engines?”
“A little,” he said. “I’ll take a look.”
We dropped Jordan off at the hospital, and as she got out of the car, I reached out of the window to catch her sleeve. “Hey! Do you know the address of Jane’s new house?”
She smiled and gave it to me.
When I put it back in gear, the car stopped screaming as abruptly as it had started. “Do you mind if I run by the house and look in the windows?” I asked Malachi. “It’s not far.”
“Course not. Maybe while you’re looking in the windows, I’ll look under the hood.” He shifted. Even this old station wagon wasn’t really big enough for the length of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders.
“What do you drive when you aren’t on a motorcycle?” I asked.
He grinned at me. “A truck, sugar. What else?”
“Of course. A big one, too, I bet. A Ford.”
“Naturally.”
Easy to imagine him hanging his elbow out the window of some giant pickup. What else, indeed. Pulling into traffic toward the center of town, I pointed out a graceful, exquisitely maintained Victorian house. “A museum,” I said, even though he didn’t strike me as a museum kind of guy.
“Looks haunted.”
“Definitely. We used to have to go there a lot—with Girl Scouts or the church group or school—and after the first time, I had nightmares the night before I went back. Every time. My mama finally wrote me excuses.”
“She didn’t strike me as the type to let a girl off the hook like that.”
I stopped at a light, tapping my fingers on the wheel. “Don’t judge her by last night. She just worries about certain things. On the rest, she’s all right.”
A horn tooted next to us and I looked over to see my cousin George in a low slung sports car, looking clean and sweet-smelling in his polo shirt and sunglasses. I rolled the window down and he rolled down his. “Hey! How’s business, Rich Guy?”
“Not bad.” He lifted his perfectly cut chin toward Malachi. “How you doin’?”
Malachi nodded.
The light changed, but George didn’t move right away. “Call me, will you? Maybe there’s a catering job for you—Dante Alighieri Society.”
“Fantastic!” I blew him a kiss and waved, pulling out before the people behind us could honk, though usually people would give you a second unless they were out-of-towners. “Ah,” I said, thinking aloud. “If I could do a great job for Dante Alighieri, I’d be in like Flynn.”
Malachi chuckled. “Mixing the cultural metaphors there a bit, aren’t you?”
I grinned. Brighter than he looked. “Yeah, well, hang around awhile. It’s appropriate.” I took a big deep breath. “I’ve been working so hard to get new accounts. Now, if none of my dad’s old cronies are in Alighieri, I’ll be okay.”
“Good luck.”
The possibility of the job warmed me all the way across town. I deliberately went through town to show Malachi the nicer areas of the city, Union Avenue and the emerging River Walk, then through the old, wide streets behind Mesa Junction to the quiet block where Jane’s house was located. I pulled up beneath an ancient catalpa tree in front, the enormous heart-shaped leaves casting deep shade. Some people around town clipped them into lollipop trees, but the several around the Craftsman-style bungalow had all been allowed to attain their massive height. In the grass beneath them were snowy piles of popcorn-shaped flowers, and I kicked at them happily as I walked up to the front porch.
It surprised me that Jane had settled on an older home. I would have expected her to want a clean, neat ranch style, maybe freshly built in Pueblo West or in one of the small, new neighborhoods popping up all over the place.
But I approved the choice heartily. The gardens were neat and filled with the kind of perennials that let me know a passionate and long-term gardener had lived there—irises flanking the wall to choke out weeds, thick neat stands of exuberant coreopsis, clumps of pinks and daisies.
“A little,” he said. “I’ll take a look.”
We dropped Jordan off at the hospital, and as she got out of the car, I reached out of the window to catch her sleeve. “Hey! Do you know the address of Jane’s new house?”
She smiled and gave it to me.
When I put it back in gear, the car stopped screaming as abruptly as it had started. “Do you mind if I run by the house and look in the windows?” I asked Malachi. “It’s not far.”
“Course not. Maybe while you’re looking in the windows, I’ll look under the hood.” He shifted. Even this old station wagon wasn’t really big enough for the length of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders.
“What do you drive when you aren’t on a motorcycle?” I asked.
He grinned at me. “A truck, sugar. What else?”
“Of course. A big one, too, I bet. A Ford.”
“Naturally.”
Easy to imagine him hanging his elbow out the window of some giant pickup. What else, indeed. Pulling into traffic toward the center of town, I pointed out a graceful, exquisitely maintained Victorian house. “A museum,” I said, even though he didn’t strike me as a museum kind of guy.
“Looks haunted.”
“Definitely. We used to have to go there a lot—with Girl Scouts or the church group or school—and after the first time, I had nightmares the night before I went back. Every time. My mama finally wrote me excuses.”
“She didn’t strike me as the type to let a girl off the hook like that.”
I stopped at a light, tapping my fingers on the wheel. “Don’t judge her by last night. She just worries about certain things. On the rest, she’s all right.”
A horn tooted next to us and I looked over to see my cousin George in a low slung sports car, looking clean and sweet-smelling in his polo shirt and sunglasses. I rolled the window down and he rolled down his. “Hey! How’s business, Rich Guy?”
“Not bad.” He lifted his perfectly cut chin toward Malachi. “How you doin’?”
Malachi nodded.
The light changed, but George didn’t move right away. “Call me, will you? Maybe there’s a catering job for you—Dante Alighieri Society.”
“Fantastic!” I blew him a kiss and waved, pulling out before the people behind us could honk, though usually people would give you a second unless they were out-of-towners. “Ah,” I said, thinking aloud. “If I could do a great job for Dante Alighieri, I’d be in like Flynn.”
Malachi chuckled. “Mixing the cultural metaphors there a bit, aren’t you?”
I grinned. Brighter than he looked. “Yeah, well, hang around awhile. It’s appropriate.” I took a big deep breath. “I’ve been working so hard to get new accounts. Now, if none of my dad’s old cronies are in Alighieri, I’ll be okay.”
“Good luck.”
The possibility of the job warmed me all the way across town. I deliberately went through town to show Malachi the nicer areas of the city, Union Avenue and the emerging River Walk, then through the old, wide streets behind Mesa Junction to the quiet block where Jane’s house was located. I pulled up beneath an ancient catalpa tree in front, the enormous heart-shaped leaves casting deep shade. Some people around town clipped them into lollipop trees, but the several around the Craftsman-style bungalow had all been allowed to attain their massive height. In the grass beneath them were snowy piles of popcorn-shaped flowers, and I kicked at them happily as I walked up to the front porch.
It surprised me that Jane had settled on an older home. I would have expected her to want a clean, neat ranch style, maybe freshly built in Pueblo West or in one of the small, new neighborhoods popping up all over the place.
But I approved the choice heartily. The gardens were neat and filled with the kind of perennials that let me know a passionate and long-term gardener had lived there—irises flanking the wall to choke out weeds, thick neat stands of exuberant coreopsis, clumps of pinks and daisies.
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