Marrying The Single Dad

“We don’t work on wrecks,” Sam said. “We work on performance machines.”

Oh, for the luxury of ego.

Gone were the days of big-screen TVs in every room, recliners with heating massage and vehicles with air-conditioned leather seats. Joe took in the neglected bachelor pad. The brown couch with wooden arms must be from the 1950s. The small Formica table in the cramped dining area didn’t seem any newer. And he’d bet no amount of scrubbing would remove the scuff marks in the gray linoleum.

Joe had traded in the good life. In return, he hadn’t been arrested and had kept custody of Sam. He’d get used to the lack of finer things. He might never get used to being forced to choose between the uncle who’d saved him half a lifetime ago and Sam.

Sam, who needed to understand this was their new reality. Uncle Turo and his larger-than-life lifestyle was no longer an option.

“Those cars in the field?” Joe pointed out the window. “Those are the kinds of cars I used to work on when I lived here as a kid.” The kinds of cars that were going to provide for him and Sam for the next five to ten years. Less for good behavior.

“Ew.” She’d said that the first time they’d entered the apartment this morning. And again when she’d seen the hard-water stains in the toilet. And once more when she’d spotted a garden snake slither into a hole in the wall of the garage office.

That had made Joe want to say ew, too.

Once they were rid of the trespassers, they’d finished unloading the truck and trailer that had their beds and few belongings—the possessions the FBI let them keep. Only then had he spared a glance to the house he’d grown up in. The one he refused to live in.

Besides bad memories, there’d be too much square footage to heat or cool for it to make sense for him and Sam to move in there. He’d barely looked at the barn in back where the family had once kept their personal vehicles. It was practically drowning in blackberry bushes and would probably have more spiders and snakes than either he or Sam was comfortable with.

Instead, he’d chosen the apartment his grandfather, and later his Uncle Turo, had lived in. He focused on being thankful that he hadn’t done anything illegal, and concentrated on rebuilding his life and his daughter’s.

“We’ll inventory the cars in the field later and find out which ones we own.” He wouldn’t sell a car he didn’t have the legal title to. He led Sam downstairs, noting midway he needed to repair a soft tread. “We’ll start work on whichever one’s in the best shape once we get some paying customers.”

“Dad,” Sam said with lawyerly seriousness. “There is no best shape in that field.”

There was no best shape in his memories of this place either. Everywhere he looked he saw Uncle Turo. Around the field there were still remnants of the dirt track Uncle Turo had made for him and his brothers to race their motorcycles. In the kitchen cupboard he’d found an old container of Uncle Turo’s favorite spice, and his business cards were stacked behind the service counter. Everywhere he looked there was a memory of how Uncle Turo had shown up and held the family together after Mom left and Dad fell apart. It made Joe’s decision all the more painful.

He’d made the right choice, the only choice, a father’s choice. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel the consequences of his decision in the guilt rooted in his throat, the anger planted on his shoulders or the regret twined around his heart.

For Sam’s sake, he’d bound his guilt, his anger and his regret deep inside him. Only occasionally did the bindings unravel, crowding the air out of his lungs.

He pushed through the office door to the parking lot and unhitched the trailer he’d towed from LA. What would the trailer be worth? Enough for car parts to restore a wreck in the field? Doubtful. But doubtful was better than nothing. “Let’s go into town and pass out some flyers.” He’d typed them up and had them printed at one of those office-supply stores in Santa Rosa. “Who knows? We might get lucky and find someone with car trouble.”

“Sell the grille,” Sam repeated, opening the passenger door of their pickup. The hinges sounded like a wire brush being dragged over rusty sheet metal. “This truck is pathetic.”

“It’s a classic.” Joe tried to believe it, tried to infuse his words with optimism. “Even a pathetic truck can be the best of a bygone era.”

He’d bought the cheap red pickup last week. After a bit of work, the big block engine ran with race-car precision. The rest of it wouldn’t have been out of place in the field behind their garage.

The women picking their field for treasures had been driving a similar “vintage” truck, which was surprising. They’d looked like sensible sedan drivers. Although...

Maybe not Brittany. Stained coveralls and scuffed work boots said one thing. Short, black, polka-dot-painted fingernails and carefully applied makeup said another. Something about her didn’t add up. She didn’t look like she knew how an engine worked, much less how to pop the hood. But she’d held the socket wrench with confidence and had tucked it into a full toolbox, one lacking pink-handled tools.

Athena would’ve liked her. Athena would’ve taken Brittany’s money for the grille. Or the promise of it.

His wife had always been too trusting in others.

Joe’s head throbbed. Memories flashed. The wet road. The unexpected turn. The smell of a hot engine and cold blood.

It was better to focus on the here and now.

Joe took in the peeling paint on the garage’s outer walls, the small cracked-asphalt parking lot, the roof shingles that looked as if a gusting wind would blow them free. He needed something new to focus on. The here and now was demoralizing. He wasn’t in Beverly Hills anymore. There were no luxury cars waiting to be fixed. No roar of precision machines in service bays. No rumble of commands left in Uncle Turo’s wake.

Uncle Turo would’ve liked Brittany, too. But he would’ve sold her the entire BMW plus an expensive service plan.

Joe’s phone rang, playing the opening notes of “Jailhouse Rock.” He’d programmed the main number from the Los Angeles County jail.

Joe’s head hammered harder, the pain moving behind his eyes as he let the call roll to voicemail.

He tossed a short stack of flyers advertising the opening of their business on the bench seat and climbed behind the large white plastic steering wheel.

“I miss Uncle Turo.” Sam turned a too-innocent gaze toward him. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“Yes,” Joe lied, because eleven-year-olds shouldn’t worry. “Forget Uncle Turo. Now it’s you and me.” That’s what his brothers, Gabe and Vince, had told him when the law finally caught up to Turo. Get out. Get away. Protect Sam.

“So...this is our home?” Sam sighed with all the melodrama of a silent film heroine.

Joe didn’t know what angle Sam was working, but he needed to keep her on the straight and narrow. “This is the end of the road. Home sweet home.” He started the engine, listening for any inconsistencies, which was challenging given his pounding head. Hearing none, he put the truck in gear.

“We should send Uncle Turo our address.”

A muscle in Joe’s eye twitched. He drove past neat rows of vineyards, which were serene and picturesque, but he missed the frenetic pace of LA and the kaleidoscope of vehicles of every make, cost and color.

Sam sighed again, perhaps upset that her request to communicate with Uncle Turo had fallen on deaf ears. “Do I have to start school on Monday? I can wait until fall to go back. You can’t run the garage on your own.”

Or perhaps they were revisiting the argument about how this move had made her realize she didn’t need school.

Their arrival coincided with spring break. The school in Harmony Valley was minuscule, nothing like her old school with hundreds of kids. Or what Joe had experienced growing up here.

More than a decade ago, the mill—the biggest employer in town back then—had exploded and shut down, causing a mass exodus of young families in need of regular paychecks. Joe’s family had been among them. Eventually, the schools had closed as more people left. Now, after nearly becoming a ghost town, Harmony Valley was poised to thrive. Joe intended to take advantage of being the first repair shop to resume business. And Sam could take advantage of the low teacher-student ratio. The Harmony Valley School District had just reopened and had one teacher for a handful of elementary school children.

“Dad.” Sam’s voice shrunk to the level of wistfully made wishes. “Remember when Mom used to buy me new clothes before school started?”

With his head pounding and his eye twitching, Joe felt as worn-out as a tire on its third retread. “It’s April, Sam.” And they didn’t have money for new clothes. Uncle Turo had seen to that.

“Yes, but...” Sam turned to look at him, a petite version of Athena’s classic features with puppy-dog brown eyes. He might have been won over if not for the hint of dogged determination in the set of Sam’s mouth. That came from his side of the family. “Dad, it’s a new school.”

“Sam, you’ll be in class with a handful of elementary girls. They won’t care if your clothes aren’t new.” People in Harmony Valley were different. Or so Uncle Turo used to say. Joe didn’t remember if that was true. When last he’d lived here, he’d been a hell-raising, angry teenager, more concerned with rebelling against authority than being accepted.

At sixteen, he’d viewed everyone over the age of thirty as the enemy. They’d either driven too slow or complained he drove too fast. They’d lived happily within the boundaries of society, while he’d felt rules weren’t for him. He hadn’t appreciated that the very things he resented about Harmony Valley had protected him as a child. Not until he’d needed a safe harbor for Sam.

Now he hoped what Uncle Turo said was true, because he wanted to provide his kid with an environment that didn’t judge her for her great uncle being a crook.

Joe drew a steadying breath, willing his eye to stop twitching and his head to stop pounding. Starting over wasn’t supposed to be so hard. “Why don’t we put up flyers at the bakery first?” Sugar. It was just the distraction Sam needed. They could afford a little sugar, couldn’t they?

Sam slumped, staring out the window as Joe turned onto Main Street and down memory lane.

At first it seemed nothing had changed. The cobbled sidewalks, window awnings and old-fashioned gaslights remained. There was the pawn shop and the pizzeria. There was the barbershop where he’d gotten his hair cut. There was the bakery, and farther down, the Mexican restaurant.

A second glance showed him that time hadn’t stood still. The corner grocery was dark. The ice-cream parlor where kids used to go after school was vacant. The stationery store had been taken over by something called Mae’s Pretty Things.

Main Street had been the heartbeat of town. Bustling. Never an empty storefront or an empty parking space. Now it felt deserted, despite a few scattered cars.

They parked, grabbed the flyers and went inside Martin’s Bakery. Again, there was a sense of time standing still. The same mismatched wooden tables and chairs, framed yellowed photos from the bakery’s past on the wall, fresh sweets in the glass case. The smell of rich coffee was new. And the place was surprisingly crowded with retirees—which was great. They’d drive dated cars that didn’t require expensive diagnostic equipment that rivaled the cost of sending a man to the moon.

Conversation died almost the same time as the door swung closed behind them.

The familiar feeling of his youth, of not belonging, prickled Joe’s skin and tensed his shoulders. He longed to hide behind a motorcycle jacket and a sneer.

“Dad.” Sam edged closer to him. “Why are they all...”

He thought Sam was going to say staring.

“...so old?”

Someone chuckled. The crowd released a collective sigh. The young woman behind the counter waved them over with a sunny, welcoming smile. Joe’s sense of déjà vu receded.

Now was the perfect time to announce the garage was back in business, before conversations resumed.

Words stuck in the back of Joe’s throat.

He’d never been much good at public speaking or composing smooth sentences. Joe and his brothers had grown up on the wrong side of the river. Their parents weren’t perfect or even well liked. Dad had mental-health issues that made him unpredictable and volatile. Mom liked to argue with anyone about anything. Their parents and status in life made the boys self-conscious, but had also given them a tough core that held up the chip Uncle Turo later placed on their shoulders.

When Turo came to town, he’d given them an outlet for their resentment—motorcycles—and, not being a fan of mama’s boys, he’d encouraged their rebellious attitude. Not exactly the best way to help them fit into small, sleepy Harmony Valley, but a blessing to three teens longing for a guiding hand. Any guiding hand.

But that was in the past. Joe was done with motorcycles and mischief. He was a single dad. A business owner. A responsible taxpaying citizen of Harmony Valley.

Joe cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’m Joe Messina and this is Sam. We’re reopening the garage over by the highway.”

“Messina?” A thin old man squinted at them. He wore a red tie-dyed T-shirt and had a gray ponytail hanging down his back. “One of Tony Messina’s boys?”

Joe nodded.

“I’m Mayor Larry.” The aging hippy eyed Joe as if unsure how to tally his vote. Perhaps assuming Joe’s opinion was favorable, he added with all the enthusiasm of a politician, “Welcome home.”

“Are you the Joe Messina whose mother used to be in the quilt club?” A wrinkled woman with short purplish-gray hair sat in the window seat. She wore a hot-pink tracksuit and had a quilt square in her lap. She stared at them with kind curiosity. “Her pinwheel quilt blocks were exquisite.”

Joe nodded, breathing easier.

“The Joe Messina who was a lineman on the high school team?” asked an elderly Asian man with a walker next to his seat. The table in front of him held a checkerboard, pieces midgame. “The one who lost his temper and punched the other team’s quarterback?”

The mayor wrinkled his brow.

“Uh...” Joe barely dipped his head, very much aware of Sam at his side. This was like entering a room of talking elephants. They hadn’t forgotten anything. He hoped they didn’t mention his dad. But he prayed they didn’t mention Uncle Turo.

“The Joe Messina who set fire to the gymnasium?” This from a beefy senior with what looked like orange cat hair on his red polo shirt. He sat across from the checker player and might have been the fire chief back in the day.

“That fire was an accident.” Grabbing Sam’s arm, Joe moved toward the main counter. A large tablet above the cookies flashed a message: Read Today’s Blog (Zucchini and Jalapeño Cookies with Sweet Lime Glaze). “I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day.”

A well-dressed brunette paying for her coffee turned to give him a teasing smile. “Man, it sucks to be you.” It was Regina, the B and B manager and would-be car-part thief. She was too pretty and high-maintenance-looking to pick auto parts regularly. No. It was Brittany who was the brains of that outfit. “Makes me glad I didn’t grow up here. My past remains in the past, if you know what I mean.”

Regina didn’t seem the type to have a dark past. Her sister, on the other hand... He’d bet she and that wrench of hers were trouble.

“Do you have fifty dollars now?” Sam said in a voice that was far too businesslike for a kid. She widened her eyes and her smile, having been taught how to work a crowd by one of the best crooks in the family tree. “I can sell the grille to you.”

“Samantha Ellen,” Joe said sharply. Sometimes his daughter was too big for her coveralls.

Regina stared at Sam as if working through a complicated math problem.

“It’s my property, too.” Sam jutted her delicate chin. “It’s the Messina Family Garage.”

“Samantha?” Regina’s gaze flicked up to Joe’s hesitantly.

What was there to be hesitant about?

“Samantha,” Regina said again, firmly this time as she looked Sam in the eye. “You can ask Brit about the grille. She buys junk like I buy new clothes. All the time.” With a tug at her gray sweatshirt—which hadn’t been made for sweating—Regina took her coffee and left.

“I remember you now,” the mayor said to Joe. “I was confused because all the Messina boys had long hair, drove fast and had a penchant for getting into scrapes.”

“All in the past,” Joe assured him. Vince had a decent job on an oil rig in the Gulf Coast, Gabe was overseas with the military and Turo was behind bars.

“You still have long hair.” The woman with purplish-gray curls didn’t sound reproachful. She sounded flirty. “I bet women love that rebellious scowl of yours.”

“Eunice,” the blonde behind the counter scolded. She was in her twenties with a friendly face that was naggingly familiar.

“Nine times out of ten,” the former fire chief said in a loud voice, suggesting either a need for hearing aids or a grudge against accidental arsonists, “long hair and getting into scrapes go hand in hand.”

“Hey,” said the tie-dyed-T-shirt-wearing mayor as he flicked his long gray ponytail. “I resemble that remark.”

While the fire chief apologized, Joe spied his reflection and overgrown hair in the glass bakery case. He knew he needed a haircut, but it’d been at the low end of his budget priorities.

“Ignore them.” The woman behind the counter grinned. “They’re...a conservative bunch. But harmless.” Her bright smile, short blond hair and lack of a history with the Messinas should have soothed him. “I’m Tracy. I think...you went to school...with my older brother. Will Jackson?”

So much for a lack of shared history.

“I remember Will,” Joe said tightly. Mr. Golden Boy. Mr. All-American. Mr. Could-Do-No-Wrong.

“Now, Will,” the former fire chief boomed. “There was a boy who turned out right.”

Joe’s shoulders locked as tight as the old BMW’s carburetor was sure to be. He’d been hoping for a new start. For anonymity. Maybe some leftover goodwill from the past. The Messinas hadn’t been all bad...had they?

Samantha took his hand. “My dad turned out all right.” So young to be his fiercest supporter.

What did it say that she also defended Uncle Turo?

Joe had to do right by her. He was doing right by her. He’d make the citizens in Harmony Valley see he was reformed.

Look on the bright side, Athena would have said. A new start.

Don’t apologize for who you are, Uncle Turo would have said. Stand tall.

So he had long hair? At least it wasn’t winter and Joe wasn’t wearing his black leather jacket. And he hadn’t ridden into town on a Harley. Wouldn’t that have played to type?

On the other hand...

He brushed his fingers through his hair. A haircut to show the conventional crowd he was respectable wouldn’t hurt. The barbershop was down the street, and Phil Lambridge used to cut his hair. At least he had until Joe took Leona Lambridge’s new Cadillac for a midnight joyride on a dare from Vince and got caught.

CHAPTER THREE

“DON’T CHANGE ANOTHER THING.”

Brit pulled her head out of the supply cabinet filled with sixty years of barbershop supplies. She stared at Grandpa Phil, at his sweet lined face and his short-sleeve, wrinkled white button-down. He looked as outdated as the decades-old box of men’s hair color in her hand.

That will not be me fifty years from now.

“I’m not changing anything.” Brit added the box of hair color to the already full trash can. “I’m cleaning.”

“Something’s changed.” Grandpa Phil’s hands shook as he held the open newspaper, but they didn’t shake with anger. His hands always trembled nowadays. “You hung an old bicycle on my wall. What will you dig out of the trash next? A pair of worn sneakers?”

“It’s called upcycling. Repurposing things that have been thrown away. People like it. I like it.” She may be a beautician by trade, but in her heart she was an artist. An artist who’d been commissioned for her work.

“People don’t like change,” Grandpa Phil said, raising his newspaper higher so she couldn’t see his face.

“Meaning you? Or your customers?” Few as they might be. “Or perhaps those retired friends of yours who like to gossip and play checkers all day at Martin’s Bakery?”

“I’ll have you know that playing checkers keeps me mentally sharp.” Phil turned a page and rattled the newspaper. “I’m sharper than the reporter who wrote this article on local crime in Cloverdale. He said they arrested a catfish.”

Brit didn’t bother explaining the social-media term that referred to taking on a false persona to scam someone. The fact that the reporter was accurate would only make Grandpa more upset. And given that Brit wasn’t exactly in a Zen mood, she didn’t need him wound up, too.

“Now, don’t change anything else or you can go live with your grandmother like Regina did.”

Brit contained a shudder. Grandmother Leona was the Captain Bligh of Harmony Valley. She ran a tight ship and just being around her made Brit want to mutiny.

When Reggie announced she needed a break from corporate America and was moving to Harmony Valley to run a B and B—Leona’s B and B—Brit had been happy for her. And truth be told, she’d also been a tad envious. Had Brit taken a running leap toward her dreams of being an artist? Nope. There’d been too many excuses—Dad’s death, bills, the price of scrap and metal—and too much doubt—she’d talked through the logistics of almost every project with Dad. Could she create her art without him?

If she wasn’t careful, she was going to be eighty and her only legacy worth noting would be Keira.

So she’d followed Reggie to Harmony Valley. She’d convinced Grandpa Phil to rent her a station in the barbershop and a bedroom in his home for figures significantly below those she paid in San Francisco. She told Reggie she was moving to the small, remote town in the easternmost corner of Sonoma County to lend her support. And she’d told herself that she’d work half days at the shop and the rest of the time on her art.

The barbershop door opened and the town council began to enter. The three elderly women had stopped by earlier to introduce themselves, and this time they’d brought gifts—cleaning supplies.

Brit sighed with relief.

“Here we go,” Phil muttered.

“We thought you could use some help cleaning.” Agnes planted a bucket and a mop near Phil. Her stature—small and unassuming—was at odds with her nature—big and confident. Her pixie-cut hair was as dull gray as Phil’s, but her eyes were sharper than Brit’s thinning shears.

Rose danced in, holding the broom like a waltz partner. She was as slender as a ballerina and her ivory chignon was just as tight as it would be if she was performing in a ballet. “Will you be coloring hair, Brittany?” Rose dipped her broom partner. “I’m thinking of becoming a redhead.”

“The world isn’t ready for Redheaded Rose.” Mildred trundled in, a spray bottle of disinfectant hooked on her walker. Her snow-white curls stood stiffly. They’d been unrolled hastily and hadn’t been combed out. In a way, Mildred reminded Brit of Mrs. Claus...if Mrs. Claus wielded a walker and squinted from behind thick glasses, ready to review the unruly elf brigade. “Where are you putting the hair dryers? I don’t see any hair dryers.”

“Ironic, Mildred.” Rose spun with the broom. “Since you don’t see.”

Brit revised her assessment of Mildred’s hair from unrolled hastily to unrolled by feel.

“My hearing is just fine, Rose,” Mildred said sternly, banging her walker around so she could use the built-in seat. “The hair dryers will be perfect underneath that thing on the wall.”

Brit tried not to be upset by Mildred’s calling Keira a thing. She’d save her emotion for critics with better eyesight.

“We aren’t getting hair dryers.” Phil rattled the paper more than usual. “This is a barbershop.”