LITMIR.BIZ

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turned her head. Her Blazer, the sun glinting off its maroon roof, stopped in front of the shop. A young man climbed from the driver’s side.

      “G’morning,” she called.

      He gave a short wave and came around the hood as she went down the steps. They met at the gate. “You people work fast.” The name Tristan and The Garage Center were stitched in orange above the left pocket of his jade coveralls.

      “Yep.” Under a Red Sox ball cap, the boy—no more than eighteen—grinned. “Bill opens at seven.”

      Breena studied the truck. “Does he always deliver?”

      “It’s policy,” Tristan said with pride, “if we can’t give the owner a courtesy vehicle.”

      Possibly it was more Seth Tucker’s policy, but she wasn’t about to argue the fact. She took the clipboard the boy offered. “What was wrong with it?”

      “Busted fanbelt.”

      She checked the total at the bottom of the page and her mouth opened, then closed. In the city, the tow alone would cost triple. “Did Mr. Tucker have anything to do with this?”

      “Uh…which Mr. Tucker?”

      “Seth. Seth Tucker.” She held out the form, pointed to the low figure. “Did he have anything to do with this?”

      “Don’t think so, ma’am.” Tristan’s forehead scrunched. “Bill’s the one did the tallying. Is there a mistake?”

      None. None at all. “I haven’t had such—” Generosity? Decency? “—a nice surprise in a while.”

      The teenager spruced his shoulders. “Glad we were of service.”

      “Would you like to come in while I write out a check?”

      “Hey, sure.” A wide grin.

      Inside, she offered him coffee. He declined the brew but chose one of her home-baked sugar cookies sitting in a pretty clothed basket beside the till. One of her alms to the store.

      “Nice place,” he called when she hurried to the back room for her checkbook.

      “This your first time here?”

      “Yep. Never had the need before.”

      She signed the order copy and the check while Tristan remained rooted to the welcome mat as if walking across the floor in workboots would sully the varnish on the planks. She returned his clipboard. “Can I give you a lift back to the shop?”

      “Nah. We’re just around the corner a ways. I’ll jog.”

      Just around the corner. In a town of a thousand, a forty-minute walk encompassed the entire municipality. Friends and neighbors, greeting each other at every corner.

      They stepped back into the sunshine.

      “It was nice meeting you Miss—”

      “Hey, there, Tristan.”

      The boy turned. His smile faded. “Hi, Mr. Owens.”

      Pot belly leading the way, Delwood Owens swaggered across the street. “Truck’s all fixed, I see.” Pursing his lips, he sized up the vehicle. Eyed Breena. “Saw Seth bring you home last night.”

      What else is new? Old turd likely had an astronomy telescope on his bedroom balcony. “Yes,” she said. “He did.”

      “Know him well, do you?”

      She clamped her tongue.

      Owens went on, “Upstandin’ citizen, Seth is. Damn hard worker. Has a wife.”

      A wife. Of course he has a wife.

      “Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea, know what I mean?”

      “No, Mr. Owens, I don’t know what you mean.” He knew she lived in the rear rooms of the shop, had seen her coming and going for over three weeks. If he wanted to mark her as Misty River’s streetwalker, she’d deal with it. But he had no right to smear Seth in the process. “My truck broke down and Seth was the gentleman who saw me home safely. That’s all.”

      Owens thrust out thick lips. “Wanted to make sure you knew.”

      Liar. You thought I’d gasp and sputter at your news.

      So Seth Tucker had given her a ride home. So he had a wife. He and every man on the planet did not interest her. In the least. “Would you excuse me, I have a shop to open. Take care, Tristan.” Careful of the walkway’s heaves and gouges, she headed for the porch.

      “Um, Miss?” Behind her, the gate creaked. “You forgot your keys.” Tristan trotted back up the walk.

      “Oh.” She felt like an idiot.

      Owens walked around her truck, the veritable car dealer he was. Tristan glowered at the man. “Don’t pay him no mind, ma’am,” he murmured. “He used to be Seth’s father-in-law. Guess he figures he’s still got a say in his life.”

      Used to be. “Thanks, Tristan. Seth seems like an honorable man. He doesn’t need to be humiliated by gossip because of me.”

      The boy’s eyes widened. “Never, ma’am. You’re like—you’re a lady.” He blushed. “And the gossip, well, it’s ’cause you’re new and—-and sort of a hottie. For an older woman. I mean…” Deeper blushing. “Oh, hell.”

      “An old hottie, huh?”

      “Sorry. Junk tends to come out of my mouth.”

      “No,” she said, grinning. “I like it.”

      “You do?”

      “Hey, I’d rather be an old hottie than an old hag.” She patted his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Tristan.”

      “Same here, Ms. Quinlan.” He secured the cap on his head, nodded. “You take care now.”

      “I will.”

      Humming, she went up the porch steps. The morning held favor after all.

      With a Cape Cod roofline, the small house Delwood Owens had bought for his daughter when she’d married Seth—then had rented out when she moved to Eugene—appeared the same. Tiny yard, overgrown shrubs, flowers that needed winterizing. Melody was no gardener. That chore she’d left up to Seth in those early years.

      Turning the pickup into the driveway Saturday morning, he said to Hallie, “Looks like your mother’s home.” Under the yellow maple guarding the left corner of the house, Melody had parked her sleek silver Mazda Miata. Delwood still came through when his daughter wanted new wheels. Too bad he didn’t hire her a gardener.

      Hallie grunted. “Usually she doesn’t get home before lunch the next day when she’s with Roy-Dean.”

      Anger sucked away his breath. Melody would consider Hallie old enough to stay alone for a night and half a day, but not old enough to go to a movie with a boy her own age.

      He climbed out of the truck. “Want me to come in?”

      Her head jerked around in surprise. The last time he’d stepped inside this house had been shortly after their divorce, when Melody complained about the living room TV going wonky and begged him to fix it after he dropped Hallie off.

      “That’s okay.” She slipped from the seat. “I can handle it.”

      He believed she could. She’d been “handling” it since she’d been five, since he’d moved out, since Melody had relocated them to Eugene. The anger dissipated and guilt claimed its stake.

      “You should go, Dad,” Hallie said when he simply stood between the two vehicles, mulling over his conscience. “Mom’ll be anxious. She always is after visits. It’ll be worse this time because I went without her permission.”

      Anxious? He wanted

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