In Seconds. Brenda Novak

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      Her levity vanished. Inevitably one question led to another. And so much of her past was too painful to talk about, or would be too dangerous to reveal. That isolated her from others, kept her from being able to connect…?. “I didn’t.”

      Once again, he paused. “You didn’t have the opportunity?”

      “No.” She jerked her head toward the fridge. “That looks pretty complicated. Have you ever fixed one before?”

      Taking the hint, he continued working. “Actually, I have.”

      “Did they teach you that at the police academy?” She grinned to make up for her coolness. Prickly wasn’t her true nature. It was a learned response, the only way she could create the space and privacy necessary to function somewhat normally.

      He changed the head on his electric screwdriver. “Not quite. My father was an attorney, but he was raised by the most frugal individual on earth. Fortunately, he didn’t turn out to be quite as tightfisted as his old man, but he refused to hire anyone to fix what we could learn to fix for him. He believed boys should grow up to be self-reliant. And there were four of us, so he had a lot of ready labor.” He raised his voice to compensate for the hum of the screwdriver. “He’d find broken garbage disposals, toasters, fans—you name it—at the dump and haul them home just to make us fix them.”

      “What’d you do with those things after you got them working? Four boys could potentially fix quite a few toasters.”

      “We’d sell some.”

      She could picture him in a household of rough-and-tumble brothers. With his charm and energy, she guessed he’d be right in the thick of trouble. “And the others?”

      “We’d give them to the poor. Until I got into college, anyway. Then I was ‘the poor,’” he said with a chuckle. “I survived and paid my tuition by fixing various appliances. And cars. When I turned sixteen, my dad had a tow truck deliver an old clunker for me to rebuild. That was my birthday present.” He gave her the crooked smile that had half the women in Pineview swooning over him. “Now I love to tinker.”

      Trying not to be taken in by that smile, Vivian leaned against the edge of the table. “Is that what you do in your garage late at night?”

      She’d often seen the light seeping out from under his garage door. When she stepped onto the screened-in porch in the middle of a dark and silent night, she sometimes heard the whine of his power tools—even though quite a bit of space separated her home from his. Enough for two old sheds and a large garden, and that was just on her side. On his property, an expansive deck and party-type barbecue area took up most of the back and side yards. She’d never known him to use it, though—and she would’ve noticed since there was no fence. She was pretty sure he’d built it as a gift to his wife. She’d heard from Claire and the other women who liked to discuss the handsome sheriff that he’d finished it shortly before Amber Rose passed away, and then couldn’t bear to see it once she was gone.

      “I’m restoring an old Ducati,” he explained.

      “A Ducati’s a…car?” When he glanced at her, she couldn’t help wondering whether he liked her new haircut. He hadn’t mentioned it, despite the fact that it was now as short as his.

      “Motorcycle.”

      Briefly it occurred to her that Jake might have seen it. Was this one of the marvels that drew him next door?

      She didn’t ask, didn’t want to acknowledge her neighbor’s massive appeal to her nine-year-old, or all the manly activities and shared interests Myles could offer Jake that she could not. “How long does a project like that take?”

      “Depends. I’ve been at it for six months, but it should’ve been done already.” A dimple appeared in his cheek. “I haven’t made a concerted effort.”

      Maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe he was afraid to finish for fear there’d be nothing left to distract him during those lonely hours. Sometimes she’d slip out, hoping to hear him working so she’d know she wasn’t the only one walking the floor while the rest of the world slept. If he wasn’t in the garage, she’d occasionally spot him sitting on his porch, drinking a cup of coffee or tea. He’d stay there for some time, even in the dead of winter, staring into the inky blackness. She’d stay, too, until he went inside. She could feel the hole his wife’s death had left in his life, knew he missed Amber Rose. But Vivian was too attracted to him, and too afraid of where it might lead, to lend him more support than these secret vigils.

      “Are you almost done with it?” she asked.

      “Getting close.”

      “Will you keep it or sell it?”

      “Don’t know yet.”

      Vivian was about to bring up the murder, but he spoke before she could. “Are you glad you branched out on your own?”

      Cursing herself for not jumping in sooner, she forced a smile. “Definitely.”

      “Why’d you leave Coach?” He was on his hands and knees so he could reach whatever he needed in the motor.

      “I wanted more artistic freedom and control, and that meant establishing a separate brand.” She’d also had to quit, but she couldn’t tell him that. There was no way to keep her job and assume a new identity. “It’s a little lonely being such a small enterprise. I have only three employees who run my showroom in New York. But we’re starting to grow.”

      “Did you ever consider using your name, like so many other designers?”

      Which name? Certainly not her real one. She had to stay behind the scenes or run the risk of putting her life, not to mention her kids’ lives, in jeopardy. She had Colleen Turnbull, her most experienced employee, handle all media appearances. “No, to me Big Sky Bags lent itself to a certain look and a certain feel, which was more in keeping with the type of brand I was hoping to create.”

      He held up one part of whatever made her fridge work. It wasn’t the part she’d damaged, fortunately. “This fridge isn’t that old. I’m surprised it’s giving you trouble already.”

      Planning to place the blame on rats or precocious children once he diagnosed the problem, she mumbled something about having bought a lemon and got him a paper towel so could set the part on the floor.

      “How long have you been out on your own?” he asked.

      “Since forever.”

      When he twisted around to look at her, she wondered why she’d said that. He’d asked in regard to her business. But she was just so tired of having the same superficial conversations with everyone. She wanted to go deeper, to really talk to another human being—to talk to him—but she couldn’t. She had to watch herself even with Claire. She couldn’t trust anyone.

      “Care to elaborate on that?” His voice suggested he understood her desire to open up and welcomed the honesty, but she already knew she could say no more.

      “No. Sorry. It’s the wine.” She waved an apologetic hand. “I started Big Sky Bags the minute I moved here.”

      She could sense his reluctance СКАЧАТЬ