by Meg Moseley
If it had been anyone else making the ludicrous suggestion, he would have laughed out loud. “I’m sorry, Mel, but I don’t have that kind of money. Not even close.”
Her shoulders drooped. She turned to Tish.
Tish shook her head. “Don’t look at me. I don’t even have a job.”
Mel shifted her gaze to something in the distance. Like a rag doll retrofitted with a spine, she straightened her posture. “I’m not the thief. He is.”
Tish tried to wave her inside. “Come on in. Did you have supper?”
“No, but I’m not hungry. I’m tired. I’m going to lie down. Thanks, though.” With a faraway look in her eyes, Mel stepped past them and into the house.
George braced himself for the slamming of a door. He only heard the faint click of a latch as Mel shut the door to the downstairs bedroom that used to be his mother’s.
Tish leaned toward him. “That’s not like her,” she whispered. “Mel’s never not hungry.”
“She must have had a hard day. Emotionally draining.” But his brain marched double-time toward a different explanation. The brat was plotting something.
“She was talking about the Corvette, right? The one she took for a joyride?”
“Yes, and if she knew how much it’s worth, she’d be on a rampage right now.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Ballpark figure? Sixty grand, probably.”
Tish inhaled sharply. “Sixty thousand?”
“Yes ma’am. Sixty thousand dollars. It’s nearly mint, it’s rare, and it’s beautiful. And I can’t blame Dunc for selling. Actually, I’m surprised he’s kept it this long.”
“Sentimental value, maybe?”
“Dunc, sentimental? No, more likely he was waiting for the economy to pick up.”
“Didn’t her grandpa make a will?”
“He never got around to it, I guess, or maybe he didn’t want to write one. He was an eccentric old guy who made a killing in the stock market. I think Suzette was always ashamed of her dad even after he made his money, but he and Mel always got along.” George paused, thinking. “Maybe he took a shine to her because her folks named her after him—and that might have been a calculated effort to encourage him to be generous in his will. The will he never wrote.”
“Wait. I thought they named her after Melanie in Gone with the Wind.”
“They did, but her middle name is John, for her Grandpa John Hoff.”
“John? As in J-O-H-N? For a girl?”
“Why not? My mother’s middle name was James, after her father.”
“Must be a southern thing.”
He decided to live dangerously. Venture onto thin ice again. “Watch your tone, Yankee woman.”
She smiled. “You’d better be joking.”
The dark humor in her eyes made him want to stay longer, sparring with her, but Calv let out a yelp followed by a long string of unhappiness, the words muffled by distance.
“I’d better get back there,” George said. “It’s not fair to make Calv suffer all the skinned knuckles.”
“If you guys ever need first aid, come on up to the house,” Tish said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Maybe he could arrange a gently smashed thumbnail for himself.
Tish smiled as if she’d read his mind. “You do that.” She went inside, shutting the door.
Feeling vaguely guilty about something, he picked up the dog. When he was halfway down the steps, his conscience explained itself to him: he was ashamed of himself for cheerfully flirting with Tish when Mel was miserable.
Carrying the dog down the steps and around the house, he pondered the market for high-end vintage cars in Hunt County. It wasn’t a wealthy area, but Dunc was a dealer. He knew how and where to advertise, and he had connections. He’d find a buyer in no time, and Mel’s crazy little heart would break all over again.
Mel dried a plate and added it to the stack in the cupboard. Her feet hurt from working all day, but her heart hurt worse. She couldn’t stop thinking about the ’Vette. She had to see it one more time. She just had to. But if her dad—Dunc—didn’t want her in the house, he wouldn’t want her in the garage either. He especially wouldn’t want her in the garage.
Tish breezed through the kitchen, putting on a pair of funky, dangly earrings and then fluffing her hair. “I’m going out back. To get the latest updates on the Chevelle.”
“Have fun.” Mel could have given her the latest about the wiring harness, whatever that was, but she knew Tish didn’t give a flip about the car. She wanted to see George.
It would be fantastic to be able to talk to the guy you loved, any old time.
With a sigh, Mel dried the last plate and put it away in the cupboard. She was so tired of acting happy. At work, George kept watching her. Not like he thought she’d steal something, but like he was afraid she’d fall apart in the middle of polishing a candlestick or whatever. She’d held it together, though. Even when he acted like he thought she was about to throw a fit, which was exactly what made her want to throw a fit, she’d held it together.
Praying helped. She kept asking God to keep the car from selling, and to help buyers find other cars before they saw Dunc’s ads. She prayed about a million other things too, like money and clothes and figuring out how to get along without a family and how to go to college when she could hardly read. Last night, instead of crying herself to sleep, she’d prayed the night away.
She hung the towel over the handle on the oven door, then circled around to make sure she hadn’t missed anything to wash or put away.
Tish’s phone lay on the table.
Thinking hard about how to make the most of her big chance, Mel waited for a minute to make sure Tish wasn’t coming back for the phone. Then, keeping an eye out for her, Mel dialed her mom’s number.
Please, God, don’t let Tish look at her call records—
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom. It’s me. Mel.”
A brief pause. “Where are you? It’s the wrong area code.”
“I borrowed a phone from a friend.”
“Are you all right? Are you still in town?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I got a job. I’ve been working for George.”
“That’s nice.”
Mel had hoped she’d sound more excited. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to ask about the car. The clothes shouldn’t be a big deal, though.
“I’m not making much money yet,” she said. “And I need clothes. Can I stop by sometime for some of my things?”
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“It would only take a few minutes. Come on, Mom. You can throw some things in a bag and leave it by the front door if you don’t want to see me.”
“It’s not that. Your father doesn’t want you on our property. He says you’re a bad influence on Stu’s boys. You know they’re staying with us for a while.”
“Yeah, but how long can it take to remodel a kitchen? Anyway, I don’t even have to see the boys. I can come when they’re in school. Pick a day and I’ll be there. Well, if I’m not working.” Mel swung around to look at the calendar on the wall. “Hey, your anniversary is coming up. Are you planning anything?”
“Yes. Nothing fancy, though. Dinner and a movie in Muldro.”
Mel waited for her mom to say something about a birthday dinner too, but she didn’t. Not one word. And she was the one who always planned things weeks and weeks ahead of time.
“I guess we’re not getting together for my birthday, huh?”
“If you weren’t a bad influence on Nick and Jamie—”
“Don’t give me that.” Mel felt hard and mean inside, as sharp as the blade of her mom’s food processor. “Even if Nicky and Jamie weren’t around, even if they didn’t exist, you’d still wish I didn’t exist. And you say I’m a bad influence? What kind of influence do you think you are on me?”
Mel ended the call and put the phone back where she’d found it. She picked it up again, wiped it with h
er shirt, and put it down carefully. No fingerprints. Then she stared out the window at branches bobbing up and down in the wind.
Her parents weren’t going to do a thing for her twenty-first birthday. The big one. She was a stranger to them. A nobody. She was dead to them, but they weren’t crying for her. Well, she wouldn’t cry for them either.
She might cry for Nicky and Jamie, though. And even for Stu.
She remembered looking over her shoulder after he’d dropped her off at the vacant bank building. A crazy thought had hit her hard: What if I never see him again? For one little second, she’d loved him for being the big, grown-up brother who whooped and cheered for her at the kindergarten talent show and cried when the cop brought her home after she’d run away.
But then she saw the dealership license plate on the back of the big silver gas hog, and she remembered he was part of Dunc Hamilton’s business. That made Stu the enemy, almost.
She wouldn’t cry for him anymore either. She was done.
Walking into the warmth of the kitchen after a chilly half hour in the garage, Tish smiled. She’d been cold, but she’d enjoyed having George all to herself for a while. No Calv. No Mel, although her troubles had come up in the conversation. Just Daisy, who didn’t matter … and George, who was beginning to matter a lot.
She had to call Mom soon. She would want to know all about George, like Tish had wanted to know all about Charles. The mother-daughter bond had grown stronger through their losses—first Stephen, then Dad—and sometimes Tish thought they were more like sisters than mom and daughter.
She turned in a circle, inspecting the kitchen. Mel had done a great job of leaving it spick-and-span, as usual. Tish headed toward the guest room to express her appreciation. The poor kid probably didn’t get enough pats on the back, especially if George’s new theory held any water. An undiagnosed learning disability could explain a lot of Mel’s issues.
Reaching the bedroom doorway, Tish stopped, picking up bad vibes from Mel’s furtive body language. Unaware of her visitor, Mel tiptoed to the dresser and opened the top drawer, being awfully quiet about it. She pulled a white sock from the back of the drawer and squeezed the toe of it, then glanced over her shoulder. Seeing Tish, she jumped, dropping the sock, and slammed the drawer.
“What are you hiding, Mel?”
“Nothing.” But she stood squarely in front of the dresser, her face as white as the day she’d thought her sleeping bag had gone in the wash.
Hugely disappointed, Tish shook her head. “Wasn’t honesty one of the things we talked about when I laid down my house rules?”
Mel’s eyes narrowed. “I can be honest without telling you absolutely everything.”
“What are you hiding?”
“What do you think I’m hiding?”
“I don’t know. If it’s something harmless, you shouldn’t be afraid to show me.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“If it’s under my roof, it’s my business.”
Mel’s cheeks turned red. “Fine. You want to see my horrible, awful, illegal secret? I’ll show you.” She yanked the drawer open, picked up the sock, and pulled something out of it. She opened her hand, revealing an old-fashioned gold pocket watch. “It was Grandpa John’s. He gave it to me.”
Tish drew in her breath. “Well! Farris was right when he decided not to hire me because of you.”
“He what?”
“Farris refused to give me a job because he heard I was harboring a criminal. I stuck up for you, Mel, but I shouldn’t have. You’re a thief, all right, and you cost me that job.”
“Grandpa John promised me the watch. Why don’t you believe me? Why don’t you trust me?”
“You don’t seem to be trustworthy. The evidence is piling up, and it’s all going against you.”
“Like the evidence against the McCombs is piling up?” Mel spat out. “It doesn’t feel good to have your reputation in the Dumpster, does it? But you’re doing the same thing to me.” Mel stalked across the room, almost invading Tish’s personal space. “I am not a thief.”
Tish glanced down at Mel’s hand clenched around the watch. “You stole the watch. You need to give it back.”
Mel opened her fist. With her other hand, she ran a fingertip over a monogram engraved on the smooth golden case. “It’s mine.”
Tish hated to act like Mel’s mother again, but somebody had to. “It’s not legally yours. I won’t have stolen property in my house, Melanie. If you won’t give it back to your father, move out of my house. Today.”
“Grandpa John told me he was going to give me the watch someday, but for a long time, I didn’t know what he meant.” Mel’s voice shook. “When I figured it out, I said I didn’t want it if he had to die to give it to me. He said that was exactly why he wanted me to have it.” She let out a little sob and shoved the watch into Tish’s hand. “Go ahead, give it back, but I’m never talking to Dunc again.”
“Mel—”
But Mel pushed her way past Tish and ran down the hall. The front door slammed.
Weak in the knees, Tish wobbled over to the bed and sat on the edge. Opening her hand, she studied the watch case. The monogram read JMH, presumably for John M. Hoff. Mel’s initials were MJH, the same letters in different order. Remembering her conversation with George, Tish wondered what it would be like to live in a world where letters and numbers shuffled their order when you weren’t looking.
She opened the case. The watch ticked quietly in her hand, keeping perfect time. It had survived two years in Mel’s possession without a scratch, and she’d never intended to sell it.
Now Dunc’s demand wasn’t impossible. He might let Mel rejoin the family, especially if he understood why she’d taken the watch. He might even let her keep it.
Bright with banners and balloons, Duncan Hamilton’s dealership stood near the interstate on the outskirts of Muldro, not far from the outlet mall. His main building included a two-story tower of steel and glass topped with a gigantic American flag. Dunc’s office, according to Mel, was on the second floor, where he enjoyed an unobstructed view of Muldro and the green hills beyond.
Tish parked in the customer parking lot, climbed out, then reached into her purse to make sure the watch was still there. According to George, it was worth much more than she’d guessed. They hadn’t told Mel how much, and maybe they never would. She’d returned at midnight, afraid she’d be locked out and find herself on the street again. She’d fallen apart when Tish offered a hug instead of a lecture.
She took a deep breath and started walking across the lot. Returning the watch was the responsible and proper thing to do, so she would do it. Arriving without an appointment with the head honcho on a busy Saturday, she could only hope he was available, but she wanted to take him by surprise.
In the showroom, she encountered a pair of hungry-looking salesmen in matching polo shirts.
“I’m here to see Dunc,” she said before they could pounce. “Upstairs, yes?”
The salesmen pointed her toward an elevator, and she took it to the second floor. The view was beautiful if she looked beyond the outlet mall and restaurant row. Turning from the window, she proceeded along a broad hallway lined with offices open to view behind glass. Telephones rang, printers hummed, and employees laughed. It seemed like a pleasant enough place to work.
Farther down the hallway, it was quieter. A door with a brass nameplate caught her eye. She moved close enough to read it. Dunc Hamilton.
Until she’d shared her plan with George and absorbed some of his pessimism, she’d thought it sounded easy enough. Just walk into Dunc Hamilton’s office and return the watch. Now she wasn’t so sure.
The door was ajar by a couple of inches. Hoping he wouldn’t be there, she knocked gently on the door frame. “Mr. Hamilton?”
“Come on in, whoever you are.” He sounded genial enough.
Cautiously, she pushed the door open. A muscular figure stood silhouetted against a sunny window. She cou
ldn’t make out his features, but his stance was like that of a high school football coach on the sidelines of a game: legs apart, hands on his hips. In polo shirt and khakis, he only needed a coach’s whistle around his neck to complete the stereotype. That impression was confirmed by photos of sports teams on display all around the office: Little League, soccer, youth football.
As he stepped away from the window, his features became visible. She saw Mel in his smile and his warm brown eyes.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Dunc Hamilton.”
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Tish McComb.”
The warmth drained from his expression. “I’ve heard about you.”
“I’ve heard about you too. I’m one of Mel’s friends.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s a troublemaker.”
“She’s your daughter, Mr. Hamilton. Please don’t talk about her that way.”
“It’s the truth.”
“People can change. She’s a sweet girl, really. Give her a chance.”
Dunc sighed. “I’ll be happy to work with you if you ever want to buy a vehicle, but if you show up again to preach at me, I’ll have security throw you out. Is that clear?”
Tish’s hopes deflated. “It’s a little too clear, actually.”
“Good day to you, then.”
“Wait. I—I wanted to tell you …” She blinked, trying to remember the carefully crafted lines she’d rehearsed on the drive over to Muldro. They’d all fled her mind.
“Yes?” he prompted.
She reached into her purse for the watch but kept it hidden in her hand. “Mel still believes this was meant to be hers, but she’s returning it to you. To make things right.” Tish opened her hand, displaying the watch on her palm.
He let out a delighted laugh. “I thought she sold that thing.” He was an imposing figure as he moved closer.
She hid the watch behind her back. “She could have sold it, but she didn’t. She hung on to it even when she was flat broke and homeless, because it was her only memento of her Grandpa John.”