Skating Over the Line (5 page)

A few minutes later, I polished off my coffee and walked through the double doors into the rink. A blast of classical music hit me. Mornings at the rink were reserved for private lessons, which meant Tchaikovsky or Mozart instead of the Village People and Three Dog Night. Currently, my primary private instructor, George, was busy shouting instructions to Danielle Martinez, the Lutheran church's secretary and a good friend of mine.

I watched Danielle finish her program with a well-executed spin. She had only been taking lessons for two months, and her progress was amazing. George was hoping to have Danielle ready to compete in another six months.

The fact that Danielle was graceful and athletic shouldn't have been a surprise, considering her past profession. Before moving to Indian Falls, she'd worked in Chicago as an exotic dancer—something only Lionel and I knew. Smiling, I thought about the strange turns life often takes.

Danielle wiped sweat from her forehead and spotted me. With a wave, she called out, “Tomorrow is going to be fun. Seven o'clock, right?”

Damn,
I thought while my head nodded. I'd forgotten about our bi-monthly get-together. “See you tomorrow at seven,” I yelled back. “Don't forget you have to bring dessert.”

Danielle smiled as her music started again, sending her rolling to the center of the floor. I headed to my office, where the message light on the answering machine was blinking.

Pressing the button, I plopped down in the chair. Pop's voice bellowing out of the machine made me sit straight up.

“Rebecca, you need to come down to the Senior Center at once. Another car has been stolen, and you'll never believe who it belongs to.”

Grabbing my purse, I flew out of my chair and through the office door before the machine stopped playing. I couldn't help myself. I was curious.

The responsible part of me stopped to talk to George before leaving. Like it or not, the rink was my business until the contracts were signed and the new owners took over. And to do that, I would need a manager. So I took the opportunity to ask George if he wanted the position—again.

The man stood six feet two inches tall. The skates added another two inches, which meant I had to crane my neck to look at him shake his platinum blond head and sweetly say, “No, but thanks for asking. Go ahead and run your errands. I'll take care of everything here.”

With that, he zoomed off to yell instructions at Danielle. She had just wiped out and was sprawled face-first in the middle of the rink floor.

Exiting the building, I shook my head at George's attitude. The man had been a fixture at the rink for over twenty years. He'd been my mother's best student. Then he became her best teacher. Now he was mine, and for some funny reason he refused to take over managing the rink. George was happy being unofficially in charge. I only hoped he wouldn't run off to join the Ice Capades before I found someone willing to let me pay him to do the job.

The sun beat down, and I began sweating immediately as I walked from the rink to the Senior Center. I could have driven my car the two and a half blocks. Problem was, my Honda Civic was one of the only yellow cars in town. I didn't want Deputy Sean to spot it sitting outside the center. I was in enough trouble with him as it was.

Beads of sweat dripped between my breasts as I walked through the center's front doors. Sean's squad car wasn't parked at the curb, so I wouldn't have to duck into the steam room to avoid him. I'd had to do that once to avoid a fight between Pop's menagerie of hysterical fans. Seeing that much wrinkled flesh scarred me more than the menagerie's acrylic nails.

Pop was waiting for me in the lobby. His eyes were bright, his lips curled in a triumphant smile.

“What's going on?” I asked. “You said on the machine another car was stolen.”

Pop's smile widened. “Yep. Someone took the car this morning from the retirement home's parking lot.”

My grandfather's unconcealed glee bothered me. No one deserved to have their car stolen. Not even Deputy Sean. “Why are you so happy?” I demanded. “Your message sounded like the car belonged to someone we know.”

“It does.”

“Who?”

Pop looked down the hallway as the sound of footsteps approached. He hooked a thumb toward the doorway and said, “Him.”

On cue, a man walked into the lobby, and my heart tightened in my chest. The man was wearing dark brown suit pants and a yellow silk shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His slicked-back auburn hair was touched with gray at the temples. His eyes widened as they spotted me and Pop. With a toothy snake-oil salesman's smile plastered on his face, he held out his arms and said, “Hey, baby. How about a hug for your daddy?”

I was wrong, I thought as anger and resentment bubbled through my veins. This man
did
deserve to have his car stolen. It was just too bad he hadn't been in it when it happened.

 

Six

Running away wasn't an option.
My feet were frozen to the floor as I looked into blue eyes the same shape and color as my own.

“What's wrong, honey?” My father's arms lowered an inch as confusion and unhappiness marched across his face. “Aren't you glad to see your dad?”

I resisted the unwanted tug at my heart. An unsuspecting soul might have believed Stan's hurt expression was real. Heck, I used to. That was until I learned my father was the king of deception and misdirection. Those skills were necessary for a good salesman, but they made for a lousy father.

“What are you doing here, Stan?” I asked, trying to keep years of anger, disappointment, and frustration out of my voice. My grandfather's widening smile told me I'd failed to.

“What do you mean?” Stan had the nerve to look confused. “I mailed you a letter telling you I was coming to town. Didn't you get it?”

“Yes, I got it,” I admitted. “But what I meant was, what are you doing
here,
at the Senior Center? Are you peddling Polygrip now?”

Stan flashed his pearly whites. “Not at the moment, but I might look into it after I'm finished with my current business venture.”

“What unsuspecting people are you swindling now?” Pop demanded, poking one wrinkled finger at my father's chest.

Stan slid a hand into his pants pocket and leaned back on his heels. It irked me to realize the man looked good. Relaxed and rested. Like he just stepped out of the editorial pages of the “Fifty and Over” edition of
GQ
.

“I'm not swindling anyone. I work in the music industry right now,” he said with a charming, self-depreciating tone. “But I should tell you that I'm thinking about getting out. Life on the road isn't what it used to be.”

“Especially when you don't have a car,” Pop quipped. The laughter in his voice rang throughout the lobby. My father was getting a kick in the butt from Karma, and Pop was going to savor every minute of it. Still chuckling, Pop said, “Why don't you skip the small talk and tell Rebecca what happened to your car? She deserves a laugh.”

Stan should have looked upset, right? Rebuffed? Unsettled? Any normal person would have been at least one of those. Nope. He just shrugged. “I got into town last night. When I woke up this morning, I went to find my car, but it was gone. Crime didn't used to be a problem in this town.”

“A lot of things change in twenty years,” I shot back.

Pop nodded. “Yeah, kind of like your father's choice of hotels. I didn't know the retirement home was renting rooms by the night.”

“Yes … well—” my father stammered as he tugged at the collar of his shirt. A crimson flush crept up his neck. For the first time today, he looked uncomfortable. “You see—”

“Stan, honey, I was wondering where you snuck off to.”

We all turned toward the source of the husky feminine voice. Standing in the entrance doorway was my Realtor, Doreen.

Her eyelashes batted behind her rhinestone-studded glasses. “Stan, Deputy Holmes wanted to ask a few more questions about your missing car. He was worried when he couldn't find you, but I told him I knew you'd be back. After all, your suitcase
is
in my room.”

My jaw and stomach plummeted. My eyes traveled from my father to Doreen and back to my father. “You stayed with Doreen last night?”

My father didn't answer me. Apparently, he'd developed a sudden interest in his loafers.

Doreen was far less interested in footwear. In an excited voice, she said, “Oh, I didn't see you there, Rebecca. Sorry. I hope I wasn't being indiscreet. Your father and I ran into each other last night at the diner, and he told me he needed a place to stay. You weren't home, and he had nowhere to go. Poor man.” She peered at me over her glasses.

The muscles in my neck stiffened and my fingers curled into fists.

“Now, Doreen,” Stan said in a low voice that made my nails dig into my sweaty palms. “I told you Rebecca didn't know when I was getting into town. I'm sure she would have made me welcome had she known I was here.”

When pigs fly.

My father's defense made my eyebrows twitch. Doreen's eyes swung toward me, as if she was waiting for me to say my father was welcome at my place. Only I wasn't going to say it. He'd given up his rights to playing the father card when he'd skulked off like the skunk he was almost two decades ago. If he thought differently, he had another think coming.

I crossed my arms over my chest.

My father looked at me with his big blue eyes. His mouth was curled in a gentle smile as he waited for me to say the words of welcome. The discount-store clock on the wall ticked off the passing seconds. Stan's feet shifted on the blue-and-gray linoleum floor. Pop's bushy eyebrows knit together in concern. A soft
tsk
escaped Doreen's mouth, underscored by the faint sounds of
The Price Is Right
.

Still I said nothing.

My father's eyes grew sad as his shoulders slumped in defeat. A knife twisted in my chest. My father jammed his hands into his pockets as his head drooped with a sigh. My stomach did a summersault. He really did look sad. Of course, I'd said that the last time he'd swept into my life, then sneaked back out.

I bit my bottom lip as I watched him standing there looking defeated. He could have changed, right? Stranger things had happened. Besides, he was my father. No matter how many times I might have wished differently.

Opening my mouth, I said, “Well, I guess—”

“You're not going to stay with Rebecca. You're staying with me, Stan.”

My head snapped toward my grandfather. His hands were planted on his bony hips, and his eyes dared anyone to question him. I'd seen him set his jaw like that before, and I knew he meant what he said. My father was going to bunk with my grandfather. If either one of them came out of it alive, it would be a miracle.

*   *   *

“Pop, what are you doing? You don't want Stan staying in your house.”

Pop just shrugged. My father and Doreen had gone back to the retirement home to answer Deputy Sean's questions, leaving Pop and me alone in the center's lobby.

“Look,” I said, “Stan can stay at the rink. It's no big deal. Really. I'm never there anyway.” Only to sleep and change clothes. I would be unconscious most of the time. That wouldn't be so bad, right?

“Nope,” Pop barked. “That man is not moving into the rink. He lost all rights to that place when he left you and your mother high and dry.” His eyes lost their steely quality. “Besides, I don't want to give him another chance to hurt you.”

A lump filled my throat. “He can't hurt me, Pop.”

My grandfather's grumble spoke volumes. He didn't believe me. I wasn't sure whether I was annoyed at his lack of faith or proud of his intuition. At seventy-six, Pop was sharp as a tack—albeit a slightly rusty one. And he loved me.

Swallowing hard, I changed the subject to something safer. “So what, exactly, happened to Stan's car?”

The mention of Stan's MIA automobile made Pop grin. “Someone nicked it. It was last seen in the retirement home's parking lot around midnight. Then poof.” Pop snapped his fingers. “It was gone. You think it would be in bad taste to give the culprit a medal?”

Pop should talk to Mrs. Moore.

“I think the Sheriff's Department and the mayor might have a problem with that. Unless you came up with a
really
good reason.”

Pop scratched his unshaven chin. “You know, our thief doesn't have very good taste in cars. First Jimmy's beat-up Bug and now your father's ancient Buick Skyhawk. Maybe we could make the thief an honorary member of the Indian Falls beautification committee. The new motto could be Cleaning Up the Town One Junker at a Time.”

Pop slapped his knee and cackled.

“So how did the thief swipe the car?” I asked, half curious, half trying to distract myself from unwanted thoughts about my nonexistent relationship with my dad. “Did Stan leave the key under the visor?” I seemed to remember that he'd done this when I was a kid.

“Not that I can tell. He had his keys with him. Someone must have hot-wired the car.” His eyes glazed into a sad, faraway look. “I always wanted to learn how to do that.”

“Maybe the center will hold a class.”

Pop brightened. “I'll have to tell the planning committee. I bet that would be a bigger draw than the Easter art class. Last time, the instructor ran out of pink paint and we had to use Pepto-Bismol.”

While the artistic stylings of our town's senior citizens were riveting, my mind was busy trying to decide how the thief had targeted my father's car. Jimmy was a local. He had a set routine: Drive car to town. Park car in a remote section of the rink's parking lot. Walk down to the Senior Center and stay there until after lunch. The thief would have had an easy time boosting Jimmy's car without being caught. Stan's was a different story.