Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  “We did papier-mâché collages in school on Friday,” Sam said. “I have leftover paper squares if you want some.”

  “You’ve been complaining I don’t have anything on my walls,” Phil said when Brit looked his way.

  She turned to Joe. “I suppose you’re going to say I should get cracking on the BMW grille.”

  “I think...” For once, Joe looked almost wishy-washy. “I think you should do whatever makes you happy.”

  It was the river bike all over again. He was so sweet, Brit wanted to cry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I HAVE A lead on those last two cars.” If the sheriff was excited enough to call at six in the morning on a Sunday, the least Joe could do was pick up the phone.

  “Uh-huh.” Joe yawned and rolled out of bed, padding to the living room.

  They’d left Phil’s house at nine last night. After putting Sam to bed, Joe had sat in the dark on his couch, wishing things were different and he could ask Brittany out on a real date. For now, family night would have to do.

  “The BMW popped up first. It was stolen about seven years ago.”

  Joe stopped breathing at the word stolen.

  “The Volkswagen fits the description of one taken about twelve years ago, but there’s no clear match.”

  Joe drew a deep breath. “Taken from where?”

  “That’s the weird thing. Both cars are from Southern California. I don’t know why they’d have ended up here.”

  Joe thanked the sheriff and stared out the window at the barn in back. At the vines that didn’t look healthy on one side. At the grass that didn’t seem so thick on one side. At the isolation of the property. At the way Turo always insisted his nephews never sell this place.

  Joe knew. He knew. Sadly and sickeningly, Joe was slow on the uptake where Turo was concerned, but now he knew.

  The stolen cars were in the barn.

  Jeans. Boots. Jacket. Joe raced downstairs to the supply closet and the chain saw. He only slowed down to fill the saw’s tank with gas.

  “Dad? What are you doing?” Standing in the doorway, Sam rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  “I promised you I’d check out the barn and make sure no cats or critters lived inside.”

  “Dad. It’s like o-dark thirty.” There was the preteen he knew and loved.

  He was too upset to smile. “The sun’s coming up. There’s only a bit of leftover fog in the way.” And they had no neighbors. They were bordered by a vineyard, the river and the highway. There was no one to hear and complain about a chain saw or a car engine at odd hours of the day or night. “Go back to bed.”

  He grabbed a pair of gloves and goggles, and hurried to the barn.

  “Please be wrong.” He knew he wasn’t. Being right would explain the phone calls, which had stopped once Turo knew they were here. Once he’d said the words Harmony Valley and hadn’t said anything about stolen cars.

  The chain saw’s engine startled a flock of red-winged blackbirds. Beyond that, nothing complained as he cut the vines at the base. The trunks were thin and seemed to have been bent before.

  After cutting for a few minutes, Joe set the chain saw aside and began pulling the vines that clung to the wood wall. Some of them were stapled on. Thorns pierced his leather jacket and bit into his jeans. He ignored them and kept working, needing to see, needing to know.

  Finally, he cleared the vines free of the door. It’d been made sometime after he’d moved away. It wasn’t as much a door as a drawbridge. The hinges were on the bottom.

  Made sense. Lowering it over the vines protected the tires.

  It wasn’t even locked. There were two latches—one on each side, each about six feet up.

  He released the latches and let the drawbridge drop, dreading what he’d find inside.

  Jaguars. Ferraris. Bentleys. A Tesla.

  Eight cars in all. Each one worth several hundred thousand dollars and several more years to Turo’s prison term.

  Joe sank to his knees. He hadn’t realized he’d still wanted to believe Turo was innocent. That this was all a huge mistake.

  The truth gutted him.

  He’d been played for a fool. Worse, he’d benefitted for his foolishness.

  Family doesn’t charge family rent, Turo had said.

  I was buying a new TV and I thought, why not buy one for Joe, too?

  Let the business buy you a truck, boy.

  How close was Joe to losing Sam because he hadn’t bothered to question why Turo was so generous?

  And Brittany. She was coming this morning to take the BMW grille. The stolen grille. He couldn’t let her.

  The anger in his chest that he’d struggled to contain broke free.

  Joe raced to the garage, hitting Redial on his phone. He darted in the open service bay and grabbed the extra length of chain he kept in the truck’s toolbox. “My uncle’s stolen cars are in my barn,” he blurted at Nate when the sheriff picked up. He was almost too breathless to get the words out. “In my barn!”

  Joe hung up and waded into the knee-high grass in the vehicle graveyard. He had to protect Sam. He had to protect Brittany.

  “Dad? What’s going on?”

  “Go back inside.” The sheriff would be here soon. And then the FBI.

  There was no telling what else Turo might have done. No guarantee that he might not turn on Joe from prison, his lifetime mantra of family first forgotten, wiped out by Joe’s betrayal. Joe wished he could send Sam away to Vince or Gabe, but they weren’t in any position to take her in unless Joe was arrested.

  And there was Brittany, with her penchant for trouble and fondness for stolen vehicles. She’d be a target if Turo turned vengeful and realized Joe cared for her. Brittany was stubborn enough that she wouldn’t want to be protected. He had to make her stay away from him.

  “Dad? What are you doing?” Sam followed him into the field. “Are we towing a car to the garage?”

  Joe reached the BMW just as Brittany’s truck made the turn onto his street. Perfect timing. “Stand back, Sam.”

  Joe swung the chain around and let it fly against the BMW grille.

  “Dad, stop!” Sam screamed.

  He didn’t. The anger had broken free and he had a purpose. Protect. Joe kept beating the BMW’s grille with the chain, filling the air with the sickening screech of metal on metal.

  “Joe, stop. Please.” Brittany’s voice cut between the blows. “You’re scaring Sam.”

  The chain slipped from his fingers. For the second time that day, Joe fell to his knees. His ears were ringing from anger, Sam’s screams, the sheriff’s siren.

  A small body slammed into him. Sam.

  Warm arms came around them both. Brittany.

  “It’s okay,” Brittany kept repeating. “It’s okay.”

  * * *

  “TELL ME YOU didn’t take anything from this field before I found you here that first day,” Joe’s voice was a breathless rumble.

  Brit’s arms fell away from him. “I didn’t take anything.” And now she never would. The grille was ruined. “Why, Joe?” What had made him so mad?

  Instead of answering, he stood, lifting Sam into his arms. She looked small and helpless in her baggy football jersey and pink flannel pajama pants.

  But Joe. Joe looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with the champ. And lost. “You have to leave, Brittany. Now.”

  What happened to her cheerleader? What happened to the man who’d told everyone she should be encouraged to create and to create whatever made her happy? Just last night, they’d sat around her grandfather’s kitchen table like a family. And now he was asking her to go? Ordering her to leave?

  Brit stumbled to her feet. Cold from the dew-moistened grass. Cold from the nip in the air. Cold from hi
s words and his actions and the arctic look in his eyes. “Joe.” His name was a strangled plea on her lips.

  “You don’t want to be around me.” Joe gestured toward the garage. “You can’t be around me. Stop procrastinating and create something as special as you are.”

  Sam watched Brit through dazed, tear-filled eyes. She lifted a hand, almost as if she was reaching for Brit.

  “Turns out,” Joe said woodenly, “the town was right. Messinas are bad news. Go away, Brittany. Now.”

  Sam’s hand dropped to her father’s strong shoulder. She buried her tearstained face in his neck.

  The sheriff roared onto the street with squealing tires. He pulled around behind the garage.

  “What’s wrong? Joe?” Brit jogged after Joe. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.” What had she done? What had happened?

  He didn’t answer and Brit stopped chasing him.

  She turned, staring at the dented, ruined grille. It was as broken as her heart.

  * * *

  GRANDPA PHIL ENTERED the barbershop later that day. He sat in his chair and leaned on the armrest closest to where Brit worked at her station.

  She was applying bleach to the tips of her hair with a brush. She was on the fifth coat, stripping off the orange. Her hair lay across a formerly white towel draped around her neck. When the orange was gone, she planned to dye the tips black.

  “Scuttlebutt says Joe’s uncle hid stolen cars on their property.”

  Brit put the brush in the dye bowl.

  “Everyone believes Joe’s innocent, but they’re searching the house and outbuildings for anything else that might incriminate the jerk. And they’ve requested a dive team to search the river tomorrow.”

  Brit felt a rise of curiosity that was immediately squelched by concern for Joe and Sam. “They aren’t going to arrest him?”

  “Don’t believe so.” Phil spun his chair to face hers and leaned forward. “You didn’t take any car parts from that field you were picking, did you?”

  “No!” She blotted the excess color from her tips. “Why would you ask that?”

  “To protect you. Those FBI guys don’t go after marshmallow criminals. If you have any stolen merchandise, the bad guys or the feds will come for you.” There was real fear in his faded gray eyes.

  It was reminiscent of the fear she’d seen in Joe’s eyes.

  Both men were trying to protect her. The morning’s chill returned.

  You can’t be around me.

  Joe’s harsh words echoed in her head. He’d never gone on the attack. He’d never said she’d done anything wrong. It was just that she’d felt each strike of the chains on that grille on her very soul. She’d felt as if he was destroying the bridge they’d built between them.

  And he had been. In the name of keeping her safe.

  “Answer me, girlie.” Phil’s voice was unusually stern.

  She cleared her throat, going for the joke. “Who’s to say some of the junk your friends dropped off with me wasn’t stolen?”

  “Brittany.”

  She hung her head. “I don’t have anything from that place.” Not so much as a grille from a BMW. Or the love of a strong, hard man.

  Phil nodded, studying her. “You missed a lock of hair.” He stood and picked up the bleach brush, and slathered it on a tuft of orange hair. “I used to color your grandmother’s hair.”

  “She doesn’t color it anymore.” It was odd to talk shop when her heart had been broken for all the wrong reasons.

  He set the brush back in the bowl, wrapped the ends of her hair in aluminum foil and then put his palms on Brit’s cheeks. “And why do you think your grandmother’s gone gray? Pride. Don’t you ever let pride get in the way of your happiness.”

  Pride. It was at the root of Brit’s inability to create. Keira had been perfect. Brit had never created perfection before. Pride had kept her from trying again. She glanced at Keira. “You’re right. I’ve been going about this all wrong.” Pride kept her hiding from her passion in this shop. This busy, backbreaking shop. She should hire someone and free up her time to create.

  “I could use a colorist.” Brit fixed Phil with a steely stare that dared him to refuse her.

  “Me? Be your assistant?” The sullenness traveled from his voice to the tight lines about his eyes.

  “A colorist assists no one.” Brit smiled, lips barely rising above the tightness in her throat. “A colorist is an artist. You have to cover every root without dying the skin around the face and neck. You have to let the color process without irritating the scalp. You have to turn clients with overprocessed hair away.”

  Phil preened, warming to the idea. “I am good at coloring.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Her answer was a big bear hug.

  * * *

  THE FBI WAS GONE, as were the expensive cars in the garage.

  Joe sat on the apartment couch staring at the ceiling. Sam’s head was on his shoulder. She’d fallen asleep after dinner, clinging to him as if she’d finally realized she couldn’t have both her uncle and her father. One of them had to go to jail. She’d made her choice.

  The pain and confusion in Brittany’s gaze still haunted him. She’d wanted to stay. He hadn’t wanted her to be involved in the FBI’s investigation. It was bad enough they were skeptical of Sheriff Nate.

  Next to him on the couch, his cell phone began to play “Jailhouse Rock.”

  Staring at the photo of Uncle Turo on the TV-less TV stand, Joe answered, vowing this would be the last time he did so.

  Silence.

  Joe sighed and lowered the phone, preparing to hang up. “It figures.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Joe returned the phone to his ear. “What?”

  Too loud. Sam stirred in his arms.

  “I’m sorry.” There was no mistaking the harsh rumble of Turo’s voice. “I tried to protect you and Sam.”

  “You did a poor job of it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Turo’s breath rasped over the line. “I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”

  The line went dead.

  Turo hadn’t been angry over Joe’s turning state’s evidence, over Joe alerting the feds to the hidden cars. Turo was sorry.

  And asking for forgiveness.

  Asking Joe to be the bigger person.

  Joe felt smaller than Sam.

  He’d destroyed one of Brittany’s dreams when he trashed that grille. And then the FBI didn’t even take the car.

  “There’s not enough there to say for certainty it’s the stolen vehicle your sheriff thinks it is,” Agent Haas had said. “And in the shape it’s in, tracking down an owner is what my boss would call a waste of resources.”

  The federal agent had turned up his nose at the shell of a Volkswagen, too.

  Joe had destroyed the grille for nothing.

  He’d leaped ahead, and sent Brittany away, trying to shield her from what turned out to be nothing.

  He doubted she’d ever forgive him.

  The image of Keira floated back to him. Brittany had created a whimsical, joyous, beautiful creature. In his eyes, Keira wasn’t as beautiful as Brittany. But that mermaid needed a firm foundation to float on. A sturdy Indian motorbike.

  Brittany needed a firm foundation, too.

  * * *

  NO ONE WHO came to Phil’s shop in the weeks after the excitement on the Messina property had seen Joe, mostly because they didn’t own or drive cars. With Grandpa Phil by her side, Brit reduced her workload. She spent her afternoons and evenings in the garage working on something that she knew wouldn’t be as wonderful as Keira, but she hoped would elicit a deep emotional reaction.

  Joe had shifted his dial-a-ride duties to Irwin and his sidekick, Rex. They came into the
shop two days a week for free coffee and cookies. Irwin preened and blushed, complimented the women and asked about Rose, who hadn’t found the time to go red. Rex just sat and enjoyed the caffeine.

  Irwin reported that a regular stream of people were venturing to Joe’s shop, mostly for oil changes, but beyond that there was little news of Joe. Rex was surprisingly mum.

  And then one day Sam darted into the shop. “Can I put a flyer in your window?”

  “Sure,” Phil said, coloring a client’s roots.

  Sam hadn’t looked at Brit. She’d taped the flyer to the window and ran off.

  It was all Brit could do not to race to the glass and read the flyer.

  A couple of the ladies waiting their turn stepped outside to see what the flyer was advertising.

  “Well?” Phil asked.

  “It’s kid’s stuff,” Sandra said. “Makes no sense.”

  “What did it say, woman?” Phil roared, perhaps sensing that Brit was dying of curiosity.

  “It said there’s a future art exhibit opening at the bridge by the highway on Sunday. The real art exhibit won’t be ready for another year.”

  Phil spoke to Brit in a hushed voice. “Isn’t that where your exhibit is going?”

  “I guess Mayor Larry gave it to someone else.” Brit swallowed back regret. She’d dropped the ball with the mayor and Will, consumed by the act of creating. The opportunity had passed her by.

  * * *

  SUNDAY ARRIVED. BRIT GOT up before dawn, loaded up the truck and drove to the highway bridge. She didn’t know what she’d find. For days she’d studied the flyer Sam had posted and been none the wiser. She could barely remember what the small meadow looked like.

  All she could remember was Joe’s face. His expressive eyes. His stern chin.

  Stoic Joe. Shaggy Joe. Heroic Joe.

  Protective Joe.

  She parked and got out of the pickup. The sun hadn’t yet risen above Parish Hill to the east. But she could see that everything had changed.

  There was an old rusted swing set. A small rusted tractor. Four drag-racing tires stood in a flower pattern, like a merry-go-round.

  And the Bug?

  The body had been removed from the chassis and sat in the grass. But it was the frame that drew her farther into the field. Someone had laid a base bumper of concrete and re-created the curved body of the Volkswagen with river stone. There were no open windows. No windshield. But someone had painted blue headlights, blue windows, blue windshields. Someone who’d seen her sketches.