Deck the Halls
The good-looking ones were always like that, thought they had a right to the whole world just because they were easy on the eyes. He was easier than most, with that pitch-black hair, lazy, blue-gray eyes, square jaw and dimples. More polite than most, too.
He had immediately apologized yesterday for invading her space, but her heart had been slamming against her rib cage so violently that she hadn’t found enough air to reply. Then embarrassment had taken over, and she’d mulishly let him stand there and wheedle until he’d given up and gone away.
Actually, he seemed harmless enough. Now.
The day before when she’d looked up and found him standing there in the middle of her apartment as if sizing up the joint, he’d appeared eight feet tall and hulking. Today, of course, he’d been his usual six-foot—or thereabout—self. She hadn’t imagined those broad shoulders and bulging biceps, though, or the slim hips and long legs. The truth was, she had panicked, which wasn’t like her, but then she didn’t know what she was like anymore. Nothing was as it had been. Without Russell.
She pushed away thoughts of her nephew, rapidly blinking against a fresh onslaught of tears.
This was getting to be a habit. She’d be okay for a while, and then something would remind her of that sweet baby face, that milky, gap-toothed smile and little hands that grasped so trustingly, coiling themselves in her hair and shirt. The loss still devastated her. More, it made her angry, at herself as much as at her sister and brother.
She should never have let herself love little Russ so completely. She should have treated him as nothing more than a foster child, his presence in her life temporary at best. After all, she knew only too well how the game was played. Ten years of experience on one side of that equation should have prepared her better for the other.
Oh, she had been placed with foster families who had truly tried to make her feel a part of the group, but she had always known that it would end. Something would happen, and she would be on her way again, shuffling from one home to another with heart-numbing regularity.
Somehow, though, she hadn’t let herself think that it could happen with Russell. When Connie had first gone to prison, pregnant and unwed, she had talked about giving up her child for adoption. Then, after his birth, when she’d asked Jolie to take him and give him a good home, saying that he ought to be with family, Jolie had seen her opportunity to really have someone of her own.
She and Connie had never discussed what would happen after Connie got out. For one thing, Jolie had never dreamed that a judge would actually hand over the child whom she had raised as her own to her misguided younger sister, no matter that said sister had given birth to him. It wasn’t fair, and to have their adored big brother Marcus side with Connie had been the unkindest cut of all.
Jolie was still grieving, but she supposed that was to be expected. It had only been days since she’d last seen him, eleven days, two hours, in fact. She could know how many minutes if she was foolish enough to check her watch, which she wasn’t. Of course she was still grieving. She’d grieved her mother’s absence for years, until she’d found out that Velma Wheeler was dead. Strangely enough, knowing that her mother had died was easier than believing that her mother had simply abandoned her children to the uncertain kindness of strangers.
Jolie shook her head and willed away the tears that had spilled from her eyes, telling herself that she would get on top of this latest loss. She’d had lots of practice.
Reaching for the roses, she slid them from their plastic cone and began arranging them in their makeshift vase. She did not realize, as the pleasing design began to take shape, that she made it happen with an innate, God-given ability which those lacking it would surely treasure.
Never once in her entire life had she ever imagined that anyone could admire or envy anything about her.
Chapter Two
Jolie picked up the two small rectangles of heavy paper from the counter top and studied them again, each in turn. One was the fifty-percent-off coupon that Vince Cutler had explained to her. The other promised a free tow. She wondered again what the catch might be, but she wasn’t likely to find out until she had need of the services offered. And the need was very likely to arise.
Her old jalopy was a garage bill waiting to happen. The thing had been coughing and gasping like an emphysema patient lately. She’d literally held her breath all the way to work this morning.
If the dry cleaners where she was employed had been situated just a little closer to the new apartment, she’d have walked it every day just to save wear and tear on the old donkey cart, but five miles coming and going on a daily basis was a bit more than she could manage, especially with the evening temperatures hovering in the thirties. Just to be on the safe side, Jolie tucked the coupons into her wallet—never know when they might come in handy—before going back to the ironing with which she augmented her meager income.
Since the death of his wife, Mr. Geopp, owner and operator of the small, independent dry cleaners where she’d worked for the past six years, had chosen to outsource the delicate work rather than invest in the new machines that could handle it properly, and he’d stopped taking in alterations and regular laundry altogether.
One day, Jolie mused, Geopp would retire, and then what would she do? Her heart wasn’t exactly in dry cleaning, but she didn’t seem to possess a single exploitable talent. It was a familiar worry that she routinely shoved aside.
With the tip of one finger, she checked the temperature of the pressing plate, judged it sufficiently cooled not to damage the delicate silk blouse positioned on the padded board and carefully began removing the wrinkles from the fabric. Her mind wandered back to the coupons.
If she took in her car for an estimate, would she see Vince Cutler again?
She glanced ruefully at the flowers he had given her. They were a pretty pathetic sight now. The buds had opened and half the petals had fallen, but she couldn’t bring herself to toss them just yet. Not that she was harboring any secret romantic fantasies about Vincent Cutler. She wasn’t in the market, no matter how good-looking he was, and he was plenty good-looking. Why, the only thing that saved the man from being downright beautiful was the little hump on the bridge of his nose.
She couldn’t help wondering how his nose had been broken, then she scolded herself for even thinking about him. Vince Cutler was nothing to her, and she intended to keep it that way. Secondhand experience had taught Jolie that romantic entanglements were more trouble than they were worth.
Her mom had been big on romance, and all that had gotten her was three kids by three different men, none of whom they could even remember. Still, every time some yahoo had crooked his finger at Velma Wheeler she’d followed him off on whatever wild escapade he’d proposed, often leaving her children to fend for themselves until she returned.
Sometimes they were out of food and living in the dark with the utilities shut off when she’d finally remember that she had a family. One day she simply hadn’t returned at all, and eventually Child Welfare had stepped in to cart Jolie and her siblings off to foster care.
For years Jolie had harbored the secret fantasy that her mother would come back a changed woman, determined to reunite their scattered family, all the while knowing that Velma would have had to learn to care for them a great deal more in her absence than she ever had while present. Then one day Jolie had been told that her mother had died in a drunk-driving accident and been buried in a pauper’s grave somewhere in Nevada. A simple typographical error had resulted in the misspelling of her name and an incorrect filing of records. Her mother had been gone four years by that time.
With Velma as their lesson, Jolie and her sister Connie had sworn that they would not go from man to man. Then Connie had somehow settled on that jerk Kennard and doggedly refused to give up on him. Jolie understood that Connie had feared being a serial loser just like their mom, but only after Kennard had gone to prison for the rest of his life, taking a pregnant Connie along with him, did she turn away from him. Of course, Connie had claimed that she hadn’t even known that an armed robbery was being committed that day, let alone a murder, despite the fact that she had been sitting in front of the bank in a running car.
Jolie had been inclined to believe Connie at the time. Now she just didn’t know.
Maybe if Connie had made a better choice than Kennard…but then, Jolie reminded herself, she wouldn’t have had Russell. It was worth any hardship to have a little boy like that. Wasn’t it?
Jolie shook her head. Thinking that way could get a girl in trouble. Better just to go it alone.
Jolie had learned that lesson the hard way after the authorities had split up her and her siblings when sending them into foster care. At first she and Connie had been placed together, but that hadn’t lasted for very long.
Oh, they’d maintained contact. The department was good about that sort of thing. But the years had taken their toll. Jolie had been nine, Marcus only a year older and Connie just seven when their mom had disappeared.
Two decades later, Jolie was again alone.
With Russell to fill her days and nights and heart, it had seemed that she had family again, but only for a little while. Now all she had was a pile of other people’s clothing to iron and a single room with a private bath to call her own—so long as she could pay the rent.
That thought sent her back to the job at hand, and for a time she lost herself in the careful placement and smoothing of one garment after another. Funny how you could take pride in something so small and insignificant as smoothing wrinkled cloth, but a girl had to get her satisfaction where she could.
“Come on, baby, just a little farther.”
Jolie patted the cracked black dash encouragingly, but the little car sputtered and wheezed with alarming defiance. Then it gave a final paroxysm of shudders and simply stopped, right in the middle of rush-hour traffic.
“Blast!”
Someone behind her did just that with a car horn.
“All right, already!” she yelled, strong-arming the steering wheel as far to the right as she could. The car came to a rolling halt against the curb.
Tires screeched behind her. Another horn honked, and then an engine gunned. A pickup truck flew by with just inches to spare. Jolie flinched, put the transmission in Neutral and cranked the starter, begging for a break. The engine turned over, coughed and died again. The second time, the engine barely rumbled, and on the third it didn’t do that much. By the fifth or sixth try, the starter clicked to let her know that it was getting the message but that the engine was ignoring its entreaties entirely. Jolie gave up, knowing that the next step was to get out and raise the hood.
She didn’t dare try to exit the car on the driver’s side. Instead, she turned on her hazard lights, put the standard transmission in first gear, set the parking brake and released her safety belt to climb across the narrow center console and the passenger seat to the other door. Stepping out on the grassy verge between the curb and the sidewalk, she tossed her ponytail off one shoulder and kicked the front wheel of the car in a fit of pique. Pain exploded in her big toe.
Biting her tongue, she limped around to the front end of the car to lift the hood and make her situation even more visible to the traffic passing on the busy street. After that, all she could do was plop down on the stiff brown grass to wait for someone to come along and offer to help as there was no place around from which to make a telephone call. Looked like she might be trying out those coupons from Cutler Automotive sooner rather than later. Provided someone with a telephone stopped.
More than half an hour had passed and her toe had stopped aching before a Fort Worth traffic cop pulled up behind her aged coupe, lights flashing. Traffic moved into the inside lane to accommodate him as he opened his door and got out. He strolled over to Jolie, a beefy African-American with one hand on his holster and the other on his night stick.
“Ma’am,” he said pleasantly, “you can’t leave your car here like this.”
“Sir,” Jolie replied with saccharine sweetness, “I can’t get the thing to move.”
He rubbed his chin and asked, “Anyone you can call?”
“Could if I had a phone.”
He removed a cell phone from his belt and showed it to her. Heaving herself to her feet, she walked over to the car to take her wallet from the center console. Pulling out the coupon from Cutler Automotive, she handed it to him. Nodding, he punched in the number and passed her the phone.
The number rang just twice before a voice answered.
“Cutler Automotive. This is Vince. How can I help you?”
Vince. She swallowed and shifted her weight. “This is Jolie Wheeler.”
“Well, hello, Jolie Wheeler. Have you got mail for me?”
“Nope. I’ve got a coupon for a free tow.”
“A free tow?”
“That’s what it says. Any problem with that?”
“No, ma’am. Where are you?”
She told him, and he said he’d be right there before hanging up. She handed the phone back to the officer and thanked him. He nodded and turned to watch the passing traffic, trying to make small talk. They’d covered how the car had been acting and where she was going and where she’d been and the state of disrepair of the Fort Worth streets by the time the white wrecker, lights flashing, swung to the curb in front of her crippled car.
Vince bailed out with hardly a pause, and Jolie’s heart did a strange little kick inside her chest. Then he walked straight to the grinning cop, ignoring her completely.
“Jacob,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand.
The policeman smiled broadly and clapped Vince on the shoulder. “How you doing, my man?”
“Staying busy. How’re you?”
“Likewise, only with very little sleep.”
“New baby keeping you up nights?” Vince asked, flashing his dimples.
It was at this point that Jolie folded her arms, feeling very much on the outside looking in.
“Oh, man, is he ever!” came the ardent reply. “Rascal’s got a set of lungs on him, too, let me tell you.”
“Well, he sure didn’t get those from his soft-spoken mama,” Vince said with a grin.
“Soft-spoken?” Jacob the cop echoed disbelievingly. “Soft-spoken? My Callie? Man, you know better than that. You’ve sat in front of her at a football game.”
Vince just grinned wider. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”
“Not unless you want to attend my funeral.” Both men laughed and back-slapped each other before Jacob moved off toward his patrol car. “You’re in good hands now, ma’am,” he called jovially to Jolie as he sauntered back to his vehicle.
Vince shook his head, still chuckling, and parked his hands at his waist, striking a nonchalant pose before finally turning to Jolie.
“Well, I’m glad you got a nice visit out of this,” she said sarcastically.
Vince Cutler arched his brows, but his smile stayed firmly in place. “Jacob and I attend the same church, but because of his schedule we don’t often get to the same service, so I’m glad to have seen him. Now, what’s the problem with your car?”
She threw up her hands, disliking the fact that he’d made her feel glad, jealous and petty all in the space of a few minutes.
“How would I know? The hateful thing quit, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” He stepped up to the bumper and looked over the engine. Gingerly, he wiped a forefinger across one surface and rubbed it against his thumb. “No oily emission.”
“Is that good?” she asked anxiously, her concern about her transportation momentarily overcoming all else.
“It’s not bad.”
Whatever that meant.
She flattened her lips and tried to see what he saw as he leaned forward and fingered first one part and then another, poking and prodding at hoses and wires and other unnameable organs. Finally he turned to lean a hip against the fender.
“So what happened, exactly, before it quit running?”
She pushed a hand through her bangs, tugged at her ponytail and sucked in a deep breath, trying to remember exactly. Finally she began to talk about how the car had been coughing and sputtering by fits and starts lately and how the dash lights had blinked off from time to time.
He listened with obvious attention, then asked, “Any backfiring?”
She considered. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay.” Pushing away from the car, he moved toward the driver’s door. “Keys in the ignition?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door and folded himself into the seat behind the wheel. The starter clicked for several seconds then stopped.
Vince spent a few moments looking at the gauges on the dashboard, then he got out and walked back to the wrecker, returning quickly with a small tool box and a thick, quilted cloth, which he spread on the fender before placing the tool box atop it. He opened the box and extracted a strange gizmo that resembled a calculator with wires attached, which he carried back into the car with him.
Jolie walked around to the passenger window and looked in while he wedged himself under the dash and began pulling down wires. He separated several little plastic clips and attached leads from the gizmo to them, then he studied the tiny screen before turning the ignition key on and off several times in rapid succession.
“What is that thing?” Jolie asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“I call it my truth-teller.”
“Oh, they sell truth at mechanic’s school, do they?”
“They sure do,” he drawled, ignoring her sarcastic tone.
“That’s not what I heard.”
“You heard wrong, then.”
He removed the leads, reconnected the clips and tucked everything back up under the dash. Then he rose and carried his equipment around to the front of the car again. Jolie joined him there, more curious than ever. He didn’t keep her waiting.
“You’ve got a sensor going out, and I’d guess that the alternator needs to be rebuilt, too.”
Dismay slammed through her. She covered it by rolling her eyes. “And what’s that going to cost?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say without checking a parts list.”
“More than a hundred?”
“Oh, yeah. Plus, you’ve got half a dozen hoses ready to spring leaks and at least one cracked battery mount that I can see. That’ll have to be replaced before your next inspection. And if I were you, I’d have the timing chain checked.”
She caught her breath, stomach roiling. How would she ever pay for all that? she wondered sickly.
“I’ve reset the sensor,” he went on, “so it should behave for a little while, and I’ll give you a jump to get you started, but you really ought to bring the car in soon as you can because this will happen again. Just a matter of time.”
Jolie bit her lip. Maybe he was just shilling for the garage. Maybe this would be all it took. Whatever, she had zero intention of taking the car in for repairs until she had no other option. She folded her arms again as he went back to the wrecker and returned with what looked like a battery on wheels.
“How much is today going to cost?” she wanted to know, not that she had much choice at the moment.
“This? Nada.”
Jolie blinked. “Nothing?”
“I can charge you if you want,” he said, mouth quirking at the corners.
She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
He smiled knowingly, dimples wrinkling his lean cheeks. “Okay, then.”
With that he got busy hooking up everything. Finally he got in and started her car. The engine fired right off and settled into its usual, uneven rumble. Jolie almost dropped with relief.
“Thank goodness.”
He started disconnecting and packing away gear.
As he dropped the hood, she lost a short battle with herself and asked, “You won’t get in trouble with your boss, will you? For not charging me, I mean.”
Vince wiped his hands purposefully on a red cloth that he’d pulled from his hip pocket, holding her gaze.
“No problems there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Jolie, I am the boss.”
She felt a tiny shock, but she’d practiced nonchalance so long that it came easily to her.
“Well, if you say so.”
He folded the cloth and stuffed it back into his pocket with short, swift movements, saying, “Fact is, I own and operate three garages.”
She blinked, impressed, but of course that would never do.
“All by yourself?” she quipped blandly.
He chuckled. “Not exactly. I have twenty-two employees, not counting the outsourcing, of course.”
“Outsourcing,” she echoed dully.
“Um-hm, bookkeeping, billing, that sort of thing.”
“Ah.”
And here she’d figured him for a regular joe. Just goes to show you, she thought, eying his dusky-blue uniform with reluctant new interest.
“If you call the shop tomorrow,” he told her casually, “I can work you in.” She lifted her eyebrows skeptically, and he went on, prodding ever so gently. “You really ought to have that work done.”
Now she knew it was a scam. Soften up the mark with a little freebie, make her think you’re as honest as the day is long, then get her in the shop and soak her good. Resetting that sensor was probably all the car had ever needed.
“We’ll see.”
“Okay,” he said lightly. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Oh, really?” She tilted her head, studying him for signs of dishonesty. Had he somehow sabotaged her car so that she’d have to bring it to his shop?
He glanced away pointedly, his sculpted mouth thinning. “You know, not everyone in the automotive-repair business is a crook. In fact, despite our reputation for rip-offs, most mechanics are honest and highly trained.”
To her absolute disgust, color stained her cheeks. “I didn’t say you were a crook.”
He just looked at her, his smoky-blue eyes flat as stone. “No, but you were thinking it.”
Her chin rose defensively. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”
“Don’t I?”
He just stood there, staring at her, until she suddenly realized what he was waiting for. Her hauteur wilted in a pool of mortification. Still, she wasn’t about to apologize.
“Okay, maybe I was thinking it, but you don’t know how often someone like me gets ripped off.”
“Someone like you?” he echoed uncertainly. “And what makes you so different from the rest of us?”
“I’m a single woman, for one thing.”
His expression grew suspiciously bland. “I had noticed that.”
“And I don’t have a lot of money for another,” she snapped, trying to offset the little thrill that his droll comment had produced.
“I would think that would make you less of a target for the unscrupulous, frankly,” he said calmly.
Bitterly, she shook her head. “You would think wrong.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She gulped at the sincere tone of his voice. “The thing is, I don’t know enough about cars to guard against getting ripped off.”
“You could learn,” he suggested lightly. It sounded almost like an invitation.
She looked down at her toes. “I doubt that. I’m not the mechanical type.”
“Just the suspicious type,” he countered dryly.
Rolling her eyes up, she met his gaze. “I have reason to be.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, his voice softening, “but I know this. You have nothing to fear from me, Jolie Kay Wheeler. On any score. Ever.”
Now what could she say to that? Apparently he didn’t expect a reply, for he started toward the wrecker.
“Well, you try to have a good evening.”
“Yeah, you, too,” she grumbled, disliking the mishmash of feelings that swamped her.
He flipped her a wave, climbed into the truck and drove off, leaving her standing there in the gathering twilight like some oversized, ponytailed traffic cone. Glancing around self-consciously, she made her way to the driver’s seat of her little car and dropped down into it.