Lilies and Lies (2 page)

Tight-lipped, closed off…probably eats nails with a side of lug nuts for breakfast.

Wyatt continued to stare at her as if she were a butterfly caught in molasses, and beneath his scrutiny Maddie felt like stomping her foot, but such a display of temper would only give Wyatt more fuel to treat her like a child. She leveled her voice. “You wouldn't give Reese—or Marcus, for that matter—such a hard time over taking one of the nursery's delivery trucks.”

“Neither of them has nose-dived into a ditch. On top of that, Reese knows the trucks better than the back of his own hand, and Marcus, well, he's Marcus. He can win the pole position in the Indy 500 riding a broom.”

“Are you insinuating I can't drive?”

“If the stick shift fits...”

“So I've had a few fender-benders. They weren't even my fault.”

“Maddie…mind your temper.”

“Why do you insist on treating me like a five-year-old?” Maddie stood to face him, her spine stiffening beneath the sunshine-yellow Cutler Nursery polo and khaki shorts. “I'm only three years younger than Reese, you know, and a full year older than Dillon, for that matter.”

“Of course I know. Dillon's a moot point, since he's still sequestered away at college. And I'm simply asserting that Reese has had experience with the delivery equipment—you haven't.”

“Well, as we have discussed, Reese is currently unavailable. As soon as he's finished in the grafting room, he's due to help Peyton over at the floral shop. They're going to finalize arrangements for Anthony's birthday bash.”

“Oh, right…” Wyatt drew a hand to his chin and brushed his knuckles along the stubble. His wedding band glinted beneath the sunlight, reminding her that he was now a husband, and soon to be a father. “That's this weekend, isn't it?”

“Yep. You'd better mark your calendar, or Kami will have your hide. You can't miss your father-in-law's big celebration.”

“Right. Between appointments with the obstetrician and an influx of business here, well…” Wyatt pulled his cellphone from his pocket, checked the calendar app and typed in a quick note. “Got it. Thanks for saving my skin.”

“You can thank me by acting like I have a brain in my head. And, unless you want to get your hands—and that ridiculous dress shirt of yours”—Maddie did a slow sweep of the shirt and his pressed khakis, complete with a neat leather belt—“dirty, you'd better hand over the keys.”

“OK, fine. But only if you promise to be very, very careful and to drop the truck off at Gunnar's garage on the way back, so he can take a look at the brakes. He'll give you a ride to the nursery if you ask, or you can call me and I'll fetch you.”

Fetch you…what was she, a Golden Retriever?
She'd sparred with Wyatt her entire life, and she'd learned early on that there was no winning that battle. He'd had much more experience in the sparring arena. Better to play nice and use her wit instead of her will, just as Mom had taught her to do when dealing with her brothers. She plastered on a smile. “It's a deal. I promise.” She'd also stop by the hardware store and have a spare copy of every key on the ring made while she was out, so she wouldn't ever again have to beg Wyatt's permission to take any of the nursery's vehicles. “Now, hand over the keys.”

“OK, then.” Wyatt tugged a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to her. “I'll sacrifice the shirt off my back to help you get things loaded so you can be on your way.”

 

 

 

 

2

 

Gunnar Holt hummed along to music that poured from the garage's sound system as he adjusted the carburetor on an ancient car. The sedan was a hair's breadth from life support, but he wasn't ready to send it on to glory since it provided Mrs. Johnson's only means of transportation. So he stitched up the engine and gave it a proverbial hit of oxygen while offering a heartfelt prayer that the battered metal would live to chauffer the lively older woman for another day.

“A sweet cherry-red ragtop Mustang with all the bells and whistles just pulled into the farthest bay, Uncle Gunnar. Sam's salivating over it as he checks the fluids.” His nephew, Kyle, loped across the service area to stand beside him. Together, they surveyed the dying engine. “But no one's salivating over this hunk of junk. You think you can patch this mess up one more time?”

“I'm giving it my best shot.” Gunnar leaned in to tighten a bolt as Axle, his chocolate lab, rolled over and grunted from where he lay sprawled on a worn comforter beneath the corner workbench. “You finish your homework, Kyle?”

“Most of it.”

“Most doesn't cut it. No computer until every last math problem is solved.”

“I know the routine, and I might need a little help with that when you have a few minutes. Graphing linear equations might as well be a foreign language. It's a waste of time. When am I ever gonna use it?”

“That's a good question, one I don't have a decent answer for at the moment.”

“Figured as much.” Kyle tossed blond hair back from his forehead.

The gesture reminded Gunnar of his sister, Charlene, and made him wonder where she was and what she was up to. Just as quickly, he forced the thought from his mind. No point going down that road. Not at the moment, at least.

“I just came to let you know Wyatt Cutler called. His sister Maddie is going to bring one of their trucks by when she's done with a delivery. He says you need to take a look at the brakes.”

“Thanks.” The mention of Maddie Cutler caused an unsettling twist in Gunnar's gut, one he couldn't put a label on. The only Cutler sister had been away at college when Gunnar found his way to Clover Cove three years ago. Then last summer she flitted into his shop, her fuel line torn to shreds and needing the tires rotated on her sporty little Mazda. He'd done the job while she stood in the doorway of the waiting area, one slender, jean-clad hip propped against the frame, talking his ear off.

Gunnar remembered how, at one point, he'd glanced over to see sunlight spilling over her through the bay opening, turning her waves of hair to a waterfall of copper. The image literally stole his breath, and his lower jaw could manage no more than a series of soundless flaps as he struggled to respond to the pair of questions she'd just asked.

What made you want to come here, to Clover Cove, Gunnar?
Don't you miss your family back home?

“Are you OK?” Kyle's voice drew him back. Gunnar shifted feet as Kyle tugged at the sleeve of his grease-stained over-shirt. “Earth to Uncle Gunnar.”

“I'm fine.” Gunnar shook his head to chase the memory—and the unnerving feeling it created—away. He didn't have time for a woman, especially one as off-the-chain as Maddie Cutler. “Go make a note about Maddie's brakes on the intake board, OK?”

“Sure, and what about the bill for Mrs. Johnson? Sam told me to ask you how you want to handle it this time.”

“Just like always, there will be no bill. This repair is pro bono.”

“I thought pro bono was just for lawyers.”

“It works for mechanics, too.”

“Then, I wonder what Mrs. Johnson will cook for us this time…baked lasagna or eggplant parmigiana. I vote for the eggplant, even though it sounds gross. Eggs aren't plants and they're not purple, either. So why do they call that weird-looking thing that Mrs. Johnson fries and slathers in marinara sauce eggplant?”

“You got me. It ranks right up there with your question about linear equations.”

“Maybe I'll Google it later.”

“Sounds like a plan…
after
your homework is done.”

“Anyway, even if the parmigiana does have something as gross-sounding as eggplant in it, somehow, the old bat manages to pull it off.”

“She's not an old bat.” Gunnar's head snapped up, his gaze full of heated warning. Had he made a statement such as that when he was Kyle's age, his step-father would have slapped him upside the head. That or laughed right alongside him, depending on the amount of booze in the old man's system at the time. But, Gunnar would do neither. Instead, he drew a deep breath and prayed for patience. “Where did you learn to talk so disrespectfully?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, it doesn't fly here. Respect is the word of the day—every day and in all situations. Got it?”

“Sure.” Kyle shrugged. “No problem. I'm sorry.”

“OK, then.” Gunnar needn't have asked where Kyle had adopted such behavior. His nephew had been left to his own devices way too long. It was a miracle the kid hadn't yet stumbled into irrevocable mischief the way he was allowed to run the streets of Atlanta before he arrived in Clover Cove. Now Gunnar was left to undo the damage.

He grimaced, wondering how he'd manage without losing every ounce of his patience—and hair. Thank God he had plenty to spare…in the hair department, at least. “Mrs. Johnson doesn't have to bake us anything, Kyle. Pro bono means free, not ‘let's barter for a home-cooked meal'.”

“But I like home-cooked. It sure beats your soggy grilled cheese sandwiches and beans.” His gaze swept to Axle. “Geez, some days Axle's dinner looks better than ours.”

“You're welcome to commandeer the kitchen anytime you'd like. Maybe you can Google a decent meal…one that won't set the kitchen on fire.”

“No thanks. I'll stick to helping out in the garage. I like it here. You can get dirty and no one cares.” He tapped the car's fan belt, tested it for slack the way he'd been taught, and grinned at the black smudges that tattooed his fingers as he pulled them away from the engine. “I like the way it smells, too…like hard work. Why are you so nice to the…um, to Mrs. Johnson?”

“Because I can be.” Gunnar handed Kyle the wrench and wiped his hands on a shop towel. Kyle was right—the garage did smell good in its own sort of way. A blend of motor oil and tire rubber mingled with coffee from the pot that always held fresh brew. The scent was a balm to Gunnar. He thought of Mrs. Johnson and felt a slight smile tug at his lips. Truth be told, the elderly woman held a soft spot in his heart. She'd been his very first customer when he'd opened shop in Clover Cove and had greeted him with a smile and kind words he hadn't expected. She was the reason he'd joined Clover Cove Community Church, where he'd met the Cutlers and lots of other friends who also became his customers. And Mrs. Johnson had encouraged him to use his guitar music to grow the fledgling youth program there. The fact that he was so connected to believers, firmly grounded in his new-found faith, had saved him when his sister shipped Kyle off to live with him three months ago. The kid certainly needed a place to belong, and the Community Church was a much better venue than running the streets…not that the Cove's streets offered much in the way of mischief. That was one of the reason's Gunnar had chosen to plant some roots here…the quiet hometown hospitality. The other reasons, well, they didn't much matter anymore. Gunnar stepped back from the car and slammed the hood before turning back to Kyle. “You should be nice to Mrs. Johnson, too. She's always been good to me, to us.”

“If I'm nice, do you think she'll send over more of that barbecue chicken I liked so much, with a side of homemade potato salad?”

“It's a possibility. And, if she doesn't, well, being nice never hurt anyone, anyway.”

Kyle's gaze slipped to Gunnar's arms, exposed by the sleeves he'd pushed up to his elbows. “Except—”

“No more discussion until your math is done.” Gunnar had no desire, at the moment, to discuss his sister or anything else from his past. And he knew, sure as he was standing, that's where Kyle was headed. Sometimes the kid asked way too many questions. Gunnar tugged the sleeve of his work shirt over his wrist, covering a wide, jagged scar that ran the length of his right forearm. “Now, scoot. I'll come to help you as soon as I'm finished here. Then, if you get everything done, I'll treat you to dinner at Pappy's Pizzeria. Deal?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kyle wiped his hands on his jeans as he turned away. “Stuffed crust pepperoni pizza and chocolate chip cheesecake's the special on Tuesday night.”

“You mean you've memorized the menu?”

“Yeah. That place rocks. Yum!”

“Try memorizing the formula for graphing linear equations. Remember, no yum 'til the work is done.”

“You made a rhyme, Uncle Gunnar. Cool.” Kyle's exuberant voice reverberated off the walls, playing havoc with the sound system. “I'll get right to—”

He paused at the doorway, cocked his head to the side as his gaze suddenly darkened. “What's that rumbling noise?”

As if on cue, Axle stood and bound from beneath the workbench. He growled as he bolted toward the bay entrance that fronted the boulevard. Hair along the length of his back stood straight up.

“What—” The walls began to shake, and it took only a moment for Gunnar to realize something was very wrong. He turned toward the bay opening, caught a flash of yellow before a grinding shriek rocked the building. Gunnar took two giant leaps toward the doorway, shielding Kyle with a body-slam that sent him sprawling into the waiting area, where he nearly landed on the coffee bar. A horrific crash was followed by an ear-shattering screech as Axle chased in tight circles, barking. Concrete dust billowed up in a mushroom-shaped plume as Mrs. Johnson's poor, battered vehicle folded like an accordion against the far wall. For what seemed an eternity the shop was cast into shadows while a Cutler Nursery delivery truck split through the cloud like a raging solar flare. It came to rest merely inches from where Gunnar and Kyle were planted.

Kyle coughed as he waved the dust from his face. He fixed his huge, brown eyes on Gunnar as a box of spark plugs toppled from a shelf and bounced off what was left of the damaged car's hood before scattering across the shrapnel-dusted concrete.