Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ pity party. “Brittany, my dear, can I book you for a hair appointment?”

      Brit surveyed her work. Mrs. Claus looked much less frazzled. “If you’re serious about going red...”

      “I am. Book me. Now, please.”

      “Rose, what’s the rush?” Agnes picked up a can of shaving cream that was so old it’d rusted on the bottom.

      Rose nodded toward the window. Brit glanced over her shoulder, and then turned completely around.

      Several cars were parking outside. White-haired ladies tumbled out like sea foam on a slow-cresting wave.

      “Are they all coming here?” Brit asked. There must have been a dozen of them.

      Another car pulled up, just as full as the others. The barbershop tide had turned.

      “Word must have gotten out.” Agnes dumped the shaving cream in the trash. “We haven’t had a beautician in town since Minna’s closed.”

      “She ran a salon out of her garage. Drafty as all get-out.” Mildred patted her hair gingerly. “She died about eight years ago.”

      “Tuesday morning,” Rose whispered urgently to Brit. “Nine thirty.”

      “Okay.” Brit hurried to her station, flipped open her appointment book and penciled Rose in.

      And then the wave hit.

      “Do you offer perms?”

      “Will you be doing nails?”

      “I’d like a wet set and tease.”

      In no time, she’d taken a full week’s worth of appointments. Had she thought she’d only work half days? She’d barely have time for a BMW reconnaissance, much less setting up a workshop at Grandpa Phil’s.

      It’s only the first week. The excitement will wear off, she told herself.

      Trying not to listen when a small, fearful voice inside hoped it might be.

      * * *

      “WE DON’T LOOK like we’re open for business.” Sam crossed her skinny arms over her skinny chest and gave her best impression of teenage contempt. “With all the dust and grime and cobwebs, we could film a horror movie in here.”

      Joe kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself.

      The horror had begun a month ago when the FBI confronted him outside a diner on his lunch hour. They were building a case against Uncle Turo for a number of things, including accepting stolen property, money laundering and racketeering. Did Joe know anything?

      Joe hadn’t. Not until the two feds started talking. Then his brain had shifted into overdrive, putting together pieces that seemed innocent and random before. People bringing in cars that no longer ran and receiving cash. Guys trading motorcycles for engine work on street racers. Cars sold “on consignment” for unknown clients. He hadn’t paid much attention. He was too busy working and raising Sam to realize his uncle was a crook.

      Which was why when they’d asked Joe if he knew where Turo kept numerous stolen cars, he’d been unable to answer. He didn’t know.

      “You can cooperate,” Federal Agent Haas had said, not believing Joe was that naive. “Or we can bring you up on charges of obstruction of justice and send you to prison for five to ten years.” He’d handed Joe his business card. “Oh, and by the way, I love your daughter’s softball swing.”

      The FBI had been watching his daughter?

      Joe hadn’t been able to speak. He’d sat in his pickup for several minutes before he trusted himself to drive. He wanted to call Vince and Gabe and ask for their advice, but he already knew what he’d have to do. There was only one way to ensure Sam wouldn’t lose another parent. Sell out Uncle Turo to the feds in a sting operation.

      The horror continued. The garage doors were open, but not even the breeze could clear out the dank smell. Grime. Dust. Long-neglected tools hanging from hooks attached to pegboard on the walls. The wooden shelves were strewn with odds and ends. The workbench was brown, warped Formica. An ancient tow truck sat on deflated tires in one of the two service bays.

      It was a far cry from the clean chrome fixtures of Messina’s Garage in Beverly Hills. Soon Joe would be working on junkers, not Jaguars; beaters, not Bentleys. But what choice did he have? After Turo was arrested and his assets frozen—including the bungalow Joe and Sam had lived in—Joe had to put food on the table somehow.

      “Give it until Monday,” Joe said. “Word will get out and cars in the bays will change things.”

      Sam sighed with her entire body. “Can’t we hire someone to make the garage presentable? At the old garage—”

      “I was an employee.” Joe spoke evenly, trying to keep weeks of fear and anger from his tone—none of which was directed at his daughter. “I was hired to fix cars, but had no say in how the garage was run.” Or in which laws Uncle Turo decided to break.

      “Uncle Turo...” Sam hesitated. She knew Uncle Turo had been arrested, but didn’t know why. She came to stand in the midst of the empty service bay. Almost in the exact spot Joe had been the day Uncle Turo had come to town after Joe’s mother left. Sam worked her lips mulishly. “Uncle Turo—”

      “Uncle Turo...” Joe glanced out the open doors, half expecting to hear a motorcycle rumble or explosive laughter heralding Turo’s approach.

      The only sound was a bird. It chirped and tweeted and sang like this was the best day on the planet.

      That bird was so wrong.

      Maybe he should listen to that voicemail he’d gotten earlier, the one left by the caller with the “Jailhouse Rock” ringtone.

      Or maybe not.

      “Uncle Turo isn’t here to give you a free pass.” Joe yanked a broom from its cobwebbed cupboard in the corner and began knocking down the thick tendrils that hung from the ceiling.

      Thunder rolled in the distance. No. Not thunder. It was a motorcycle engine.

      The hair on the back of Joe’s neck rose.

      “Uncle Turo! I knew he’d come to bring us home.” Sam ran into the parking lot.

      It couldn’t be. Turo was locked up in the LA County jail, awaiting trial. Bail had been denied.

      The sound of the engine came closer, silencing the bird. Joe could relate. He couldn’t speak either. His throat was thick with damn yous and thank Gods.

      It took him a moment to register the cadence of the bike. It wasn’t the untamed, throaty grumble of a Harley. It wasn’t the deep, refined rumble of an Indian. It was the high-pitched whine of a small bike. Economical. Down-market.

      Joe lowered the broom and turned, not to see who it was, but to register Sam’s disappointment.

      He saw it in the slow slide of her innocent shoulders. The leaden creep of her arms around her broken СКАЧАТЬ