by Susan Gable
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THE BABY PLAN
Susan Gable
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Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
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"You haven't said a word since you got in the truck. What's bugging you?"
Jake Manning turned from watching the small, closely packed houses slip past the window to stare at his younger brother. "Just wondering about the car."
"Bull."
"Is that a cop's intuition?"
"No, a brother's," Dusty said as he lowered the visor to block the afternoon sun.
Jake ended up studying the photo of Dusty's very pregnant wife, Kate. Beside it was a laminated sonogram picture of their soon-to-be-born son. Perfect. Just what he needed right now. "I got a call from my lawyer today."
"It wasn't good news, huh?"
"No. The birth mother decided she really didn't like the idea of a single man adopting her baby. She wondered if I was gay or something."
Dusty choked off a short burst of laughter. "Sorry. I know it's not funny, but the idea of you being gay… I'm sorry about the adoption." He cursed under his breath. "That's the second one. Damn, that bites."
The house just wasn't the same without a child in it. He'd practically raised Dusty and Mel, his younger half siblings, from the time they were born—and taken on even more responsibility after their mother had left them to "find herself." He'd become their legal guardian when their father died. With Mel and Dusty both adults and on their own, Jake was at loose ends. He missed having someone in his life who needed him.
Of course, he'd foolishly assumed his marriage would take care of that. After the divorce, he'd enrolled in the Big Brother program and found great satisfaction in it.
The first adoption attempt had involved a four-year-old boy. Jake had met Austin's social worker through Big Brothers. He'd spent time with the boy every weekend for three months. It had damn near broken both their hearts when the social worker decided to place him in a home with both a mother and a father. After that, he'd investigated private adoption—and now that had turned out to be a bust as well.
His lawyer had offered him two new words of advice: surrogate mother. At least that way, Jake would have some rights as the child's biological father. He wasn't sure about it, though; he had a whole lot of thinking to do before he could make that decision.
Lifting one hand from the wheel of the truck, Dusty slugged Jake on the shoulder. "Hey, I've said all along you don't need another kid. You've still got me."
Jake arched an eyebrow at the man ten years his junior. Hard to believe his little brother was all grown up and expecting a baby of his own. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
"What? You didn't have enough headaches raising me and Melanie? You need a few more?" Dusty eased the truck into the garage's parking lot.
It wasn't the headaches of raising a family Jake missed, though God knows that becoming sole custodian of his two half siblings when he'd been only twenty-two himself had brought on plenty of them. It was the hugs he missed, the companionship, having someone to teach. He'd taken Austin to the zoo and the Erie Children's Museum, to a SeaWolves baseball game. "You and Mel are all grown up and moved out now, Dusty. Mel's got Peter and the twins. You've got Kate and my nephew-to-be."
"And you've got a bad case of empty nest syndrome. I didn't think men—especially thirty-five-year-old men—got that."
Jake slid from the pickup, slammed the door, then turned to lean in the open window, shaking his head. A cool breeze stirred the dirt around his feet, swirling it into the air. Off in the distance, Lake Erie shimmered beneath a perfect end-of-May sky, blue with puffy white clouds—the kind of day that made the long winters bearable. "I should've let you raise yourselves. Or maybe handed you over to a pack of wolves. Wait here for a few minutes, huh, Dust? Just in case the car's not ready."
"Sure."
"And be careful out there tonight." His brother loved his job on the police force, but Jake frequently wished he'd chosen a less-dangerous career. Though Erie, Pennsylvania, ranked as one of the safer small cities for cops, one of Dusty's co-workers had taken a bullet last week—fortunately, not fatally.
"Always am."
Jake tapped the side of the truck, then sauntered away, heading for the office. The open front door led to a small, dingy room divided by a long counter. A teenage girl with a round, pimply face perched on a stool behind it, chubby legs propped on the windowsill. She clutched a magazine sporting the latest hot boys' band on the cover; her jaws cracked a piece of gum.
"I'm Jake Manning. I'm here about my Mustang. It's supposed to be ready."
The magazine slipped from her fingers and her feet dropped off the sill as she gave him a wide-eyed once-over. "The M-M-Mustang? Uh, oh, yeah, it's in the bay. Harley'll explain it to ya." She disappeared below the counter, presumably to retrieve her magazine, ending their conversation.
"Thanks so much," he muttered, crossing the threshold from the office into the actual garage. He passed a sign warning No Customers Beyond This Point. Nice to know they took their safety measures so seriously.
The odor of grease and exhaust fumes lingered in the air, despite the open overhead doors. His old Mustang occupied the first bay, and Jake paused to run a loving hand along its white hood. The car had been a gift from his stepfather, whom everybody called Bud, for high school graduation, and he had every intention of keeping it forever. If only he had someone to pass it down to. He sighed and glanced at the remaining two bays but saw no sign of the mechanic, only a Stingray in the next slot.
"Harley?" he called.
"Under here" came a muffled voice from the direction of the cherry-red sports car.
Jake crossed behind the Mustang to discover a pair of work boots protruding from beneath the 'Vette. The boots twitched in time to the music drifting from a classic rock station. Billy Joel crooned about his uptown girl and Jake's mouth tightened. Uptown girls—or at least uptown girl wannabes, like his ex-wife, Stacy—were better forgotten.
He bent over and rapped lightly on the car's side. "Harley? I'm here for my Mustang. What was wrong with it?"
"I replaced the starter and a worn fan belt, and gave her a tune-up. She should run fine for you now."
The mechanic's sultry voice jolted him, and he glanced at the feet again. Their small size confirmed his suspicion—a woman lay beneath the car, a woman with a decidedly sexy voice. Jake waited, but no further conversation emerged. He wanted to hear that provocative voice again. "Is there anything else? Who do I pay? The charming young woman in the front office?"
"No, Ned's in the back. Move that 'Stang out first, 'cause I've got another car that needs to go in that bay."
"No problem. Thanks." He straightened.
"You're welcome."
She certainly had a way with words. The brevity of the conversation heightened the impact of her delivery. He shrugged, annoyed at his own reaction. Women were generally more trouble than anything else, but he still had an appreciation for them, especially a woman with a voice like that.
Jake wandered back to his car, opened the door, then eased himself into the black vinyl bucket seat. He turned the key and grinned when the engine caught right away. Cocking his head, he basked in the idle purr. She hadn't sounded this good in years.
He threw the car into reverse, waving his brother off before parking in the lot behind the pumps. The interior of the car sparkled, and the engine's rumble pleased him as much as the mechanic's lovely voice.
She deserved a tip. Jake pulled his wallet from his pocket, then riffled through the bill compartment. The twenty he wanted eluded him, so he
stretched across the seat to pop open the glove box.
He retrieved the small black binder he used to organize the Mustang's receipts and jammed his fingers into the back pouch. Empty.
Jake peered inside. The twenty-five bucks in five-dollar bills he kept as an emergency stash were no longer there. He did a quick search of the rest of the binder, though he knew with absolute certainty where the money should have been.
His spare cell phone was also missing.
Jake leaped from the car and stalked across the parking lot. He circumvented a large patch of sawdust on the floor of the last bay and hammered on the office door. What was the guy's name again? Oh, right, the owner of the garage. "Ned!"
"Keep your pants on. Come in before ya bust my door down."
Jake shoved open the office door. Stale air laced with the smell of cheap cigars and even cheaper booze permeated the room. The small desktop fan served only to spread the stench.
Ned folded his hands behind his head and leaned backward, causing the chair he occupied to squeak in protest. His shirt buttons strained to keep the dingy white garment closed across an enormous beer belly. "What can I do for ya?"
"I'm Jake Manning. That's my Mustang your mechanic just repaired."
"Yeah, the one towed in a few days ago." The man swiveled on his chair, then dug into a lopsided pile of papers on a shelf behind his desk. When he turned his attention back to Jake, he clutched an invoice. "Here it is."
Jake accepted the document. Teeth clenched, he scanned the bill, certain a shop that robbed clients' cars would also steal from them in more devious ways. "This seems reasonable," he murmured.
"Of course. This shop ain't into rape and pillage of its customers, mister."
Jake glared at him over the invoice. "But theft from vehicles is standard procedure?"
"What?" The man's face grew pale and he slammed a fist on the desktop, scattering papers. "Damn it to hell! What's missing?"
"Twenty-five bucks in cash and a cell phone."
The owner muttered a few choice curses and lurched to his feet, brushing past Jake to stand in the doorway. "Harley! Get your butt in here now."
Jake grimaced. Women. Can't trust 'em with your car—or your heart. Still, he eagerly awaited the opportunity to glimpse the "butt" Ned had just summoned to the office. If it matched the voice, she'd have a sweet rear end—mechanically speaking, of course.
"I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Manning." The shop owner lowered himself back into the creaking chair.
Several minutes ticked by before footsteps announced Harley's arrival. She entered the room, wiping her fingers on a rag, then glanced at Jake, giving him a tentative smile.
Emerald eyes, the most vibrant green he could ever remember seeing, twinkled at him. "How's the car sound?"
Jake surveyed her. A baseball cap proclaiming Ned's Garage covered her head, but several long wisps of wheat-colored hair escaped, trailing down across her cheek. A small streak of grease on her makeup-free face added to a waifish appearance. The gray-and-black coveralls sagged over most of her frame, but fit snugly across the chest.
Ned said, "This is not about the car, Harley. This is about theft."
Harley Emerson looked from the sky-blue eyes of the Mustang's owner to her boss. A tight fear twisted her stomach when Ned levered himself up from his chair to swagger to the front of the desk.
"I warned you when I hired you, one wrong move and you were out of this shop. Now return Mr. Manning's money and his phone and get your sorry butt outta here."
As the blood drained from her head, Harley had to support herself against the doorway. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about theft, you no-good ex-con, something you know all about."
Harley swung her gaze back to the blue-eyed man. He studied her intently. "I didn't take anything from your car! I swear it."
"You're the only one around this shop with a record. Now, I mean it. You return this man's property and get the hell out. You're fired!"
The whispers and cold hands of her past were clutching her life once again. Despair welled up inside Harley. She'd pay for the court's mistake repeatedly, it seemed. The people who said she'd never amount to anything would be correct. "Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?" Yeah, right. Who was she kidding? Innocent didn't mean squat. The sensation of being railroaded was a familiar one.
"You've been tried and convicted." Ned jabbed a fat, sausage-shaped finger in her direction. "Them's my coveralls and I want 'em."
"Those are," she corrected him, tugging at the zipper. She peeled the coveralls off her body, balancing on one foot to draw the leg over her work boot, then repeating the awkward process.
The car-owner's stare burned her skin as his eyes raked over her body. A tingling sensation followed the path they blazed and a rush of sexual energy charged the foul air of Ned's office.
What the hell was wrong with her? Accused of theft, fired from the job she so desperately needed, and she stood here, melting beneath the gaze of a complete stranger? Okay, so he had the best-looking chassis she'd laid eyes on in quite some time, what with his broad shoulders and narrow waist—but really!
She needed to get out more. Or have her head examined. Besides, the khaki dress slacks, blue-checked, button-down shirt and tie indicated he was way out of her league. A man like that would only want one thing from her.
Harley tossed the coveralls in a heap at Ned's feet. "There. I suppose you'll want your hat, too?" She whipped off the cap and flung it onto the pile of clothing. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, spilled down onto her neck from its previous position on top of her head.
The car-owner cleared his throat. "Look. I realize I'm the victim here, but do you have any proof that she's the one who stole my things?"
Harley shot him a grateful glance.
"She's got a record, mister. I told her when I hired her, the first time anything went missing or the cops came sniffing around, she was out. Now, something's gone missing, so she's out. I got a reputation to protect."
"Reputation? Ned, your reputation isn't worth a rat's ass without me. See the 'Vette?" Harley pointed toward the garage. "That's here because of me, because of my reputation, not yours. All the other classics in here recently? Because of me."
If only her entire reputation was as good as her work reputation, she'd be in great shape. Well, almost. Being a mechanic wasn't exactly a socially acceptable position for a woman. Someday she'd be able to hold her head up; someday she'd prove herself to all the people who said Harley Emerson would never make it.
"So you say. Good mechanics are easy to find. I'll replace you by Thursday."
"Not at the pathetic rate you pay me!"
The Mustang's owner took a step toward the desk. "Look, you two, I really don't want to get involved in your squabble. Ned, let's take care of my bill. I'll deduct the cash and the value of the cell phone from the total amount, and we'll be square." He retrieved a pen from his pocket and scribbled quick calculations on his invoice.
Harley stared at him. When he lifted his head and their eyes met, for a moment she thought she saw compassion. But seconds later, his expression hardened. She dropped her gaze to the pile of clothing at Ned's feet. "Ned, please, I didn't do it. Don't fire me. I need this job. I've got bills to pay."
"That's right, babe. You need me. I don't need you. I gave you a chance and you spit in my face."
"You owe me for yesterday and today." Harley raised her chin defiantly and commanded her quivering insides to settle down.
Ned bent over the desk and rummaged in a drawer, then handed her a pile of wrinkled bills. "That should cover it. I don't ever want to see you around here again."
Harley inspected the money, then crammed it into the pocket of her denim shorts. How often had she been sent packing from one place or another? Too many to count.
She stretched out her hand to place her palm on Manning's forearm. Soft, dark hair grew there, and her fingertips skimmed over it.
"I'm sorry about your things. I didn't take them." She lowered her head and turned on her heel.
Her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes as she slunk from the office triggered a surge of guilt in Jake. He moved to the doorway to watch her slowly cross the bay. She stopped to kick the pile of sawdust, raising a cloud in the shop. He chuckled. There was spirit buried beneath the defeat.
A female mechanic who had a real way with classic cars. Fascinating. And she was a looker, too. Her cutoff shorts clung to a well-curved rear and exposed legs that went on forever until they met the work boots. He felt a rush of physical attraction.
He wasn't looking for a woman—not for that, anyway. But she was now out of a job because of him. And he believed her claims of innocence, based on the way she'd met his eyes when she'd apologized.
As she gathered up a few tools from a workbench, Jake turned back into the office. He tossed the check onto the desk. "I won't be recommending your shop."
He hustled from the garage in time to see her get into a slightly battered silver Toyota pickup truck with a black cap on the back. He slid behind the Mustang's wheel, intent on learning more about this interesting woman.
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The scent of fresh cookies wafted from the bakery aisle, and Harley's mouth watered. Tempting, but not on the list right now. She fingered the crumpled bills in the pocket of her shorts and scanned the price stickers on the shelf. She grabbed a large plastic jar of store-brand peanut butter.
"You little bastard!"
The harsh words were followed by the sound of a stinging slap. Harley flinched. The jar slipped from her hand, clattering to the tile floor.
She whirled in the direction of the jellies—and saw a little boy in a private-school uniform dodge another blow from an angry hand.
Her feet automatically propelled her toward the ugly Scene.
"Maaa!" the child wailed. "Don't. I'm sorry!"