The Chance (Thunder Point #4)(11)

“Great,” Gina said. “But you’re still living in a motel, not dating. We have to take care of that. You need a decent place to live and a woman.”

Eric drank the last of his coffee, stood, put a twenty on the counter and said, “Extra big tip, Gina, with thanks for the excellent advice.” Although she was laughing as he left the diner, he was thinking, I’m going to have to learn to like fast food. She’s killing me! She’s nosier than a sister!

But he also thought, I could really use some leveling. Some mellowing.

Three

Laine brought her midsize SUV to Eric on Tuesday, the day after they talked. It was a new model and in excellent condition. If he subtracted the cross-country miles from the odometer, she’d only put a few thousand miles on it in a year. Ordinarily he’d have Norm or Manny service the vehicle, but he did it. He found nothing wrong with the car, so he washed and detailed it. Himself.

Eric had four employees. Norm, who had sold him the station, was trying to avoid going on cruises and Elderhostel trips with his wife, so he kept working. No doubt he told the missus it was absolutely necessary to help out during this ownership transition, but he was more honest with Eric—he wanted to unload the station and put the money in the bank but he wasn’t quite ready to indulge in retirement activities that sounded like sheer torture to him. Nor could he fathom spending day after day with his wife.

Manny had come with Eric from Eugene after Eric sold his body shop there. Manny was a good friend from way back and had a wife and a passel of kids. Howie had worked part-time for Norm, was about the same age, didn’t do much—if any—mechanical repairs and the two of them gossiped, drank a lot of coffee and pumped a lot of gas. From the look of the place when Eric took over, neither one of them ever pushed a broom or applied a rag to windows or other surfaces. Both of them might quit before too long because if there was one thing Eric hated it was a dirty shop. Classic car collectors especially liked the garage to look like an operating room. He pushed both of those old boys hard.

And then there was Justin Russell, a lanky, moody seventeen-year-old, who was either troubled or very shy and reminded Eric of himself at that age. Eric suspected he’d hired Justin out of some desire to groom him. It was almost like some sort of psychological experiment, as though by straightening Justin out he could make up for his own delinquent youth. So far that wasn’t happening. But Eric was, if anything, stubborn.

Justin worked hard, had good hands under the hood and remarkable instincts for a kid who hadn’t tinkered with engines much.

Eric went into the bathroom, scrubbed his hands, swiped water over his face for good measure, rinsed his mouth and gave the mirror over the sink a shot of glass cleaner. He wiped out the sink with the paper towel he’d used to dry his hands. Then he appraised himself in the mirror. He had taken off his coveralls and was wearing a mechanic’s uniform—dark blue pants, light blue shirt, Lucky’s sewn onto the shirt. His name was embroidered on the pocket. He’d opted for the new business name since he’d been feeling pretty lucky. There was a part of him that wished he were dressed as a civilian, but this was who he was—a mechanic, a body man. His uniform was clean—he always donned a jumpsuit over his clothes when he got into or under a car engine. His hands were clean, even under the nails.

And then he found Manny and said, “I’m going to deliver a car. I won’t be gone long.”

“Yeah, boss.”

He drove the few short blocks to Laine’s house. He turned off the car. He had her cell phone number and called it from the driveway. “Is this a convenient time to drop off your car?” he asked.

“You don’t have to drop it off,” she said. “I’ll come and get it in an hour or so.”

“Ah, I’m in your driveway,” he said. “If I can just leave the key fob somewhere, we can settle up when it’s convenient.” She didn’t say anything and he waited. “Laine?” he asked. And then he watched as the front door opened and she walked outside, an astonished look on her face. She was dressed the same way as when he’d seen her other times in the diner—yoga pants, heavy short-sleeved sweatshirt over a long-sleeved T-shirt, tennis shoes, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looked like a young girl. A very pretty young girl.

Eric got out of the car and handed over the key fob. He pulled out a receipt from the inside pocket of his jacket. “We serviced the brakes, changed the oil, gave it a lube, rotated the tires and I checked over everything. You’re in very good shape, no surprises. I’d recommend service checks regularly, which depends on how much driving you do. Your car is well cared for.”

“You should’ve just called me,” she said. “I would have come for it.”

“No problem. I was happy to bring it over.”

“But I was going to use plastic to pay for it.”

He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket. “You can do that now if you want to or you can come by the shop another time.” He popped an attachment for scanning onto his phone. “Whatever works for you.”

“I didn’t expect you to get to it today,” she said, obviously still surprised.

“We weren’t busy. But there’s no rush on—”

“No, I can pay you now. Come inside, Eric.”

“I don’t mind waiting....”