Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(30)

Not since…

My eye starts to burn as I tear up. I blink it away.

“Ellie?” Jack says.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about my dad.”

My uncle leans over the counter and looks out the kitchen window into his backyard.

“I didn’t expect to outlive him, you know. I’m ten years older. I was supposed to go first. Not my little brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, squeezing my hand.

Uncle Rod stands up and lets out a rumbling sigh. “I don’t think it had anything to do with you, now. I think I need to call a friend of mine. First, let me show you around a bit, then it’ll be time you got going.”

When I stand up, I can’t stop myself before I let out a heroic belch. I grab my stomach and cover my mouth, but it’s too late. Jack laughs first, and my uncle joins in. I punch Jack’s arm and he rubs the spot where I hit him as if it hurts.

“Come on,” my uncle says.

He leads us through the kitchen into his den, a room as long as the whole house and about a third as wide. There are three desks covered with all sorts of stuff, a worktable set up for fishing flies, and so many books. He has a whole library, more books than I’ve ever seen in one place. I can’t help myself. I drift over to the bookcases. Jack follows me, standing close behind my shoulder.

It’s an eclectic collection. A lot of history books, novels, paperbacks, and hardbacks of all description. He must have every Stephen King novel and a bunch of weird books all together on one shelf by a guy named Aleister Crowley. I pull one down and flip through it. There are a bunch of geographic diagrams and drawings of weird monsters. I start to pull a book called Species of the Undead off the shelf, but Uncle Rod carefully slots it back into place.

“That’s an antique, that one. Need to be careful with it. I have something for you. Come on.”

The den opens into a workshop with a high ceiling. Over in the corner there’s a long car under a tarp; the rest is full of woodworking tools and workbenches. Rod scans the shelves, pulls down a wooden toy, and hands it to me.

“I made this for your thirteenth birthday, but I never got to give it to you.”

I take the doll in my hands. It’s cleverly articulated, with working joints that hold a pose. On its back is a pair of wings.

“What is this, an angel?”

“Yes.”

“It’s lovely.”

“I made something else every year and sent it, but I suppose you didn’t get them.”

“Did you make my rocking horse?”

“Yes, and your bed, too.”

“I remember my dad telling me that, now.”

The room smells like fresh-cut wood and glue, and oil. Rod moves over to the car and draws the tarp away with a flourish, piling it on the floor. Jack lets out a low whistle.

“Can you drive stick?” Rod says, turning to him.

“Yeah. I’m not sure we can take this, man.”

“Yeah, you can. It’s not mine, it’s Ellie’s. This was her grandfather’s car, then her dad’s.”

“I don’t remember it.”

He sighs. “Your mother made him get rid of it,” he says with a twist of disdain in his voice. “He couldn’t bear to let it leave the family, so he brought it here for me to take care of. I take it out for a drive now and then, change the oil, check it over and do any maintenance it needs.”

It’s beautiful, a rich black polished to a mirror shine. I lightly run my hand over the sweeping fenders. “I don’t know anything about cars. What is this?”

“It’s a ’68 Corvette Stingray,” Jack says before my uncle can answer.

“Close, she’s a ’69. This was our father’s car. He ordered her with a 454 and a rock crusher.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask.

“It’s got a big engine,” Jack says.

I roll my eye at him. “Thanks.”

“You asked.”

“I never had much taste in cars. I’m more of a house person. She’s a beauty, though.”

“So this was my grandpa’s car?”

“Yes. Shame you never met him.” He turns to Jack. “You wreck this thing and I’ll f*cking kill you.”

Jack flinches and blinks. Then he says, “Yeah, you know what? I’d deserve it. Are you sure—”

“I need my truck and it’s not mine anyway. Maybe one day, Ellie, you’ll learn to drive her.”

“Her?”

“It’s a guy thing,” Jack says.

I snort.

“Give me your keys and I’ll pull your Camaro in here and keep an eye on it while you’re gone. I’ll put the cover on.”

Jack fishes his key out of his pocket and hands it over without ever taking his eyes off the car.

“Are you sure about this?” he says again.

“Sure enough. Go on. You two need to get going.”

He walks over to a switch that raises the garage door. It rumbles upward as I open the door and step into the car. Jack stands with my uncle outside, talking. He ends up giving Jack a bundle of clothes, all my dad’s old stuff. Jack puts on my father’s old leather jacket before he gets in the car.

It smells new in here. Everything looks like it just rolled off the assembly line. Even the little switches in the dashboard are shiny.