A man called Joe

Building a new life for himself and his preteen daughter brings Joe Messina home to Harmony Valley. That and showing his town that the onetime bad boy is now a responsible single father. His first move is to get his grandfather’s defunct garage up and running. Except now he’s got the FBI poking around, and there’s a beautician with her eye on the abandoned auto parts. An artist who’s happiest turning rusty junk into sought-after treasure, San Francisco transplant Brittany Lambridge is making Joe think they can create something rare and special together. But he has unfinished family business that could jeopardize his fresh start. Is Joe ready to believe in himself as fiercely as Brittany’s beginning to believe in him?

“Why, shaggy-hair Joe...I never expected a beauty compliment from you.”

“Stop talking like that, Brit.” He placed his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Stop talking and kiss me.”

She froze. A deer in his headlights.

And then she laughed, shaking her head, loosening his hold. “You almost had me.”

He did have her. He had his arms around her and she relaxed. He kissed her.

A simple act. Four lips. Two hearts. One beat.

It didn’t feel simple. It felt complex and intense and terrifying.

He had no right to kiss her. Kissing implied intent. He was broke, with a daughter to provide for. His world was imperfect when she deserved perfection.

He had no right to kiss her. Kissing opened the door to heartbreak. He couldn’t stand to be left or betrayed by another person he loved.

He had no right to kiss her. And yet he did.

And for a moment, everything felt perfect.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harmony Valley!

Just a few short years ago, Harmony Valley was on the brink of extinction with only those over the age of sixty in residence. Now the influx of a younger generation is making life in Harmony Valley more fun for its gray-haired residents than afternoon television.

Brittany Lambridge dreams of being an upcycle artist. Although she pays the bills by working in her grandfather’s barber shop, she’s been commissioned to make a driveway gate with a luxury car grill. Now all she needs is a luxury car grill. She thinks she’s found one in an abandoned car cemetery next to a closed auto-repair shop. Too bad Joe Messina bought the defunct garage the day before Brit tries picking the place. This single dad refuses to let Brit take anything away until he identifies the owners of the abandoned cars. In the meantime, if Joe wants to make a living fixing cars, he’s got to prove to Harmony Valley that he’s no longer the bad boy they remember.

I hope you enjoy Joe and Brit’s journey to a happily-ever-after, as well as the other romances in the Harmony Valley series. I love to hear from readers. Check my website to learn more about upcoming books, sign up for email book announcements (and I’ll send you a free sweet romance read) or chat with me on Facebook (MelindaCurtisAuthor) to hear about my latest giveaways.

Melinda Curtis

www.MelindaCurtis.com

Marrying the Single Dad

Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author MELINDA CURTIS is an empty nester. Now instead of carpools and sports leagues, her days go something like this: visit the gym with her husband at 5:30 a.m., walk the dogs, enjoy a little social media, write-write-write, consider cooking dinner (possibly reject cooking dinner in favour of takeout), watch sports or DIY shows with her husband, read and collapse in bed. Sometimes the collapse part happens before any TV or reading takes place.

Melinda enjoys putting humor into her stories because that’s how she approaches life. She writes sweet contemporary romances as Melinda Curtis (Brenda Novak says of Season of Change, “found a place on my keeper shelf”), and fun, steamy reads as Mel Curtis (Jayne Ann Krentz says of Cora Rules, “wonderfully entertaining”).

This book is dedicated to those who—like my heroine—dare to dream. Sometimes it just takes one person to have faith to make you believe in yourself.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“WHAT DO YOU think you’re doing?” a deep masculine voice bellowed across the overgrown, wreck-strewn field in Harmony Valley.

Brittany Lambridge jumped and thunked the back of her head on the hood of the ancient BMW sedan. Add headache to her list of injuries this morning.

“I told you we’d get caught,” Regina whispered. Brit’s sister was the queen of I told you sos.

Brit stepped back from the decaying car, rubbing her head beneath her baseball cap. The nip of early morning bit into her scraped knuckles while dewy knee-high grass hid her feet. She peered to the left, then the right, but the rusting, abandoned cars were still rusty and abandoned. No one else was in the flat patch of land with them. No one driving past on the two-lane highway bordering the field. No one stood near the thick blackberry bushes along the river. And she’d been told the car repair shop and nearby house had been empty for at least a decade. Had she imagined the voice? Or... Brit stopped rubbing her head and faced her sister.

“Don’t look at me.” Regina rolled her artfully made-up brown eyes and said with disdain, “I’m not a ventriloquist.”

“No, but you hate helping me with my art.”

“I love helping you and your hobby,” Reggie corrected. “I just worry about getting bitten by angry, territorial spiders or snakes, or—” she glanced around nervously “—angry, territorial property owners.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” An angry, territorial-looking man appeared from behind a dented gray minivan. “I said, what are you doing here?”

Guilt, disappointment and a feeling she couldn’t name froze Brit more completely than a complicated updo with too much hair spray.

The man strode forward. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, rumpled black hair and... Brit stopped cataloging his parts because that hair glinted almost blue in the sunlight and made Brit’s fingers twitch for her hair-cutting scissors.

“Oh, my,” her twin murmured wistfully, having already forgotten her fear of getting bitten.

A thin boy appeared next, wearing light blue, grease-splotched coveralls like Brit’s and a preteen’s poor attempt at a sneer. He slouched against the minivan’s rear fender, thrusting his hands in his pockets. His dark brown hair stuck out from beneath a faded green baseball cap.

Brit’s fingers twitched again even as Shaggy Man drew closer. As a licensed beautician, bad hair drove Brit crazy. As did the feeling she could now name: artistic appreciation. Shaggy Man was like a Pollock painting—a riot of energy that was perfect chaos. She couldn’t look away.

The man stopped ten feet from her, propping hands on hips. His black T-shirt and blue jeans had seen better days, while those bladed cheekbones and ice-blue eyes had probably appealed to a fair share of women. Everything about him said he was the kind of man her mother had warned her and Reggie about while they were growing up—tempting, dangerous, a man more concerned with who warmed his sheets at night than who made his coffee in the morning.

“That car is mine.” Those cool blue eyes of his skated across the landscape with chilly calculation. “Leave.”

Reggie glanced at Brit.

Who reminded herself about big-girl panties. She unwound guilt, brushed out disappointment and gripped her defenses as firmly as the socket wrench she’d been using to remove the BMW’s grille. “I was told this was Harmony Valley’s vehicle graveyard.” That the deserted cars and trucks were fair game for picking.

“The garage over there, this land and everything on it used to belong to my father.” His stance remained as rigid as his words, at odds with that distracting, rule-breaking hair.

“But...” Used to belong to? Shoot and darn. “It’s yours? The garage and the land?”

His glacial gaze found hers, so cold it crackled between them like icicles on eaves before they plunged to the pavement. “Papers went through yesterday.”

A day late. That should have been the title of her life story.

“Let me handle this,” Reggie said, half under her breath. She waded through the tall grass toward trouble. In her tight jeans and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, she looked like she was walking across a catwalk, not the junkyard. “I’m Regina. I manage the B and B in town.” An overstatement. Their grandmother owned the modest B and B that Reggie hoped to buy. “And this is my twin, Brittany. She uses junk for her arts and crafts projects.”

Arts and crafts?

Brit bristled. How was she ever going to be taken seriously in the art world if her own family dismissed her efforts? “Upcycle artist,” she muttered, although based on the iceman’s smirk, the damage was already done.

“I’m Joe Messina. That’s Sam.” Joe didn’t come forward to meet Reggie. He didn’t even remove his hands from his hips. He held his frown and his ground, not being the type to shake hands with trespassers or fawn over beautiful women.

Couldn’t Reggie see that?

Apparently not. Reggie cast a confused look over her shoulder. Being the twin who’d gotten all the good bone structure, Reggie wasn’t used to being overlooked, trespassing or not.

A breeze blew the wild grass and Joe’s unruly hair. The wind swirled and tugged and then, when neither Joe nor the grass bent, it died out.

Brit’s hopes of free materials for the gate ornament she’d been commissioned to create nearly died along with the breeze. Nearly. “This grille is doing nothing for you. It’s just sitting here.”

“I’m not parting the car out.” Joe stepped around Reggie to better glare at Brit.

“Here it comes,” the boy said quietly, rubbing at the unruly hair at his neck.

“I’m going to get that car running and sell it.” The determination in Joe’s words would have had Brit believing him if it hadn’t been for the age of Joe’s clothing and the dismissive tone of the boy’s comment.

She turned to the forty-year-old BMW. The faded paint and oxidized patina were nearly a work of art in themselves. But the tires had sunk into the soft dirt so deeply the sedan sat on its axles; the wheel wells were rusted nearly clear through; and the interior looked as if something furry had taken up residence. “Have you gotten a good look at this car? You’ll need several years and several miracles to restore it.” Brit swallowed her pride and lifted her voice. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for the front grille.”

His jaw worked. He half glanced at the boy and then back to her. “Do you have the cash on you?”

Knowing the answer, Reggie headed toward Brit’s small beat-up gray truck.

Brit barely had fifty dollars in her bank account, which was one reason she’d moved to Harmony Valley in the first place. Creating upcycle art wasn’t cheap. Nor was living in San Francisco. “Well...”

“Then it’s not for sale.” Joe closed the distance between them and slammed the hood. His gaze drifted to the BMW’s interior and the frost in his icy eyes thawed a smidge. He may have high hopes for the cars in this field, but he’d learn soon enough that building castles in the clouds would be easier than fixing anything here for resale.

Brit loaded her tools into her toolbox and followed Reggie.

She’d wait a week, let reality set in and make Joe a second offer.

Maybe then he’d take twenty-five.

* * *

“GRANDPA PHIL IS a simple man. Cold cuts and white bread. Bills paid by check and sent via the post office.” Reggie was in glass-half-empty mode now. “He’s going to fire you for this.”

Her sister didn’t have to sound so gleeful.

“Technically, he can’t fire me if I’m renting a station from him. But if he does—” Brit unlocked the door to her grandfather’s barbershop and propped it open “—you can say I told you so.”

“Hurry up, then. I’d rather be in and out before he gets here.” Reggie picked up the back of the rust-speckled antique bicycle and the metal mermaid rider Brit had welded to its frame. “What did you think of Joe?”

Brit hefted the heavy end of her sculpture and backed into the shop. “I think he’ll give me that grille for five dollars by Memorial Day.” In her dreams, maybe. But she always dreamed big. At least she had until Dad died.

“I meant...” Reggie waddled in with her end. The rear wheel spun between Reggie’s legs and the green aluminum mermaid tail swam over her shoulder. “What did you think of tall, dark and frowning?”

“He could use a haircut.” Just a trim. A crisp cut would imply he’d been tamed. Who tamed a raging storm? “Set it down here.” When the bike rims rested on the ground, Brit soaked in the familiar ambience of the place. It may only be a two-person barbershop, but it had the stations and the shampoo sink of a salon, much like the places Mom had once worked in.

Brit eyed the large framed mirror hanging over the chairs in the waiting area. A beer brand was stenciled in block letters in the middle of the glass, rendering it useless in a beauty shop. Looking at it made her feel uninspired to do hair or art. “I can’t work with that hanging behind me all day.”

“Don’t change the subject. You thought Joe was cute, too.” Reggie smoothed her hair using her limited reflection in the mirror. “Admit it.”

“That man is not cute.” Snowflakes were cute. Kittens were cute. Snow tigers were lethal. “Focus, Reggie. Mirror down. Mermaid bicycle up.” Brit tried not to look in the mirror. She really did, but it was impossible not to. Not to look, not to compare.

Two women. Sisters. Anyone could see they were cut from the same cloth. Long, dark brown hair. Mahogany eyes. Wide smiles beneath pert noses—granted, Brit’s wasn’t as pert and she could mention more differences than similarities. For years, Brit hadn’t realized she was any different from Reggie. Not when they were five and enrolled in Miss Deborah’s School of Dance, where Reggie was placed front row, center stage, and Brit was relegated to the back row with the other gigglers. Not when they were eight and they’d sung in the school’s holiday choir, where Reggie sang front and center, while Brit was assigned to the end of the middle riser next to Olivia Paige, who blew the biggest gum bubbles Brit had ever seen.

No. It wasn’t until they were twelve that Brit’s averageness relative to Reggie’s beauty sank in. That year, they’d been allowed to wear make-up when they’d gone to the sixth-grade Promotion Dance. Reggie had put on war paint like a professional model, while Brit had declined. Reggie had danced to every song, each one with a different boy. And Brit? She’d sat on a bench against the wall with Margaret Hilden, whose leg was in a cast. Brit had held back her tears until they’d returned home. And then she’d cried on Mom’s shoulder, on Dad’s shoulder, even on Reggie’s shoulder.

Later, she’d fought the hiccups while Mom tucked her in bed. She’d kissed Brit’s forehead and whispered, “You have an inner beauty, honey. You’ll always look better and be more popular if you wear makeup and cute clothes.”

Even at twelve Brit had understood what her mother was telling her: you’re the ugly duckling who’ll never be a swan.

Mom loved her, but Mom was in the beauty business, which was all about appearances.

Brit and Reggie had shared the same womb. The same bedroom. The same beat-up pickup their father used to drive. But they weren’t identical. Reggie had won more points in the gene pool. Reggie looked like she hadn’t ingested a carb in years, while Brit looked like she and carbs were on a first-name basis. And from the day of the Promotion Dance, they’d begun to go their separate ways. Reggie ascended to the throne of mama’s girl, while Brit became Dad’s sidekick. He was a metalworker and liked to tinker on cars.

The summer after the Promotion Dance, the neighbors had met to discuss turning their street into Christmas Tree Lane with lots of lights and decorations. Mom proclaimed they had to do it, but since she was always busy working or being a dance mom, and Dad hated yard duty—he’d taken out their front garden years ago and replaced it with rock and cacti—he had decided to create a metal forest for Santa.

He brought home his welding equipment, along with scraps from the metal fabrication company where he worked. Brit watched him lay out sheets of metal on the garage floor like mismatched puzzle pieces. But when he welded them together, they created the most amazing seven-foot-tall trees. At her suggestion, they took old car parts and a muffler he hadn’t yet hauled to the salvage yard and welded them into woodland animals—birds, bunnies, reindeer. Having learned nail art from Mom, Brit painted each creation, adding to the impression of whimsy and movement. They’d highlighted everything with lights. The lawn was unique and beautiful. Brit was hooked.

She quit Miss Deborah’s dance studio, much to Reggie and their mother’s dismay. She quit spending so much time on what she wore, although she still didn’t go anywhere without makeup. She quit worrying so much about things that she couldn’t control, like whether or not a boy liked her.

Despite this split, the twins remained close. But they went to different colleges—Reggie to study business, Brit to study art. In a reversal of Mom’s expectations, Reggie had supported herself by working in a hotel, while Brit had supported herself by working in a beauty salon. Did Brit miss sparkly costumes, fancy hair and dance recitals? Sometimes. Did she miss propping up the wall at all those school dances she refused to go to? Not at all.

What she did miss was her dad. He’d died last year of heart disease after a series of heart attacks and surgeries that robbed him of his strength and spirit. It was a painful and scary end to a man she’d once thought would live forever. And his absence left a chasm between Brit’s artistic dreams and her ability to create art. In a word, she was blocked. She hoped this move was a new beginning.

“She’s beautiful, Brit.” Reggie touched a spun, floating aluminum tress of red mermaid hair and then met Brit’s gaze in the beer mirror, a gentle smile on her face. “And so are you.”

Brit’s throat crowded with love for her sister.

“And don’t give me any of that ugly-duckling crap. Joe thought you were beautiful, too.” Reggie’s smile turned wicked. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

Heat rushed to Brit’s cheeks. “From his perspective, I was trespassing and looting. He wanted to put the fear of God in me.” That wasn’t lust in those cold eyes of his.

Brit gestured that they pick up the bike and lean it against the shampoo sink in the corner.

“It ticked Joe off that he didn’t succeed in shaking you.” Reggie was still grinning. “Guys like a challenge.”

“Correction.” Brit peeked behind the beer mirror to see how it was hung, glad to find a thick wire and two big hooks. “You like a guy who’s a challenge. I like nice guys.” Ones who didn’t suck the emotional energy—the lifeblood of Brit’s creativity—out of her. “Grab the other side of the mirror and lift.”

“Hanging your sculpture here worries me.” Despite her reservations, Reggie did as asked and helped Brit store the mirror in the back room. She returned to stare at the mermaid. “Don’t put this up. It’s a barbershop, Brit. There’s no future for you here.”

“Agreed. But that doesn’t mean I want to work in a plain box, or give up hair and go halfsies on the B and B with you.” Brit pulled two utility hooks from her coverall pockets and considered where to put them in the wall. “This is just to fill the gap until my art career takes off.”

“Do you know how many artists are self-sufficient?” Reggie, being Miss Glass-Half-Empty, said. “You wouldn’t be on your feet all day if you owned half the B and B. You’d have plenty of energy and time to make more pieces like this.” Was that a hint of desperation in her voice?

Impossible. Reggie had emotional shock absorbers to take life’s bumps in the road effortlessly. She planned her future like an airline pilot planned the route to his next destination. She’d never be desperate. Besides, she’d been talking about running the B and B for years. It had been her favorite topic with Dad.

Brit studied Keira’s flowing lines. The effortless wave to her hair had taken days to achieve, with Dad on the sidelines cheering her on. She’d never sell Keira because she’d never create anything as perfect as the mermaid again. If she created anything ever again. Geez. Now, that’s maudlin. And Reggie was waiting for an answer. She tossed her a question instead. “Do you know how many B and Bs make a profit?”

“Touché,” Reggie murmured. That didn’t stop her from presenting her case. “But owning the only rooms for rent in this town will be profitable when the winery becomes more popular.” Wine-thirsty tourists were already making the trek to this far-flung corner of Sonoma County. “Can’t you see that?”

“The only thing I can see is a blank wall. You know white space bugs me.” Brit walked to the truck for a drill and a hammer.

A few minutes later, Keira hung on the wall. Her aluminum hands held the handlebars and the rest of her swam whimsically above the bike as if she was riding underwater.

Reggie stepped back to view the piece. “People will want their hair cut just to get a look at her.”

“My wallet hopes you’re right.” Regardless, there was something about the mermaid’s balanced, carefree movement that made her breathe easier. “This sculpture... It’s the first one I’ve created that made me feel like a real artist.” One that other artists could respect. One that Dad could be proud of.

Before Keira, people had looked at her creations and said, “How nice.” Which was their polite way of covering their real opinion: What is that supposed to be? Brit could always sense the truth by their carefully modulated tone of voice. Which made her resentful of their need to try to be kind. Which made her hate anything other than the truth in all aspects of her life.

Reggie hugged her. “Leona wants you to come to dinner tonight. And I want you to be my partner in the bed-and-breakfast, but if you become the next art world sensation, I won’t complain.”

“Much.” Brit smiled at her twin. “Lighten up. You’ll buy out Grandmother Leona and be a success without me.”

Reggie didn’t look so sure.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU SHOULD’VE SOLD the lady the grille.” Sam spoke with the gravitas of an eleven-year-old who knew everything as she washed her hands in the chipped kitchen sink in the apartment over their repair shop.

Joe couldn’t smile like a good dad should’ve at his daughter’s wisdom. His smile had gone the way of cement shoes off the end of a deepwater pier. “She wasn’t serious about paying.” If Brittany had been, she would’ve gotten out her cash then and there.

“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.”

“Grandpa, I’m paying you rent so I have a spot to do women’s hair. I deserve half the space.” Especially since he wasn’t using any. He hadn’t cut one head of hair yesterday and based on the dust on his station, he hadn’t cut any hair in weeks.

“The electrician I know said he’d be here Monday.” Agnes had wasted no time assessing Brit’s needs and wasn’t shy about pitching in. She poked around the supply cabinet and held up an inky black toupee with her thumb and forefinger. “Whose was this?”

“Crandall’s.” Grandpa Phil lowered his paper and his gray eyebrows. “His wife didn’t want him buried in it and thought someone else might use it someday. Why do we need an electrician?” He’d been at Martin’s Bakery when they’d stopped by the first time and wasn’t privy to their conversation.

“I don’t want to blow a fuse and cut the electricity to the entire block when I plug in the hair dryers,” Brit said briskly. “Do you know how much electricity a chair with a hair dryer attached uses?”

Before Grandpa could answer, a figure appeared in the barbershop’s window.

Joe stood outside the glass, looking just as dangerously handsome as he had a few hours before. Dark hair, dark glare, dark outlook toward others. He reached for the door just as his ice-blue gaze connected with Brit’s. His hand paused in midair.

“A customer’s gonna get away.” Grandpa Phil lurched out of his chair and shoved the door open. “Never mind the chitchat. The barber is in.” He stepped out on the sidewalk, letting the door shut behind him.

“It’s one of those Messina boys.” There was awe in Agnes’s voice. “I recognize the long black hair. They were a handful—too much for Tony with his other challenges.”

“They should have gone to prison.” Rose held the broom like a staff. “Painting the water tower green for St. Patrick’s Day. Racing those motorcycles up and down Parish Hill.” She pounded the broom bristles into the floor. “Why, one of them nearly burned the gymnasium down. It’s a miracle they didn’t kill themselves, much less anyone else.”

“I always admired how they drove those motorcycles,” Mildred said, reminding Brit that someone had once told her Mildred raced cars back in the day. “Not everyone knows how to take a corner at speed.” She adjusted her thick glasses and blinked toward the doorway. “They used to be the most handsome young men in town. How does he look?”

“Like he could charm you out of your car keys and you wouldn’t report him for stealing,” Rose begrudgingly admitted. “Long hair. Blue jeans. Boots. All he’s missing is a leather jacket and a motorcycle.”

“There were more like him?” Brit was glad Reggie wasn’t around to hear the wonder in her voice.

As one, the town council ladies nodded.

Brit needed to regain her perspective, focus on the man’s flaws. “Did any of the Messina boys have a good haircut?”

“Nope. Unkempt troublemakers. Every one,” Agnes said with a dreamy sigh.

“I have to admit.” Rose began sweeping, but it was more like a ballroom dance. “Messina men improve with age.”

“Sam!” the object of the women’s infatuation called out loud enough they heard him through the glass. “I’m getting a haircut. Wait for me here.” Joe pointed to the curb.

“Okay, Dad,” came a high-pitched prepubescent reply. A familiar figure—slight, in blue coveralls—appeared on the sidewalk. Sam plopped onto the curb, booted feet in the gutter, slouching and drinking from a Martin’s Bakery to-go cup.

Phil ushered Joe inside and into his chair. “What are you looking for today? Trim? Buzz cut? Mohawk?”

“Trim.” Joe spared Brit a look that was stay-away contemptuous.

Lighten up, dude. It wasn’t as if I made away with anything this morning.

Phil opened a drawer at his station. It took him several tries to clench a folded drape with his age-spotted fingers.

The first inklings of apprehension worked their way through Brit. She’d noticed Phil’s tremulous hands for years, but hadn’t made the leap to what that meant in terms of him cutting hair. She couldn’t let him cut anyone’s hair. At least, not with scissors. “How about a buzz cut, Mr. Messina?”

Phil’s head came up. “Messina?”

“No, thanks.” Joe stared at Brit as if she’d teleported from another planet and offered him a ride on a unicorn.

Phil was stuck on Joe’s last name. “You’re one of those Messina boys who used to live here?”

Joe sighed, as if being recognized was the worst news of the day. “Yes.”

“Is that...” Rose glided gracefully to the window with the broom, which took skill, considering she looked to be nearing eighty. “Is that a girl?”

Brit’s attention turned to the child on the sidewalk. The child she’d assumed was a boy because of the shapeless, grimy coveralls and an equally grimy baseball cap. Brit had gone through a tomboy phase after the devastation of the Promotion Dance. She, of all people, should have recognized a girl beneath the trappings.

“Hell, yeah, Sam’s a girl,” Joe said defensively. “Anyone can see that. Brittany’s sister just called her by her full name in the bakery.” But this last was said without Joe’s typical iceman tone.

Agnes and Rose exchanged doubtful looks.

“Wow.” Brit should have felt better that other people assumed his daughter was a boy, too, but she didn’t. The little girl had probably been called a boy more than once and she was getting to an age where those remarks would register and sting. “Poor Sam.”

“Poor Sam.” Joe snorted like a bull about to charge. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sam...” Agnes said evenly. “As in Samantha?”

“Yes,” Joe ground out.

“What’s going on?” Mildred asked, squinting toward the window through her thick glasses. “I see someone, but can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Exactly,” Rose said.

* * *

“SHE’S A GIRL.” Joe kept his voice down, but that didn’t stop his eye from twitching. “What’s wrong with you people? Brittany was wearing coveralls this morning and I didn’t mistake her for a man.” Granted, Brittany filled out her clothes differently than his daughter did.

The barbershop had fallen silent. Uncomfortably, painfully silent. And he guessed it wasn’t because Phil was trying to remember if Joe was the Messina who’d taken his ex-wife’s car for a joyride.

Joe refused to turn and look at Sam, unwilling to validate their perception. Lung-deflating doubt—that he wasn’t a good father for a girl—tried to suffocate him.

“Hard to tell gender nowadays,” Phil said, interrupting Joe’s panic attack. He flung a plastic drape over Joe’s lap. It smelled musty and unused, kind of like the garage apartment’s shower curtain. “If she’s a girl, you might want to buy a pair of pink coveralls.” He fumbled with the drape snap at Joe’s neck. “Which Messina are you?”

“The only Messina in your chair,” Brittany said, moving behind Joe so she was visible to him in the mirror. She widened her eyes and waggled her eyebrows at Joe in some kind of undecipherable car-part-thief code. “Anyone can wear pink or coveralls nowadays, Grandpa.”

Grandpa? The Lambridges were among the most upright, uptight citizens in town. Was Brittany a beautician with an innocent hobby? A woman willing to pay for car parts like a law-abiding Lambridge? Or was she cut from the same cloth as Uncle Turo? The kind of person who cut corners. The kind of person Joe couldn’t afford to have in his life anymore.

“It’s common to mistake gender at that age. There’s no bumps or curves or whiskers to go on.” Phil’s hands fumbled in a drawer for something. “Plus there hasn’t been a Messina girl in town. Ever.”

“That’s not exactly hard science, Grandpa.” Brittany gave Joe an I can’t believe you don’t understand me look.

“You still haven’t told me.” Phil picked up a pair of scissors with hands that shook. A lot. “Which Messina are you?”

“I’m Joe.” Finally, possibly too late, he’d cracked Brittany’s code. Her brown gaze reflected his worry about scissors and unsteady hands. Joe shifted in the chair and moved his gaze in the mirror to the antique bicycle on the wall behind him, the one ridden by a playfully curved, brightly painted, aluminum mermaid. It was nothing he’d expect to find in a barbershop. But then again, he’d expected a barber with a reassuring hand. “Hey, Phil...um...are you okay?”

“He’s quick, that boy.” The woman sitting in the walker chuckled. “Took me another five minutes in that chair before I panicked.”

“I’m fine,” Phil said cheerfully, as if he hadn’t heard Mildred. “Never better.”

“Your hands...” Joe met Brittany’s gaze again. He’d never admit it, but his gaze might have been pleading.

Brittany laid a hand on Phil’s forearm. “How about I give Shaggy Joe a trim?”

“You?” Joe choked out. What did this wrench-wielding woman know about cutting hair? Maybe Joe should take his chances with Phil.

“Yes, me. I’m licensed to trim.” Brittany gestured to a framed certificate on the wall.

If Brit was a beautician, her appearance shouted thirty-five-dollar haircut. She may have worn coveralls earlier, like Sam’s, and her dark brown hair was mostly hidden under a cap, like Sam’s. But that’s where the similarities ended. Phil’s granddaughter had rhinestones on her baseball cap, sparkling threads in her thin pink sweater and in her black leggings.

Truthfully, he didn’t mind the leggings. Brittany had a nice pair of legs. But he did mind the salon-like sparkle if it meant he’d pay more for a simple haircut.

“The man sat in my chair.” Phil raised his scissors like they were the torch held by the Statue of Liberty. Unlike Lady Liberty, Phil’s hand wavered, bringing Joe back to his original dilemma.

“Phil, I...uh... I’m Joe, the bad Messina you remember.” In truth, Joe’s two older brothers had probably raised more hell than Joe, but a man had to bail when sharp objects were near arteries. “I’m the one who took Leona’s car for a joyride.”

“Joe, Joe, Joe.” Phil tsked, lowering his unsteady hand. “Leona said she’d given you permission.”

Only after Uncle Turo had talked to her.

“Don’t be nervous,” Phil said. “I used to cut your hair all the time when you were a kid. And I don’t hold grudges.”

“True,” the old woman in the walker said, leaning forward and peering at Joe through bottle-thick lenses.

Joe caught Brittany’s gaze in the mirror once more.

“Don’t look at me.” Brittany held up her hands. “I tried to save you.”

“My hands have been like this for years,” Phil said, a twinge of annoyance in his voice.

“True,” the rail-thin senior by the window said, pounding the bristles of her broom on the floor.

Phil stared at his scissors. His wrinkled features maintained a tentative hold on defiance. “And I haven’t cut a client yet.”

“Also true,” said the short old woman with the boyish haircut.

As if to prove a point, snip-snip went Phil’s scissors in the air. Except Phil nearly poked Joe’s eye out with the sharp blades.

“The operative word being yet,” said the lady with the broom. “Don’t young people film disasters nowadays? Who has a camera?”

Joe eased forward in his chair, the words I’ve changed my mind forming on his lips.

“Let me do this one, Grandpa.” Unexpectedly, Brittany ran her fingers through Joe’s hair.

Joe stopped thinking about leaving.

Brittany’s fingernails skimmed across Joe’s scalp, lifting his hair and letting it fall back down. Her touch was mesmerizing.

The last person to mesmerize Joe was Uncle Turo, suspected felon.

“After all,” Brittany said, “starting Tuesday, I’ll be doing pin curls and petal teases.”

“I wanted a dye job,” the broom lady said in the tone of the misunderstood.

“You can cut my hair for ten bucks,” Joe said gruffly. He could barely afford that.

“Joe makes it sound as if you should pay him for the privilege, Brittany.” The woman sitting in the walker chuckled. Behind her glasses her eyes were starting to look like something you’d see in a fun-house mirror.

Or maybe that was because Joe’s eye was twitching again.

Phil tossed his scissors back in a drawer. “Outmaneuvered by my own kin.”

Joe might have breathed easier if not for the realization that Brittany was as wily as Uncle Turo.

“I’m going to Martin’s to play checkers.” The man walked with an uneven gait as shaky as his hands. Somehow he managed to hold the door open for Sam to come inside.

Brit’s fingers were still working their thirty-five-dollar haircut magic on Joe’s mane, making him wish he had thirty-five dollars to spare on a regular basis.

“I’m Agnes.” The diminutive older woman came closer to get a better look at what Brittany was doing to Joe’s hair. “Are you the only Messina opening up the garage?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He and his brothers had inherited the garage and house when his father overdosed, but they’d done nothing with it beyond paying taxes. He’d bought out his brothers with every penny in the bank the FBI hadn’t seized.

The thin, regal woman with the broom swept closer. She looked like a grandmother of one of his classmates. The woman who volunteered every year to help with the class play as long as it was a musical. And her name was...Rose.

“No Mrs. Messina?” Rose asked. She never seemed to stop moving.

“She’s dead, ma’am.”

Sam sank into a chair beneath the mermaid, glancing at a stack of magazines on a low table. She didn’t react to the statement that her mother was dead. She’d spent half her life without a mother. Almost all her life without a caring grandparent. And now, no Uncle Turo.

If Sam didn’t react, Brittany certainly did. Her fingers stopped exploring the texture of his hair, making Joe remember how everyone in Harmony Valley was in everyone else’s business.

“You know...” Joe slid forward in the chair, away from Brittany’s magical touch. “The haircut can wait.”

Brittany’s fingers brushed over his shoulder. “The town bad boy could use a haircut to look respectable.”

He agreed. Why did she have to be right? It was going to take another decade for the older residents to forget what he’d done. “For ten dollars.” Not a question. Not negotiable.

Unfazed, Brittany drew her ponytail over her shoulders, revealing a purple streak amid the rich brown. Coveralls and colored nails? Shop tools and beauty techniques? She was a tangle of contradictions he had no intention of unraveling. “I’d trim your hair for the grille.”

The verdict was in. Brittany was more like Uncle Turo than a Lambridge. “I don’t barter.” Especially when he wasn’t sure who owned the car.

The woman in the walker scooted forward. “Are you talking about a barbecue grill?” He recognized her now. Mildred Parsons. He used to cut her lawn every summer. That is, until Uncle Turo came to town. “Every man needs a barbecue.”

“Dad doesn’t grill. He uses the microwave and a Crock-Pot.” Sam giggled like a girl! “Brittany wants a car bumper from the field near our repair shop.”

“Whatever for?” For once, Rose stopped moving.

“I incorporate old bike and car parts into art.” Brit gestured to the mermaid riding the bicycle on the wall. “Things people no longer want can be made into something everyone can enjoy.”

Joe looked at the sculpture more carefully, finally recognizing the bike for what it once had been—an early motorbike, probably from around 1920. It had rims, but it was missing tires and an engine.

“That motorcycle was worth a lot of money.” Before it’d had all that curling aluminum welded to it, it’d been worth more than a new roof for the garage. What Brittany had done to that antique was blasphemous to a motorcyclist. To him. In fact, to anyone who revered the past, and wanted to restore and protect it. Uncle Turo may not have a good moral compass when it came to the law, but he revered the art of a good machine.

“It’s still worth a lot of money,” Brittany said crisply, spritzing Joe’s hair with water.

Two of the old ladies went to stand beneath Brittany’s creation, admiring it. After a moment, Sam joined them.

“I’d like to upcycle the BMW grille.” Brit began snipping Joe’s hair in back. “A contractor in Malibu hired me to create a driveway gate with a vintage automobile look. The grille would be perfect cut in half. When the gate is closed, it’ll look like a car is coming out at you.”

“Cool,” Sam, the traitor, said. She was young and susceptible to bad influences.

The anger he’d wadded into his chest for the past few weeks tried to break free. He couldn’t save Athena. He couldn’t save Uncle Turo. But he could definitely save his daughter and that car. “I won’t let you ruin it. I won’t let you put a grille on a gate with your arts and crafts glue gun.”

“I’d weld it.” Brittany fixed him with a hot stare that could have welded Joe to his seat. “I’d use a blowtorch. Same as I did with my mermaid, Keira.”

She’d given her creation a name. Sam would find that fascinating. Next thing you know, Sam might find picking junk on someone else’s property without permission fascinating, permissible even. Joe’s need to keep his daughter grounded had him lashing out. “Girls who cut hair and paint their nails don’t use blowtorches.”

Caught in the cross fire, the three old ladies fell silent, watching their exchange with interest.

“That’s a little sexist.” Brittany sounded unruffled. She continued to fluff his hair. But the heat remained in her gaze.

Despite a healthy dose of self-loathing—what kind of dad said things like that in front of his daughter?—Joe leaned into Brittany’s touch. It was a dare. A stupid dare. But he’d spent weeks keeping his emotions in check. It wasn’t fair that this woman—this trespassing thief—undid the links anchoring his equilibrium.

Brittany didn’t back down. She held his gaze in the mirror. And then she firmly tried to tilt his head into his chest. “Look down.”

“No,” he rasped, holding his head up.

“It’s okay to be scared, Dad.” Sam misread Joe. She came to stand next to him and found his hand beneath the drape. “He doesn’t get his hair cut often.”

A riot of feelings burned their way through his chest and churned through his stomach. He was a bad dad. He should be protecting his daughter, not the other way around. He should have realized sooner what was going on at Turo’s garage. He should have known the money he’d been earning the past few years from Turo was too good to be legal.

“Don’t cut off much,” Sam said to Brittany, still holding his hand, still too trusting. “My dad’s never had short hair.”

“I’m not shearing him like a sheep.” Brittany snipped away, her touch less than gentle. “I’m just giving it shape.”

“No,” Joe protested, sounding less like a man resentful of the corner he’d been trapped in. “I want it short and respectable.”

“I’m not sure you’ll ever pull off respectable.” Brittany’s chin nearly touched his crown as she pulled the hair above his ears along his cheekbones. “With a face like that...” Her cheeks turned as ripe as a Red Delicious apple. “Well, anyone can see you’re not a banker.”

The older audience’s chuckles locked Joe’s frown in place tighter than a wing nut on a long screw.

“She’s right.” Sam grinned.

“Cut it short,” Joe said through gritted teeth. “I need to be respectable.”

“Why?” Mildred said from her walker. “I’ve always thought respectable was boring.”

“And people don’t come to Harmony Valley to be boring.” Rose moved about with the broom as if she were waltzing.

“That’s right.” Agnes placed her age-weathered hands on his daughter’s shoulders, although she was barely taller than Sam. “People come here to be true to themselves.”

Joe knew being true to himself wouldn’t get him any customers. But when Brittany finished his haircut, Joe had to admit he felt more like himself—a man who didn’t second guess himself, a man who dealt with life head-on.

“About that grille...” Brittany began.

“I might have sold it to you if you planned to put it on another BMW.” Joe stood, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. “Clearly, you don’t understand its value.”

“Clearly—” Brittany glared at him “—you don’t understand the value of art.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“JOE THINKS YOU’RE a stripper.” Mildred nodded to Brit after Joe and Sam left the barbershop.

One moment, Brit had been fine. Satisfied Joe left looking better than when he’d walked in. Relieved that he and his closed-minded attitude were gone. And the next...

Brit did a quick check of her cleavage and backside in the mirror above her station. Nothing was exposed, but she felt as if she’d shown something. Her hands shook as much as Grandpa Phil’s. “I am not a stripper.”

“Of course you are,” Mildred said matter-of-factly, tugging at a stiff curl. “A stripper divests cars of their parts. Joe’s a purist. He’d rather preserve the entire car.”

“He’d rather spin his wheels and go nowhere.” Brit bit her lip to keep from saying more. She knelt and rummaged in an unpacked box of her salon equipment, unable to stop herself from adding, “The cars on his property will never run again.”

“Never say never.” Rose swept Joe’s cut black locks into a pile. “I heard the Messinas were running a repair shop for famous folks and their fancy cars.”

“Those Messinas have motor oil running through their veins.” Mildred sounded wistful. “If they had the right parts, they could fix anything. Trouble was, we couldn’t always get the right parts out here.”

“Oh, come on.” Where had Brit put her teasing combs? “There must be twenty cars in that field. If they were mechanical savants, I find it hard to believe they couldn’t find parts for that many vehicles.”

“Well...the Messinas aren’t responsible for all those abandoned wrecks.” Agnes returned to poke around the supply cabinet. “I hate to admit our constituents are irresponsible, but—”

“Our constituents are irresponsible.” Mildred ran her fingers through curls on the other side of her head, making her hair look as if she’d been electrocuted. “Ten years or so ago, when the garage closed, there may have been one or two cars in that field. But ever since then—”

Agnes raised her voice like a teacher trying to regain control of her class. “I won’t name names—”

“Crandall Barnes. Haywood Dillinger.” Rose was more than willing to call her neighbors out.

“But—” Agnes ignored Rose “—when you’re old—”

“Don’t make excuses for them,” Mildred said.

“—it’s easier to just give something up!” Agnes was practically shouting now.

Brit found the plastic box of combs, chose a pick and stood, her shoulders stiff with almost-too-good-to-be-true hope. “So they aren’t all Joe’s cars? What about that BMW?”

Rose and Agnes looked to Mildred.

“A BMW? That would be... It was driven by...” Mildred closed her eyes and clamped her mouth in a squiggly line. “Why can’t I remember who owned that car?”

“Because you’re old,” Rose said baldly. “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.”

Would a registration card have survived in the BMW’s glove box? Could Brit sneak out there again and check?

An image of lowered brows over glaring blue eyes loomed before her, more off-putting than a beware-of-dog sign. But she wasn’t much good at heeding warnings.

Take cutting Joe’s hair, for instance. Those thick midnight-black locks were perfect for styling. A beautician’s dream. She’d ignored his bluster and steered through the storm even when his frigid eyes warned her away.

Thank heavens Reggie hadn’t seen her while she was working or she’d have called her out—there’d been too much unnecessary touching going on. The man had an energy that spoke to her. She just didn’t want to learn his language.

Yeah, cutting Joe’s hair had been sweet torture. She hoped she never had to do it again.

Right now, she had a different cause for itching fingers—Mildred’s unfinished curls. “Can I tease out your hair, Mildred? On the house.”

“Oh, dear.” Mildred hunched in on herself. “Are my curls that bad? Why didn’t someone tell me before Hiro saw me at the bakery?”

“They looked fine this morning for your beau,” Agnes soothed. “You’ve just been worrying them.”

“Into a mess,” Rose stated.

“I wish I could see better,” Mildred bemoaned.

Brit took that as permission, and once she got in the rhythm, the tension in her shoulders eased.

Agnes resumed her attack on the supply cabinet, while Rose swept Joe’s hair into a dustpan.

“I used to see every detail,” Mildred said, half to herself. “Road signs. Social Security checks. My reflection...”

Rose interrupted Mildred’s pity party. “Brittany, my dear, can I book you for a hair appointment?”

Brit surveyed her work. Mrs. Claus looked much less frazzled. “If you’re serious about going red...”

“I am. Book me. Now, please.”

“Rose, what’s the rush?” Agnes picked up a can of shaving cream that was so old it’d rusted on the bottom.

Rose nodded toward the window. Brit glanced over her shoulder, and then turned completely around.

Several cars were parking outside. White-haired ladies tumbled out like sea foam on a slow-cresting wave.

“Are they all coming here?” Brit asked. There must have been a dozen of them.

Another car pulled up, just as full as the others. The barbershop tide had turned.

“Word must have gotten out.” Agnes dumped the shaving cream in the trash. “We haven’t had a beautician in town since Minna’s closed.”

“She ran a salon out of her garage. Drafty as all get-out.” Mildred patted her hair gingerly. “She died about eight years ago.”

“Tuesday morning,” Rose whispered urgently to Brit. “Nine thirty.”

“Okay.” Brit hurried to her station, flipped open her appointment book and penciled Rose in.

And then the wave hit.

“Do you offer perms?”

“Will you be doing nails?”

“I’d like a wet set and tease.”

In no time, she’d taken a full week’s worth of appointments. Had she thought she’d only work half days? She’d barely have time for a BMW reconnaissance, much less setting up a workshop at Grandpa Phil’s.

It’s only the first week. The excitement will wear off, she told herself.

Trying not to listen when a small, fearful voice inside hoped it might be.

* * *

“WE DON’T LOOK like we’re open for business.” Sam crossed her skinny arms over her skinny chest and gave her best impression of teenage contempt. “With all the dust and grime and cobwebs, we could film a horror movie in here.”

Joe kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself.

The horror had begun a month ago when the FBI confronted him outside a diner on his lunch hour. They were building a case against Uncle Turo for a number of things, including accepting stolen property, money laundering and racketeering. Did Joe know anything?

Joe hadn’t. Not until the two feds started talking. Then his brain had shifted into overdrive, putting together pieces that seemed innocent and random before. People bringing in cars that no longer ran and receiving cash. Guys trading motorcycles for engine work on street racers. Cars sold “on consignment” for unknown clients. He hadn’t paid much attention. He was too busy working and raising Sam to realize his uncle was a crook.

Which was why when they’d asked Joe if he knew where Turo kept numerous stolen cars, he’d been unable to answer. He didn’t know.

“You can cooperate,” Federal Agent Haas had said, not believing Joe was that naive. “Or we can bring you up on charges of obstruction of justice and send you to prison for five to ten years.” He’d handed Joe his business card. “Oh, and by the way, I love your daughter’s softball swing.”

The FBI had been watching his daughter?

Joe hadn’t been able to speak. He’d sat in his pickup for several minutes before he trusted himself to drive. He wanted to call Vince and Gabe and ask for their advice, but he already knew what he’d have to do. There was only one way to ensure Sam wouldn’t lose another parent. Sell out Uncle Turo to the feds in a sting operation.

The horror continued. The garage doors were open, but not even the breeze could clear out the dank smell. Grime. Dust. Long-neglected tools hanging from hooks attached to pegboard on the walls. The wooden shelves were strewn with odds and ends. The workbench was brown, warped Formica. An ancient tow truck sat on deflated tires in one of the two service bays.

It was a far cry from the clean chrome fixtures of Messina’s Garage in Beverly Hills. Soon Joe would be working on junkers, not Jaguars; beaters, not Bentleys. But what choice did he have? After Turo was arrested and his assets frozen—including the bungalow Joe and Sam had lived in—Joe had to put food on the table somehow.

“Give it until Monday,” Joe said. “Word will get out and cars in the bays will change things.”

Sam sighed with her entire body. “Can’t we hire someone to make the garage presentable? At the old garage—”

“I was an employee.” Joe spoke evenly, trying to keep weeks of fear and anger from his tone—none of which was directed at his daughter. “I was hired to fix cars, but had no say in how the garage was run.” Or in which laws Uncle Turo decided to break.

“Uncle Turo...” Sam hesitated. She knew Uncle Turo had been arrested, but didn’t know why. She came to stand in the midst of the empty service bay. Almost in the exact spot Joe had been the day Uncle Turo had come to town after Joe’s mother left. Sam worked her lips mulishly. “Uncle Turo—”

“Uncle Turo...” Joe glanced out the open doors, half expecting to hear a motorcycle rumble or explosive laughter heralding Turo’s approach.

The only sound was a bird. It chirped and tweeted and sang like this was the best day on the planet.

That bird was so wrong.

Maybe he should listen to that voicemail he’d gotten earlier, the one left by the caller with the “Jailhouse Rock” ringtone.

Or maybe not.

“Uncle Turo isn’t here to give you a free pass.” Joe yanked a broom from its cobwebbed cupboard in the corner and began knocking down the thick tendrils that hung from the ceiling.

Thunder rolled in the distance. No. Not thunder. It was a motorcycle engine.

The hair on the back of Joe’s neck rose.

“Uncle Turo! I knew he’d come to bring us home.” Sam ran into the parking lot.

It couldn’t be. Turo was locked up in the LA County jail, awaiting trial. Bail had been denied.

The sound of the engine came closer, silencing the bird. Joe could relate. He couldn’t speak either. His throat was thick with damn yous and thank Gods.

It took him a moment to register the cadence of the bike. It wasn’t the untamed, throaty grumble of a Harley. It wasn’t the deep, refined rumble of an Indian. It was the high-pitched whine of a small bike. Economical. Down-market.

Joe lowered the broom and turned, not to see who it was, but to register Sam’s disappointment.

He saw it in the slow slide of her innocent shoulders. The leaden creep of her arms around her broken heart. The waver to her chin as she fought tears.

The motorcycle put-putted past under the legal limit.

Sam’s feet broke a speed record as she raced upstairs, slamming every door. To the office. To their apartment. To her room.

The rafters above Joe shook when she flopped on her bed, showering him in dust.

This was his life now. He had to be grateful. He and Sam. They were together.

It could have been worse.

Though it was hard to think of worse when you’d hit rock bottom.

* * *

“DIDN’T YOU CLEAN enough for one day?” Grandpa Phil stomped into the kitchen, a grumpy expression on his face.

Brit stopped scrubbing the refrigerator shelf she had in the sink and glared at him. “I should have taken one look at your kitchen and left.” When she’d moved into his little house days ago, she’d been too tired to register the degree of kitchen filth and had been too busy settling in to do anything about it.

Phil shrugged. “I’m not as fastidious as your grandmother.” Who’d divorced him twenty years or so ago.

“I was considering sleeping in my car and renting a port-a-potty.” Or bedding down in the back room at the barbershop. Her arms ached from scrubbing. Now she understood why her family had stayed with Grandmother Leona the few times they came to visit. “You can’t let things go like this. Here, it’s not healthy. And at the shop... You can bet we’ll get a surprise inspection by the state board. We have to keep things clean.”

“The state board isn’t coming here.” He mini-stumbled on a loose square of linoleum, catching himself with a hand to the door frame before she could reach him.

“Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

He shuddered to his full height, nearly six feet. “I’m fine. I could stand here all night.” He listed to one side a few inches and gripped the door frame tighter. “When I agreed to let you stay, I didn’t think you’d want to clean and decorate and change everything here. I’m single for a reason.”

“Because you like to live in squalor?” Brit deadpanned.

He made a rumbling noise like an old hound dog when roused from its nap by an intruder.

“No offense, Grandpa—” Brit patted his shoulder “—but I’m too busy to catch every germ you’ve deposited in this house in the past two decades.”

“I can see I’ll have no peace in my home from now on.” He lifted his face to the ceiling, practically howling with displeasure. “Or in the shop. I’ve operated my business since the country’s bicentennial. Forty years and no complaints or citations.” He stomped into the living room in that unsteady, endearing way of his. “It says Phil’s on the window, you know.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset.” She left the shelf dripping in the sink and followed him.

The living room was torturous to her artistic sensibilities—plain white walls, a stained and lumpy tan couch, a scratched oak coffee table. No knickknacks on the mantel. No pictures on the walls. No personality. Nothing he’d regret leaving behind if Leona wanted him back tomorrow.

“I’m not upset.”

He was. And she thought she knew why. “You know, I didn’t come here to take over for you.”

Just as Phil reached the couch, he spun and dropped in a heap of scarecrow-like limbs that sent coils squeaking. “That’s not what the ladies in town think.”

Holy wet set. “They’re wrong.”

“Not usually.” He jabbed the remote in the direction of his boxy old television. It came on loud enough to end the conversation.

Demoralized, Brit returned to the kitchen. She hadn’t moved here intent on building a thriving business or forcing Grandpa into retirement. She returned the shelf to the near-empty refrigerator, put away the cleaning supplies and thought about how she’d feel if someone came into her business—into her home—and began changing things.

She walked back to the living room, took the remote from Grandpa and muted the television. “I’m sorry I took down the beer mirror.” Not sorry enough to put it back up; just sorry that Grandpa Phil was bent out of shape. “I’m sorry I went through your cabinets and cleaned the place up.” Despite it being long overdue. “And I’m especially sorry that women in town are excited to have a female hairstylist.” Because that meant less time to devote to her art.

Her hobby. Arts and crafts.

The terms slid beneath her skin like barbed fishhooks, snagging her pride, dragging down her confidence. What if Keira was a fluke? Everyone loved her, but plenty of artists were one-hit wonders.

Grandpa Phil gave a full-body huff. “You know how women are—wanting a shampoo and comb out once a week. Word will get out. This is just the beginning. You’re going to be busy.”

“Phil’s is an institution in town,” she soothed, sitting next to him, flattening the sofa’s worn, noisy springs. “I’m not trying to replace you. Heck, I’d be happier poking through these women’s garages than through their hair.”

Phil perked up at that. “I know people in town who’d love to get rid of their junk.”

“Great. Hopefully, they want to give it away.” Her operating budget was nil. She was going to have to put her beauty supplies on credit tomorrow when she drove down to Santa Rosa. “Donations accepted.”

“Duly noted. Now...” Smiling, he patted her knee. “What’s for dinner? I’ve been living on frozen burritos and cereal.”

“Dinner is whatever Grandmother Leona is making.” Brit watched his wrinkled smile fade. “I’m sorry. I’ve been summoned.”

“It’s okay.” Phil took back the remote. “I like frozen burritos and cereal.”

* * *

THE MOTORCYCLE WAS RETURNING.

Joe had completed a first pass at cleaning the garage, the first of many it’d need. He’d just plugged in the battery charger and hooked it up to the tow truck when the put-put cycle came to a stop in the lot outside the garage.

“Hey, there.” The rider was too big for the motorcycle, too old and too misguided. He’d stuffed himself into bright red riding leathers that looked two sizes too small. It might have explained his stiff gait. “I heard the garage was reopening. I’m Irwin Orowitz. Barbara here could use a tune-up.” Irwin gestured to his very small, very sedate motorcycle.

It wasn’t a “hog.” It wasn’t even the kind of bike you named. Brittany’s mermaid sculpture was more deserving of that honor. It was the kind of motorcycle “real” bikers made fun of with terms like scooter or two-wheeled hearse, because the rider seldom knew what they were doing. But Joe couldn’t afford to joke with what might be a paying customer.

As Joe was in the process of swallowing his opinions and putting on his best customer-service expression—if not to smile, then at least not to scowl—Irwin hitched up his too-tight, too-short pants.

This was proof. There was a hell. And Joe had fallen into it.

“Um...” Joe sought to cover his horror by rubbing an old towel over his face, as if wiping away sweat. “Bertha...er...Barbara didn’t sound so rough.”

“My Barbara...” Irwin stopped a few feet away from Joe, propped his hands on his hips and performed a hip swivel Elvis would’ve been proud of. “She’s got no get-up-and-go anymore.”

Joe doubted she’d ever gotten up and gone anywhere really fast. Irwin, on the other hand, needed to go get some pants that offered more room at the waist.

Sam peered through the window in the door to the office. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair was limp beneath her cap. She pushed open the door, which squeaked—like everything else in Joe’s life lately—and drew Irwin’s attention.

“Another generation of Messina boys in town.” Irwin beamed, his smile rounding his already round face.

Another person who thought Sam was a boy?

Joe’s eye twitched. “Well. There’s me.” He patted his chest. “I’m generation two. And my daughter is generation three.”

“G3,” Sam murmured with a meek smile, coming to stand next to Joe. “Cool.”

“Messinas are back. This is wonderful news.” Irwin’s beam brightened. “You Messinas used to buzz around town on your motorcycles.”

He’d never buzzed in his life. Joe’s eye spasmed hard enough to pop out of his head.

“It’s what inspired me to buy a motorbike when I retired.” Irwin rearranged his belly this time.

“Dad,” Sam whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “Are you okay?”

Be nice, Athena would’ve said.

Treat your customer like your mistress, Turo would’ve said.

“So.” Joe tried to put a smile on his face, but it felt more like a grimace. “Bet... Berth... Barbara needs a tune-up.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“GRANDMOTHER LEONA, BRITTANY is here,” Reggie called, gently shutting the door behind Brit before dragging her across the Victorian’s foyer toward the dining room. “You didn’t dress for dinner.” While Reggie had changed into a teal floral-print dress and white flats. She added in a whisper, “And you’re late.”

“I had to cook something for Grandpa before I left.” She’d microwaved his frozen burrito while he’d poured himself a bowl of cereal. She’d worry tomorrow about stocking the house with healthier options.

Their footsteps echoed on hundred-year-old oak floors. The Victorian had been built to impress, but despite being filled with beautiful antiques, it felt as cavernous as the chest of the Tin Man before he’d earned his heart. They’d stayed here as children the summer their parents contemplated divorce. They’d cleaned the house, they’d run errands, and they’d done so silently at Leona’s insistence. They’d half joked that Grandmother Leona thought they were the Cinderella twins.

This was the house their father had grown up in. If Brit had never been here before, she’d have thought there’d be pictures of Dad scattered around. He was Phil and Leona’s only child. But there weren’t any pictures. Not of Dad, not of Phil, not of the twins. On the bright side, there wasn’t a program from Dad’s funeral last summer either.

Brit wrinkled her nose over the hated smell of lemon polish and... “It smells like—”

“Liver and onions,” Reggie whispered.

Brit tried to turn around, but Reggie had the grip of a professional bouncer and continued to propel them forward.

“Eat it and look grateful.” Reggie gave her a final push into the dining room. “It’s the only thing she’s good at cooking.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Brit whispered back. “Cooking is her favorite method of torturing guests.”

Grandmother Leona liked making people uncomfortable the way a clown liked to make people laugh. Not that you’d see Leona’s lips curl in a smile at the reaction of those served her liver specialty. But her satisfaction would be there in the sly upturn of her voice.

The smell of liver was stronger in the formal dining room and couldn’t be masked by onions. Brit’s stomach executed the U-turn her feet wanted to do. For sanity reasons, she resorted to being a mouth breather.

“Brittany.” Grandmother Leona backed through the swinging kitchen door, carrying a serving platter full of steaming liver and onions. She wore a plain blue cotton dress with long sleeves, one of which held a handkerchief tucked at her slender wrist. Her peppery-gray hair was in a smooth beehive and she wore Great-Grandmother Rambling’s pearl choker on her thin regal neck. “Sit down,” Leona said, her tone a command. No please. No warm greeting. No hugs for a granddaughter she hadn’t seen in close to a year, the last time being Dad’s funeral.

Brit had felt more welcome in Joe’s field this morning.

Leona set the platter down and took the seat at the head of the table, indicating the twins should sit flanking her. “Regina tells me you’ve rented space at the barbershop.” Her grandmother dished liver onto a plate and tsked. “Four years in college. You shouldn’t be engaged in a trade.”

“I’m an artisan working to make ends meet.” Self-doubt lumped in Brit’s throat, giving her words the gravelly feel of uncertainty.

“Is that what they call beauticians now?” Leona had a knack for slipping a barb between people’s defenses. “Artisans?”

Brit declined the bait. She accepted her plate of liver and claimed two sourdough rolls from the full bread basket.

“One roll is enough, Brittany.” Leona arched one silver brow. “Carbs live on hips.”

Brit wasn’t a child anymore. She wouldn’t let Leona make her feel like a wing-clipped duck on a pond during hunting season. She didn’t return the extra roll. Instead, she turned the conversation to Leona’s one weakness: Phil. “I should take the leftover rolls to Grandpa Phil. He’s having cereal for dinner.” Which sounded more appealing now than it had thirty minutes ago.

Leona stiffened. “He needs to eat more fiber and protein. A healthy diet will make him live longer. We should all learn from what happened to your father.” She couldn’t even call Dad by his first name.

Her grandmother’s apathy prodded Brit’s rebellious streak. “Phil’s freezer is full of frozen burritos.”

Reggie had taken her first bite of liver. She looked like a bug had flown into her mouth.

“There might be enough liver leftover to send Phil a serving.” Unlike most people her age, Leona had a way of frowning that minimized her wrinkles.

“He’d like that.” Not the liver, but that Leona had done something thoughtful for him. Poor dear was still stuck on his ex. The why was a mystery.

The liver was thin. Brit cut hers into baby-sized bites and began hiding them under the mashed potatoes. This wasn’t her first liver rodeo.

“I booked two guests for next weekend,” Reggie said proudly. “They bought the wine-tasting package. That’s fifty dollars more a night.”

“Don’t mention dollars at the dinner table.” Leona didn’t seem impressed with Reggie’s accomplishment. “I’m assuming you invited Brittany over because you’ve finally agreed to my terms. I can’t sell the Victorian to just one of you.”

“Yes.” Reggie set down her knife and fork on the far side of her plate, the way you did at restaurants to indicate you were done. She didn’t look at Brit. “We agree.”

We?

Brit choked on a bite of mashed potatoes. Maybe because a small piece of liver had made its way onto her fork. Maybe not. Maybe because she was choking on Reggie’s lie.

Leona stared at Reggie with calculating eyes. And then she laughed. “I smell desperation.”

“It’s the liver,” Brit said, half under her breath.

Reggie mentioned a crazy sum of money. She did not mention that Brit had refused to be her business partner.

A smart woman would have backed away from the table. A smart woman would have abandoned her twin to face Leona alone.

Brit sat very still.

“The money might be acceptable,” Leona said, as a queen might say a jewel-encrusted crown could use a few more Hope Diamonds. “But I have other conditions to the sale.”

“More than me being on the contract?” Brit asked in a strained voice.

Reggie had yet to meet Brit’s gaze, busy as she was selling her lies to Leona.

“Yes. I want to live here until the day I die.” Leona looked like she was playing her trump card. She was almost smiling. “Rent-free.”

Deal-breaker.

Brit met Reggie’s gaze across the liver platter and shook her head. Once upon a time, she and Reggie had been masters of twin-speak. Back before the Promotion Dance, Brit had been able to tell what Reggie was thinking before she started a sentence. And now? Her twin-speak was tuned to a different frequency. Was Reggie actually considering Grandmother Leona’s proposition?

“I may only be in a trade,” Brit ventured into the silence. “But I know a bad business deal when I see one. The answer is no.”

Reggie looked more stricken than when she’d been chewing the liver. What was wrong with her? She’d been a shark in hotel management. And now? In the course of twelve hours, she’d been pushed around by Shaggy Joe and Grandmother Leona. Maybe Reggie did need a business partner. Just not Brit.

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