Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis
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.”
“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