misunderstood Dad.” Reggie met Brit’s gaze levelly. “I didn’t mean to railroad you. And I’m ashamed that I lost my temper and hurt you. I was trying to live up to Dad’s last wishes.”
Brit knew she should wait for a better apology. She didn’t. She rushed forward and hugged Reggie fiercely. “If Mom or Grandpa Phil or Leona ever say you need to watch out for me, talk to me first.”
Reggie drew back, taking a lock of Brit’s orange hair between her fingers. “I believe in your art. I really do. In my heart. What you create is unique and beautiful.” She smoothed Brit’s hair over her shoulders. “But when Dad said that to me, I fell into marching-order mode. I didn’t think it through. I quit my job. I moved up here. I thought I could make you find a more traditional path.” She blinked back tears. “I forgot that you’re not just talented, but you’re also no dummy. Being a beautician means you rent a station, manage a client list, balance your books. You’re a businesswoman. If you don’t make it in one world, you’ll make it in another. But I really hope you make it as an artist.”
“Thank you,” Brit whispered, back to believing what her twin said was true. Her heart swelled with happiness. Everything was going to be all right. Brit had a growing support group, a solid foundation for creativity. She hugged Reggie again, smelling disinfectant, hair spray and home.
“I told Leona the deal was off.” Reggie let Brit go. “I’ve wasted enough time here.”
“You’re leaving?” The peacefulness she’d felt a moment ago cracked.
“I want to be a CEO by the time I’m thirty-five. I can’t make that happen in Harmony Valley.” The old Reggie, the one with drive and hunger, was back. “And while I’m out conquering the world, you’ll be here following your muse. You don’t need anyone to do that. Not Dad and not me.”
“I... How do you always know what I’m feeling?”
“Because I have the same fear about going it alone.” Before she got uncharacteristically sentimental, Reggie’s gaze caught on the river exhibit sketches. “So many mermaids. Aren’t you afraid you’ll be labeled as that woman who does mermaids?”
She wasn’t. Mermaids weren’t limiting. They were beloved. And she wasn’t boxing herself in. The Volkswagen with rocks proved it. If anything, she was spreading her wings. But how could she make Reggie see it? A true artist could convince her. She eyed her sketches. “Do you remember me showing you a book on the works of Michelangelo last year?”
“Vaguely.”
“The face he sculpted on David...” The certainty of mermaids and romance grew in Brit. “It was a face he used on other sculptures. A face he loved.”
“Michelangelo wasn’t exactly a one-trick pony,” Reggie allowed. “I may not know everything he did, but he was a master of many mediums.”
Brit nodded, thinking of hair and metal and stones. “He was passionate about art, and curious beyond the limits of marble. He did everything from paintings and frescoes to the Sistine Chapel and the statue of David.”
“But he didn’t work full-time as a hair stylist,” Reggie said, getting real.
“I’m caught in the rush, there not being a beautician in town for so long. Business at the shop will taper in a week or so.” Brit didn’t sound as confident as she’d like.
“Promise me that this—” Reggie pointed to her sketches “—this will be your priority. Not hair. Not
Grandpa Phil. Not scruffy bad-boy mechanics. Make your dream your priority and you won’t need anyone.”
“I promise.” Brit found Reggie’s hand, sensing her twin needed some advice, as well. “But just because you don’t need someone, doesn’t mean you have to go it alone.”
Reggie stared down at their hands. When she raised her gaze, her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I know where to find you when I need a good hug.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“DON’T SCREW THIS UP,” Joe muttered to himself as he drove the party bus through Harmony Valley Tuesday morning, palms sweating.
He’d dropped Sam off at school and then headed for his first pickup, not truly believing this endeavor could help his image around town, but unwilling to give up. “I need someone to give me a pep talk.”
Like the one he’d given Brittany yesterday morning. Who’d have thought beneath all her bravado lay a debilitating fear. If you were a mechanic, you fixed engines. If you were an artist, you made art. End of story. But with Brittany, he hoped her story still had a plotline for him.
A figure in a jacket and knit cap waved at Joe. He came to a stop next to the man, wiped his palms on his jeans and opened the door. Only then did he recognize Will.
“Nice to see you, Joe.” Will ascended the steps like the royalty he’d become; only the uncertainty in his eyes seemed familiar. “Remember me? Will Jackson. We used to be buds.”
“Congratulations. I hear you’ve become a millionaire.” Joe shook Will’s hand. “Me? I’m just a mechanic.” And now a bus driver.
“It takes all kinds. My dad’s a farmer,” Will said graciously, taking a seat in the front row. “If you haven’t guessed, I’m your concierge.”
“So my passengers don’t run from the sight of me?”
“Yep.” Will grinned. “With that ugly mug of yours, you’ll never need a mask at Halloween.”
And just like that, they were thirteen again with the world at their bare feet at the edge of the river. “Still smooth with the words, I see.”
“Still carrying that chip on your shoulder, I see.” Will’s grin faded. “The one that says you don’t deserve any breaks you don’t earn yourself.”
“It’s harder being a Messina than a Jackson.” Joe faced Will. “And you didn’t make it any easier last week when the mayor started talking about this job.”
“I wasn’t sure about you.” At Joe’s scowl, Will held up a hand. “Hear me out. I’m married now, got a kid on the way. All I knew was that your uncle had been arrested. I needed time to—”
“To check out my—”
“References,” Will said firmly. “You said it was hard being a Messina, but there are still people in this town who’re willing to give you a chance, the kid they knew as Joe before Turo showed up. They’re willing so long as you’re worth taking a chance on. Are you, Joe?”
It hurt that Will had to ask. It hurt that every time Joe talked to someone about Turo he felt he had to defend his own innocence. Every time except with Brittany. She’d taken him at his word. And Will should, too.
“I’m not going to answer that question.” Joe put the bus into gear. “I’ve proven myself enough to you over the years.”
“You mean like the time you decked the quarterback from Cloverdale because he called Jimmy the n-word.”
“Tell me where we’re going,” Joe said through gritted teeth.
“Or when a couple of us were flinging matches in the gymnasium and it caught fire?”
“Destination, Mr. Moneybanks.” Joe cruised the back roads, past rows of neat vineyards, which Will probably owned.
“You know if you hadn’t taken the blame, it would’ve blown my scholarship to Stanford.”
Joe accelerated. “And yet you had to check my—”
“References. Yeah. I know a guy. I had him dig up your employment record. That’s all. I swear.” The gravity and urgency of Will’s words got under Joe’s defenses.
Besides, he had Sam to think of. He slowed down. “Where are we going?”
“Turn onto Madison. We’re picking up Mrs. Stephens.”
“The science teacher?” So much for hope. Joe had done okay in science. It was all memorization, although some of it was applicable to mechanics. And then they’d gotten to biology. You would have thought he’d be okay. He took engines apart all the time. But no. Dissecting live things turned his stomach. So he’d knocked his frog into Mrs. Stephen’s lap and had been kicked out of class. He’d had to get creative to avoid the smell of formaldehyde and the spongy feel of preserved flesh. By his sophomore year, Mrs. Stephens had developed a no-tolerance policy where Joe was concerned.
“She’s retired now. Spends her days baking and chairing the garden club.”
The homes in this neighborhood could use some of the club’s attention. “Everyone’s gotta fill their time with something.”
“Speaking of time.” Will’s tone turned serious. “Uncle Turo... That’s gotta be tough on you. Sorry, man.”
“It was. It is. I...uh.” Joe sighed. Might as well come out and say it. “I had no idea.”
“We like to think those close to us are above it all.” Will gestured toward a green Craftsman home on the corner. “That’s hers.”
While Golden Boy went up to the door, Joe wrestled with feelings he didn’t normally acknowledge, like gratitude and the bonds of friendship. How different would Joe’s life have been if he’d followed Will by the river that day, if he’d left the Messinas behind? He might never have felt the depth of betrayal Uncle Turo’s crimes caused. But he’d never have worked on a Maserati or met Athena or had Sam.
Sam made the bad parts of his life worth it.
“So this is how little Joey Messina turned out? A bus driver?” His former science teacher used a five-foot wooden staff to help her walk down the driveway. Other than her gray hair, she’d stepped out of the past. That must have been the same ankle-length blue jean skirt, black peasant blouse and Birkenstock sandals that had made up her school uniform back in the day. Her hair was still long and thin, and swung to her waist.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stephens,” Joe intoned like a good schoolboy.
Mrs. Stephens handed Will the staff and climbed the bus stairs using both railings. She sat heavily in the front row and arranged her skirt. “Leave the staff next to the mailbox, William, and get in. I don’t want to be late for my appointment.”
Will did as asked. He got in the bus, claimed the aisle seat in the row behind Mrs. Stephens and gave Joe directions to their next stop.
“You would’ve been a great scientist, Joey, if you hadn’t had a queasy stomach when it came to dissection.”
“You knew?” Joe reached a stop sign and glanced at his former teacher, ignoring Will chuckling behind her.
“You think you were the first student to act out when we used the sharp tools in our lab kits?” She smiled like she was letting him in on a private joke. Which she was. “I was always grateful when my squeamish students didn’t pass out. It was easier to send you to the office when you turned green at the gills.”
Their next stop was so overrun with bushes that only the roofline was visible. Will disappeared into the shrubbery.
Mrs. Stephens shifted in her seat, groaning. “Darn hip. I’ll be glad to get a new one tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be able to drive after this.”
“Tomorrow?” Joe turned in his seat. “Should you be getting your hair done today?”
“It’s not the Dark Ages, Joey. Besides, statistics show a significant chance that I could die during the procedure. I’ve always wanted colored highlights, and I hear Phil’s granddaughter has some.”
“She does.” Strips of color as bright as neon and as soft as silk.
“I hear Rose Cascia wants to go red, but laven
der is all the rage.” Mrs. Stephens drew a long lock of gray hair over one shoulder. “I need to decide between tips, streaks and regular highlights. What do you think?”
“Tips have attitude. Streaks are surprising. And—”
“Tips it is.” Her decisiveness was one of the reasons she’d been among his favorite teachers. “In honor of the town wild child coming home.”
Joe was touched. “Did Will or the mayor pay you to say that?”
“Joey.” She turned up her nose. “You know I can’t be bought.”
He knew, but he also knew she volunteered for any cause she felt was worthy of her time.
Their next rider wore a cannula beneath her nose and was tethered to an oxygen tank, which Will wheeled behind her. The woman’s hair was white, short and slicked back over her head like Sam had worn hers last week. She shuffled toward the bus in red slippers and a long, shapeless, lime-green dress.
With Will steadying her and Joe reaching down from the second step, they got her inside.
“Mary Stephens, I haven’t seen you since the cemetery run last fall.” That gravelly voice. She had to have been a pack-a-day smoker. “When I heard there was an opening at Phil’s, I snatched it up.”
“Velma, isn’t it nice to get out?” Mrs. Stephens glowed. “I might even have lunch at Giordano’s. My neighbor told me the paninis are wonderful.”
Joe put the bus in gear and drove as Will directed.
“I would’ve thought Becca would drive you to lunch now and then,” Velma said in a raspy nasal tone.
“Becca has too many clients to make time for lunch,” Mrs. Stephens replied wistfully. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Velma hacked into a tissue, delaying conversation until she caught her breath. “Who’s our chauffeur?”
“Why, that’s little Joey Messina,” Mrs. Stephens said in the deliberate way that teachers spoke when they caught a student doing something wrong.
Despite her denial of being paid by Will or the mayor, Mrs. Stephens had to be a plant. They’d made sure someone from his past who actually liked him was on the bus. Joe glanced at Mrs. Stephens in the mirror and gave her a small smile. Small smiles were about all he was good for lately.
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