“Who all will be there today?”
“Mom, of course, Grandma, then my sisters and their entourage.”
“How many sisters?”
“Two. Sofia, my older sister, and Nina, the baby. She’s 28. Nina is training for the half-marathon, so she and Terry probably dumped my niece with Mom.”
“The Kentucky Derby Mini-marathon?” The road race that kicked off Derby Festival Week was held the Saturday preceding the running of the Kentucky Derby.
“That’s the one. More than thirteen miles starting at Iroquois Park and finishing downtown. Too ambitious for me.”
Sally sighed. So many took their abilities for granted. She’d gladly do the training if she were able to run in a road race. “So Nina is married?”
“Yes, to Terry Simpson. They were high school sweethearts.”
“And your other sister?”
“She and Brendan, her fiancé, will probably be riding the horses.”
“And your mom is busy cooking and babysitting all this time?”
He grinned. “And loving every minute of it.”
“Sounds like a nice family you have.” She cleared her throat, hoping to cover the wistfulness in her voice. “Tell me about your niece.”
“Samantha’s three, and has everyone wrapped around her precocious little finger.”
Sally laughed. “Including Uncle Joe.”
“She would if I was around her more.” He flashed her a quick smile. “Seems like she was just an infant the other day.”
“And your other sister?”
“Fia’s the veterinarian. Didn’t date much until she got her career secured.” A frown settled over Joe’s face. “Sort of like me.”
“Is Sofia the one who taught you to drive a stick?”
He nodded. “We call her Fia. Did I mention she’s extremely patient?”
“I see. So now she’s engaged to a guy named Brendan?”
“Yeah.” He sighed.
“Whom you don’t like.” She suppressed a smile.
Joe grunted. “I never said that.”
The smile escaped. “Yes you did.”
Joe’s gaze left the road just long enough to flash Sally a wry grin. “Okay, I don’t like him. What gave me away?”
She shrugged. “Women’s intuition?”
Joe slowed to a stop at the traffic light in J-town. “Brendan seems too old for Fia, although he’s only about forty-one or forty-two. His attitude is old, if you know what I mean. He’s not all that bad, I guess. It’s just—”
“Well, she hasn’t married him yet.”
And what about you, Joe Desalvo? she wanted to ask. Why haven’t you married? Nice as he’d been to her, Sally knew better than to think marriage would ever be an issue between them.
“Grandma doesn’t think Fia should marry Brendan, either.”
“She said that?”
“Right in front of him, in the middle of Christmas dinner.” Joe chuckled. “She said ‘You don’t want to marry this guy.’ Fia demanded an apology, although by now she should’ve known better. Grandma just waved her turkey drumstick around in the air and said, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn ya!’ “
Sally laughed at the way he pitched his voice to imitate his grandmother. “I can hardly wait to meet Grandma.”
“She’s a trip.” Joe accelerated when the traffic light changed. “Be prepared for anything.”
“Hmm. Funny you didn’t mention Grandma until you had me in the car.” Sally watched as Joe shifted through the gears. “How does the Darrin handle?”
He snorted. “Very different from the Dodge.”
“Well, for one thing it’s rear wheel drive. You’re used to front wheel drive.”
“I’m also used to power steering, power brakes, and an automatic transmission. And get a load of this huge steering wheel.”
Sally grinned. “Eighteen-and-a-half inches. All the older cars had big steering wheels. You might want to use overdrive now. Just let up off the gas until you feel it engage.”
“Got it.” His grip on the steering wheel relaxed. “Thanks.”
“The Darrin won’t be as powerful as your Dodge, either, although in its day it was peppy.”
“It’s a progressive car for 1954. Mom said Darrins were my dad’s favorites.”
Even in profile, bleakness darkened his face. Sally saw grief and sadness, and a glimpse of something else. Regret?
He shrugged. “Thinking this was his favorite was the main reason I wanted to keep it.”
Sally touched his arm with a light pat. “I’m sorry. Finding out the Darrin isn’t authentic must be doubly disappointing for you.”
“Yeah.” Joe slowed for a curve, frowning in concentration, or perhaps to compose himself. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed didn’t escape her notice. “Doubly puzzling, too.”
“You know, if you’ve a mind to, we could restore the Darrin to original condition.”
“Not without its original engine.”
“We could get it to original condition, which would restore it to its collectible status. Just say the word and I’ll start the search for a Willys F head engine.”
“Let me think about it. I really don’t know enough about collectible cars.”
Sally couldn’t think of anything to else to say. Joe seemed to withdraw, lost in his thoughts. Was he considering the cost of restoring the Darrin? Perhaps he puzzled over the circumstances of his father’s death. Had Leo killed himself, or could the suicide have been staged? What if, in his digging around, Joe uncovered evidence that Leo had committed suicide? He’d found nothing helpful in the autopsy report. Cause of death: bullet wound to the head. Well, duh.
The FBI’s interest in Leo only muddied the waters. After all, Leo had bought the misrepresented Darrin, not sold it. In joining the Desalvo family for dinner Sally might find out more about Leo’s activities. She suddenly felt like an interloper.
She glanced at Joe, whose preoccupied frown worried her. Guilt and regret tormented his eyes. No stranger to those two demons, Sally tried everyday to atone for her failure as a daughter. Did Joe and his father have unfinished business? Things that should’ve been said? Powerless to help him, she vowed instead to do all she could to help in his quest to solve the mystery of Leo’s death.
She turned to gaze at the passing cars, the filled parking lots of chain restaurants, the landscaped sidewalks and medians. Instead, she studied Joe’s profile reflected from inside the glass. Whatever he was thinking, his pensive glower did nothing to detract from his chiseled handsomeness. She fooled only herself if she thought she sought his company for information.
Joe Desalvo’s attentions lifted her spirits like nothing had in nine years. Sure, he was a fantasy guy, offering her lonely heart nothing to be taken seriously. She’d just enjoy his company while she could, ignoring her head’s nagging little voice, the warnings that she was setting herself up for heartache.
She just hoped the urge to help Joe wouldn’t lead to a conflict of interest with her promise to help the FBI.
Absorbed in his thoughts about his dad, Joe lost track of the miles. He turned down the tree-canopied lane that led into the village of Anchorage, then grimaced. Damn. How long had he ignored Sally? He slowed for the railroad crossing, stealing a glance at her. She smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“You have a lot on your mind, Joe. I understand.”
Her sincerity touched him. Not many women, his sisters included, could sit quietly for a twenty-minute drive without feeling slighted. “You’re amazing.”
Sputtering a response, she cocked her head to one side and gave him a baffled half-smile.
“You’re not like other women.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Now, Sally. That’s not what I meant—”
“I know.” She grinned. “I’m yanking your chain. Lighten up.”
“Lighten up?” He shook his head. Now it was his turn to be
baffled. Downshifting, he turned onto his mother’s street. “Before we go inside and I subject you to my family, I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“After dinner, would you go with me up to Carmel, Indiana? I want to see if we can catch this Howard Steele guy at home.”
“The man who sold Leo this car?” At Joe’s nod, she said, “I’ll go, but in the Darrin?”
“Of course. You do stand behind your work, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. Carmel is about 100 miles from here, though. Are you sure you’re comfortable driving it that far?”
He pulled into the long driveway, eased to a stop beside the main house, then parked. Lighten up, she’d said. He’d show her. Setting the emergency brake, he turned to her and winked.
“I’m comfortable as long as I have my mechanic along.”
My mechanic. How silly to find pleasure in Joe’s teasing words. Yet Sally hugged them to her heart. My mechanic. He’d made the words sound proudly possessive, as if he were saying my very own private mechanic.
She accepted his arm as he helped her from the car. He walked her through a garden of tulips, his hand pressed against the small of her back. That, too, felt possessive and intimate.
Thanks to a long inclined walkway, which reminded Sally of a wheelchair ramp, she walked an almost normal gait toward the house. The huge rambling home with its gables and multi-pane windows seemed to be patched together from three different houses. The effect was not unattractive, and, in fact, added to its hominess.
A slender, middle-age woman emerged from French doors that opened onto the patio. “You must be Sally.” She offered a manicured hand. “I’m Joe’s mother, Lucinda Desalvo.”
Sally slipped her hand into hers, accepting the brief-but-firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Desalvo.”
“Call me Lucinda, please.” The older woman’s silver-tipped hair almost matched her ashen complexion. Make-up around her expressive gray eyes failed to camouflage the shadows of grief. She motioned them inside before exchanging cheek kisses with her son. “I’ve made iced tea. Would you care for a glass?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sally surveyed the bright breakfast room, with its multi-pane windows and pastoral view. The aromas of garlic and roast beef beckoned from the kitchen. “I love this room. What a view.”
“Thank you, Sally. It’s my favorite.” Lucinda rolled one of the white upholstered chairs from the table. “Have a seat, both of you. Let’s visit before your grandmother discovers I’ve left her babysitting.”
As Lucinda poured tea over ice in tall, pastel tumblers, Sally caught the low murmurs from another part of the house. A sudden burst of giggles erupted.
“How’s Grandma entertaining Sam?” Joe asked.
“I don’t even want to know.” As Lucinda joined them at the table, her poise and grace struck a chord with Sally. A classy lady, Lucinda wore a plain cotton blouse and baggy jeans with elegance. She filled Sally with a long-suppressed aching for her own mother, a lady she barely remembered.
“I hope Joe warned you that our Sunday meals are very casual. I usually have stew or a pot roast slow cooking while we go to church. I brown some refrigerated rolls, toss a salad, and that’s about it.”
Smiling, Sally sniffed. “Smells delicious. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it more than my usual sandwich.”
“What Mom hasn’t told you is Sunday is the only day she makes dessert. And it’s always something decadent.”
“I hope you like pecan pies.”
“And I hope you don’t,” Joe quipped. “More for me.”
“Son!” Lucinda cast him a stern look, which earned her a smug grin in return. Shaking her head, she faced Sally. “Joe tells me you’re an expert mechanic.”
Sally hesitated as pride warred with modesty. “I’ve benefited from working with the best.”
Lucinda smiled. “I’ve met your uncle. Leo thought highly of him.”
Sally started to ask when she’d met Uncle Sal, but Joe asked, “Nina’s out training this morning?”
Lucinda nodded, then sipped her tea. “I expect them anytime now. Terry’s riding his bike alongside her so they’ll both probably want showers before dinner. Fia called to say she’d be out later. Brendan’s not coming.”
Joe muttered, “That’s too bad.”
Sally took a sip of iced tea to hide her smile. The sugary drink surprised her. Lucinda’s version of iced tea resembled beige lemonade, a far cry from the dark plain tea Sally grew up drinking.
Lucinda rolled her chair from the table. “Here’s Nina.”
Sally turned toward the large windows, expecting to see a female athlete jogging toward the French doors. The sight gave her pause. Now that she thought about it, neither Joe nor his mother had said Nina was running. Just training.
The woman, her dark hair pulled from her face in a short ponytail, appeared to be about Sally’s age. Perspiration spotted her thin shorts and tank top. Her companion, a stout, red-haired guy with a pleasant smile, walked behind her as they entered the kitchen together. He walked, while she maneuvered a lightweight bare-bones wheel chair.
“I’m Nina,” she said, releasing one wheel to offer Sally her hand. Judging from the strong muscle definition in Nina’s arms, she’d been training in earnest.
Sally shook hands. “I’m Sally Clay.”
“Nice to meet you, Sally Clay.”
“Terry Simpson.” The man offered Sally his hand.
“I heard you’re training for the Mini, Nina.”
“Nina’s a wheelchair athlete.” Joe’s voice filled with pride. “Last year she placed in her age group in the wheelchair division.”
Nina grinned. “Last year’s winner turned thirty, so she’ll be in a different age group this year.”
“I hope you win,” Sally said.
“Come on, Nina. Let’s take our showers before we stink up the house.” Terry gave the wheelchair a nudge.
Nina spun the wheels on her chair, heading into the hall. “Right. And before Samantha realizes we’re back.”
Lucinda scurried after them. “Let me get extra towels for you.”
Sally stared after them, then faced Joe. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had to meet Nina to get the full effect.”
The full effect? No wonder he’d been insistent that she come here. Her eyes filled. “I — I’m humbled by her. And ashamed.”
“I was trying for inspired, Sally.” His softly spoken words only increased her embarrassment.
“Oh, God. What you must think of me.” Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. The wheel chair. The one fate Sally resisted, the one option she’d refused, afraid a wheel chair was a life sentence as an invalid. “Nina is an inspiration. She’s excelled in a sport, married, has a baby, while I’ve felt sorry for myself for a measly limp.”
“Look at me.” Reaching across the table, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
She lowered her hands. His dark, probing eyes held no reproach, no pity. He shook his head, his mouth curling into a sad smile.
“What I think of you, Sally, is how much you remind me of Nina. You’re a fighter. You expect no special treatment. I don’t see self-pity in you. The major difference in you and Nina is family.”
Sally blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Since the riding accident that put her in a wheel chair, Nina’s had the unconditional love and support of every one of us. You have a father who won’t even look at your leg.”
Jerking her arm free, Sally bolted from the table. “My dad has good reason for hating my scars.” Tears scalded the backs of her eyes, but she held them at bay. “I— I have to go.”
She stumbled outside before Joe could circle the table in pursuit. Why in the world had she let him drive the Darrin? She should’ve driven herself. Stranded, she had no choice but to endure his judgmental gazes all through Sunday dinner. He had no right to accuse her father like that. An explosion of memories rock
ed her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she blocked the image of her dad’s face when he’d first crept into her hospital room.
Joe’s footsteps crunched through the gravel toward her. “Sally, wait. Please.”
As if she had anywhere to flee. She stopped but didn’t turn to face him. Blinking back the tears, she struggled for composure. He stepped beside her, linking his fingers through hers as if holding hands was common practice for them.
“Please forgive me.” His worried eyes searched hers. “I spoke out of turn about your dad and I’m sorry.”
She didn’t pull away, didn’t want to. Holding hands with Joe eased the pain of remembering. “I don’t want to talk about Dad, okay?”
“Okay.” He squeezed her hand, then tugged her toward the stable. “Want to see the horses?”
“Horses? Absolutely!” Grateful for the change in subject, she let Joe lead her toward a log outbuilding, surrounded on three sides by rail fencing that formed a corral.
The inside of the small barn smelled of hay and leather. Three large stalls took up most of the space, with a tack room opposite. Joe clucked his tongue to get the horses’ attention.
“Sally, meet Cassidy and Sundance.” He rubbed each of their faces. “Guys, this is Sally.”
The horse he called Cassidy had huge black eyes and a coat the color of buttermilk. Sundance’s shiny mane reminded her of Monette’s reddish brown hair. Sally hesitated. “Will he bite?”
Joe didn’t laugh at her. Still clutching her hand, he raised it to Cassidy’s neck. “Just stroke him, gently. No sudden movement. Horses are sensitive to your touch.”
She let Joe’s hand guide hers in rubbing Cassidy’s neck. Coarse hair covered hard, corded muscle. Apprehension about the horses faded, replaced by a sharp awareness of Joe’s body squeezing her between him and the stall’s gate. The rhythmic stroking turned erotic, filling her with a strong dose of lust for the man guiding her hand.
“Uh, what about Sundance?”
“What?” Joe jerked as if snapping out of a trance. “Oh, right. Sundance will get jealous.”
He didn’t release her hand. Guiding her to the other stall, he placed her hand along the horse’s neck.
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