“She hasn’t killed you yet?” Beulah called to Turbo.
“Nope. Not yet.” Turbo grinned as he put his arm around Harris.
“She’s letting you awful close. Girl, has that guy given you a ring yet?”
Harris laughed and shook her head, but Turbo noted her bright red cheeks.
“Make him treat you right, girl,” Miss Betty said with a lowered-brow look at Turbo.
“He is.”
Turbo thought of last night. He’d not wanted to leave. But he had, and he was glad now for it. He didn’t want Harris to have to defend him. Or to have anyone think less of her because of him.
Which made him stop. Could he learn to read? People would always be thinking less of Harris because of him unless he overcame this issue that lay like a lead cover over his head. He’d tried in school. Up until about fourth grade. Then he’d quit, more focused on cheating the system that had left him behind.
Could he do it now? He shoved the thought aside to think about later. When he was alone.
“Hey. I forgot. I have something to show you ladies.” He looked down at Harris and winked. “Hold on,” he said low.
Moving away from her, he walked over to his rig and opened the dog box. “Remember those quilting squares you ladies gave me. Then, very unhelpfully, told me that I’d never learn to quilt?”
“How could we forget? You said quilting wasn’t nowhere near as hard as we tried to make it.”
“Well, look at this.” He pulled the nine-square he’d made out of the bag where he’d stashed it and held it up.
The ladies’ eyes squinted, but Al and Mr. Sigel guffawed. “Guess he showed you. Nice job, Turbo. I never took you for a quilter.”
Turbo allowed an arrogant smile to lift the corners of his mouth. “You all can apologize to me right about now.”
“Hold on just one cotton-picking minute. Bring that thing a little closer here.” Miss Alda lowered her glasses and studied his “quilt” as he obediently walked closer. “Don’t stop. Get on over here. Right now. Stop here.” She thrust her sewing needle toward the floor right in front of her feet. Knowing he was busted, Turbo inched to the spot before handing his “quilt” over into her outstretched hand.
She studied it, turning it over in her hands.
“What kind of stitches does he have?” Miss Angelina asked. “They big, preschool type stitches?”
“I don’t see any stitches,” Miss Alda said, shoving her glasses back on her face and lowering her head to look closer.
Miss Beulah leaned over her shoulder, adjusting her own glasses.
“Okay, ladies, that’s enough.” Turbo reached for his quilt.
“Not so fast.” Miss Alda yanked it back. Rather quickly for an eighty-year-old woman, Turbo thought.
Miss Betty leaned closer. “There are no stitches.”
“You’re right!” Miss Alda exclaimed. “What did he...” She pulled at the material.
“You glued it,” Miss Angelina said with a giggle. “He glued it. Of course he did. My brilliant boy.” She toddled over and patted Turbo on the shoulder, since she couldn’t reach the top of his head, probably. “You glued it. You always figure everything out.”
“And that’s why I love you,” Turbo said, hugging her considerable girth. “You always think the best of me.”
“I say that’s cheating,” Miss Beulah said.
“I say it’s pure genius,” Mr. Sigel said. He looked at Turbo. “How long did it take you?”
“Couple minutes. Maybe thirty.” Turbo grinned.
“Yeah, like I said, pure genius. These old biddies spend hours and hours trying to get the same effect. And you had it done in thirty minutes. Brilliant, I say.”
“But what about when he washes it?” Miss Alda asked. “Will it fall apart?”
“It’s probably toxic. I wouldn’t want my baby anywhere near that,” Miss Alda declared.
“You never had any babies.”
“If I had, Miss Particular, I wouldn’t have wanted them anywhere near something toxic like that. I bet you can’t even put that in a landfill. You probably have to have someone come and cart it away. Put it in the same place they haul needles and blood and radioactive stuff.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Betty said. “It’s just glue.” She eyed Turbo. “Is it waterproof?”
“Yes. And nontoxic. I checked.”
“He might be on to something, ladies,” Miss Beulah said with a thoughtful look.
There was a general murmur of disapproval. “But I like quilting. I don’t want to glue.”
“No. You’re just afraid of change. If something better comes along, it’s okay to be off with the old and on with the new,” Miss Beulah said with confidence.
“Unless it’s another man. Then you’re stuck with the same old same old.” Miss Betty pushed her glasses up on her nose, hiding her smirk.
“Unless you have a man like mine. He was totally okay with the whole off with the old, which just so happened to be me.” Angelina’s droopy eyes still pinched with a hint of the old pain.
“You’re sounding a little bitter. Glad I never got married. I had a nice, full life and didn’t need a man to complete me.” Miss Alda straightened in her chair and resumed her stitching.
“Okay,” Turbo interrupted. “Nice to see you ladies, but Harris and I have to be moving on.” He turned toward Harris, who had been watching the goings-on with interest. “Don’t let them convince you that you don’t need a man.”
“Well, I have been getting on pretty good without one.”
“That’s in the past.”
She took his hand. “I’m open to new ideas.”
They smiled at each other, bidding the elderly folks goodbye, and headed back to Turbo’s truck where Torque had unhooked the trailer.
“You need me?” Turbo asked his brother.
“Nah. Did I hear you were planning to visit the hospital?”
“Yeah, I have a book to help write.”
“Oh, you’re going to be a millionaire. That’s great. I’ll put the hood on, you give me a cut of the proceeds.”
“Hardly.” Turbo laughed. He couldn’t help it. After all, he was headed out to help write a book, and he couldn’t even really read. How funny was that? Harris gave him a quizzical look but allowed him to take her hand and lead her to his truck.
“You guys can go ahead and drive back over to Tough’s. I’ll be there to pick up Harris’s car at some point.”
They got in his pickup and headed toward the hospital.
Chapter 16
THINGS WERE QUIET AND slow at the pediatric cancer ward.
A few little boys played with trucks on the floor, while a couple of little girls in soft pajama pants sat around a dollhouse. Several teens, their IV lines hovering close by, sat on chairs around the periphery.
Quincy had her notebook out and her legs stretched out over the cushion of the one loveseat in the room.
Harris felt a little conspicuous walking in with Turbo’s arm slung possessively over her shoulders. A couple of nurses lifted eyebrows, and one smiled, but no one said anything. She was thankful. She had thought of herself as not dating, not girlfriend material, never getting married for so long, she needed time to adjust to the fact that Turbo was okay with her, just the way she was. Seemed to still like her.
Like the fact that he even noticed or liked her in the first place wasn’t shocking enough. After all, if there was a modern equivalent of a wallflower, it was her.
That wasn’t to say she wasn’t enjoying it, because she was. Last night was the first time in her memory that someone had held her while she cried.
Not that she blamed her mother. Having a young daughter being diagnosed with leukemia would be devastating, then to have your husband die on top of that, leaving you with one very sick child and two more very young children...well, her mother did the best she could. And Harris had spent a lot of time alone in the hospital, reading the backs of shampoo bottles.
She always talked to her mother on Sunday afternoons. She’d have to remember to tell her who had sent her flowers on the anniversary of her dad’s death. They’d wondered about that together through the years.
She pressed close to Turbo, and his arm automatically tightened. He looked down, questions in his eyes. Giving him a reassuring smile, she nodded to Quincy and slipped out from under his arm to walk over, feeling the coolness of the air and realizing that she’d been missing something special.
“How’s your story going?” she asked Quincy who jerked, as though she’d been deep in thought. “Sorry. Hope you didn’t lose your train of thought.”
“No. I was just trying to figure out how to write this without it being so blatantly obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“That being sick sucks.”
“Well, it does.”
Quincy’s lips flattened, and she looked away, her shoulders set. “How would you know?”
“I lived in Iowa when I had leukemia, so I wasn’t in this hospital, but...”
“You had leukemia?”
“Yes.”
“You survived.”
She ran her hands up and down, indicating her body. “I’m here.”
“Did it...did it ever come back?”
“No. They said I’m cured.” It was always there, in the back of her mind, a constant little whisper—if she sneezed, if she felt tired, if she had a pain anywhere—was that cancer? She’d looked up the stats. She knew the odds. But she’d learned to shove the little voice aside. For the most part.
Quincy thought on that for a while. Then she held up her notebook. “Any ideas?”
Harris gave an internal chuckle at the fickleness of the teen mind. She remembered it all too well.
“Why don’t you tell it from the perspective of a truck?” Turbo’s voice came from the floor where he and the little boys had their trucks lined up. Motor noises filled the large playroom.
“That would work if you wanted it to be for children.” Harris tapped her chin. “Maybe Elsie would draw pictures for your story.”
Quincy’s eyes brightened, and she looked over to where Elsie, another teenager, sat at the window. She spoke in a low tone. “She’s not doing so hot. The docs gave her a bad report. I guess a project like this would take her mind off it if she decides to do it.”
“You know, I can look into this, but I’ve had a lot of self-published authors coming into the library with actual physical books. They’re getting them printed somewhere. I could see if maybe printing a few copies would be an option. We’d include it in our new library, of course.” Harris nodded in the direction of the empty rooms, still waiting to be filled with books, which were going to be the library.
“Really? You really think we could publish it?”
“Sure. And I think Turbo’s right. If you write it from the perspective of a truck...maybe one that is broken down and has to go to the shop. That, obviously, would represent being sick.”
“Don’t forget the driver, though. He has to be handsome, strong, and brave,” Turbo interjected from his spot on the floor.
“And humble,” Harris added.
“And the sidekick has to have red hair.”
“I think the hero should actually be a heroine, and she should have red hair, and the sidekick can have laughing brown eyes.”
Turbo’s grin split wide open. “You like my eyes, huh?”
“I don’t think I said that.” Harris looked to Quincy for confirmation.
Quincy shook her head. “That’s definitely NOT what you said. But we’re not going to argue about it. I need to think.”
“You can give the truck human emotions. But it can do truck things. Like, instead of having an IV, it could need air in the tires, and instead of surgery, it could have all its parts lying around.”
Quincy nodded.
Harris added, “I can bring in some children’s books, but a lot of times the pictures say as much as the words. I think Elsie would do a fabulous job. I’ve seen her work, and she’s really good.” She tapped her chin again. “But she might not have any idea what the inside of a truck looks like.” She looked over at Turbo. “Do you have any pictures?”
“Are you kidding?” He sat up, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I have more pictures of my truck than most people have of their children. Someday...” He stopped abruptly, and his eyes, full of concern, snapped up to Harris.
She shook her head and lifted a shoulder, but her heart squeezed painfully. He’d be such a good dad.
He showed them some of the pictures of his motor being torn down along with other pics and ideas.
“We need to talk to Elsie,” Quincy said.
“May I have this for a few minutes?” Harris held up Turbo’s phone.
“Sure.” He never hesitated. His easy agreement made her feel good. Obviously there wasn’t anything on there that he was worried about her, or young teens, seeing. Just that thought deepened her respect for him even more. But she couldn’t forget the look in his eyes when he talked about the pictures and his kids.
It didn’t take much convincing to talk Elsie into being willing to try her hand at drawing a few pictures for a story. After some more discussion, with Turbo piping in with ideas, they cleaned up the toys on the floor. The kids begged for a magic trick before they left, and Turbo made one ball turn into five. As closely as Harris watched, she couldn’t figure out how he did it.
They said goodbye, promised to stay in touch with Elsie and Quincy, and left the hospital.
“Let me buy you lunch?” Turbo asked on the way out, his arm once again draped over her shoulders.
He stopped at a diner where they were served quickly. By the time Turbo pulled into Tough’s where her car was sitting, it was time for Harris to get going.
“I’ll see you at practice tonight?” she said to Turbo as he opened her car door.
“I’ll be there.”
Could she ask him if he would pay attention and be helpful or if he planned to be disruptive and a distraction like again? She couldn’t get her mouth to form the words. She wanted to believe he had put all that behind him. After their last kiss, after the possessive way he’d held her today, surely he was on her side with the play.
“I’m planning on doing a run-though with actions onstage and not just a sit and read. There’s also music practices tonight and tomorrow.”
“I’m ready.” He adjusted his ball cap, his dark brown hair curling out from under the sides.
Her fingers itched to touch it, but she gripped her door handle and slipped into her car. Something she hadn’t mentioned and didn’t plan on discussing was the fact that there was a kiss between Daddy Warbucks and Grace. It had been a nonissue so far since they’d only done a few read-throughs yesterday. Tonight, she would have to watch Turbo get romantic with another woman. For pretend.
People did it all the time.
Problem was, she didn’t do it all the time. She’d never had a serious boyfriend before, if that’s what her relationship with Turbo even was. Watching him onstage tonight was going to be hard; she couldn’t deny it. But she wanted him to be serious, too. Her whole chest felt like a battle was raging inside, and she didn’t know what to do or how to act. She was used to her life being calm and predictable and not this crazy, emotional combat in her mind.
Turbo closed her door. He leaned down on her open window. “Thanks for spending your time off with me.”
“I enjoy being with you.” Harris studied her hands; her fingers picked at the steering wheel. “But...”
She looked over at Turbo, caught him as the laughter faded from his eyes, replaced with a wariness she hated because it came because of her.
The very stillness of his body showed his unease.
She swallowed. Hard. “I’m not sure I can do...us...tonight.” She breathed out and glanced at his face.
He flinched. Almost imperceptibly. His eyes were flat brown. He nodded. “I understand.”
He straightened, his eyes now completely shaded by the brim of his cap. “No, I do. I get it. You’ll come to my house at night and kiss me until I’d do anything you want me to, then at play practice, you want to pretend to barely know me because if anyone knew that the straight-laced librarian was slowly seducing this dumb truck driver, your stress level would be uncontrollable.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked down the street.
“That’s not quite it.”
“You can’t say I’m wrong. You’re not exactly proud to be showing me off to your friends. Whatever it is that you feel for me isn’t something you want, it’s something you fight.” His jaw muscle popped in and out. “I’m not an asset. I’m a liability. And you don’t want to deal with that tonight. I told you. I get it.” He slapped the roof of her car and backed away. “Don’t worry. I won’t upset you by insisting we need to do ‘us’ tonight. And if you show up at my house afterward and want to kiss me senseless, I’m not so proud that I’d turn you away.” He turned and walked toward the garage.
“Turbo, wait.” A quick glance at her dash showed that she had barely enough time to drive across town to make it to work on time, but her chest ached and she couldn’t breathe. She’d hurt Turbo. Right in the spot where he was vulnerable, and she hadn’t even realized it. But what could she do? She didn’t have enough time to backtrack.
He stopped but didn’t turn around. He lifted his ball cap and ran a hand through his overlong hair before shoving it back down on his head. His hands dropped, and he stood still with his back toward her.
Her heart beat fast, and her neck felt cold then hot. She couldn’t find the words to tell him how he was wrong. Did that mean he was right? Was she really just a snob who was ashamed of the first man who’d ever shown any interest in her?
She wasn’t ashamed of Turbo. Was she? It was more about him disrupting the practice, and if he did that and everyone knew they were seeing each other too... And yeah, there’d be some surprise that she’d have to deal with on top of everything else.
“We’ll have to talk about this later. I need to get to work.”
He didn’t say anything but started walking again.
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