A Dream of His Own. Gail Gaymer Martin
in his back quarter panel, the shiny black paint gouged and buckled against the woman’s dark red sedan.
She glared at him from the driver’s window, her eyes narrowed as determination set in her jaw. She pushed open her car door with a dramatic sweep, stepped out and slammed it. “Look what you’ve done.” Her arm swung toward the damage. Shattered glass from the taillight dotted the asphalt, and her trunk lid had sprung loose from the lock.
Trying to monitor his frustration, he shook his head. “It wasn’t my fault. I checked my mirrors.” He peered back at her. “More than once.” Yet in the back of his mind, he knew he’d been distracted by his thoughts. Could he have been careless?
She bustled closer. “Do you think I don’t check my mirrors?”
“I have no idea, but—” Seeing tears collecting in her eyes, he felt less inclined to argue. “Are you okay?” He skimmed her frame, noticing beyond her distraught expression how attractive she was.
Her eyes snapped from him to her sedan. “I’m fine, but I can’t be without a car, and if I report the accident, my insurance rates will go up. I can’t afford—” Words rushed from her like air from a pricked balloon. Once she recovered, she waved her hand in the air. “Never mind. It’s not your problem.” She paled and pressed her hand to her heart, her fingernails painted the color of a ripe peach.
He eyed her hand. No wedding band, and probably a one-car family. Ice slid through his veins. He didn’t allow himself to make mistakes. Not when it came to driving. He pulled out his wallet for his insurance information. “We should call the police.”
Panic struck her face. “Police? For what? They don’t care about fender-denters.”
Despite her alarmed expression, he chuckled. “You mean fender-benders.”
She evaded his eyes. “Whatever.”
“I suppose. The police have enough to do. Neither of us is injured.”
She gave a decisive nod and strode closer to her damaged sedan. When she tried to force down the trunk lid, it resisted.
“Let me help.” He moved past her and forced it downward, but it refused to catch. He eyed his quarter panel damage. It fared better than her sedan. “I might have something in my car to tie it down.”
When he lifted his trunk lid, a horn tooted. He gave the guy a shrug as he pointed to the damage. The man made an obscene gesture before he backed up and moved off. Quinn shook his head. What happened to kindness and compassion?
After scouring inside his trunk for a piece of rope, anything to secure the lid, he found nothing. Discouraged, he straightened. “You didn’t happen to purchase something in the hardware store we could use, did you? String? Twine? Tape?”
She shook her head. “No. Only O-rings, gaskets, washers, pipe joint compound and a wrench.”
Plumbing supplies. His brow tugged upward, his curiosity spiked. What did she know about O-rings?
She leaned into her trunk and came up shaking her head. Moisture hinted in her eyes. “I’ll run inside and buy—”
His chest constricted. “Let me.” As he opened his wallet to pull out some bills, a blue strand beneath his backseat caught his eye. He reached in and drew out a bungee cord. He held it up. “No need. This will work.”
Though she’d accepted his help, the woman remained cautious and hadn’t given him the hint of a grin even though she’d made him chuckle. Still he’d spotted her smile lines traveling from her full cheeks to her well-shaped lips, the same color as her fingernails. He’d love to see her smile and to ask about the plumbing supplies. Instead, he focused on the situation, winding the cord around the bumper and through the inside workings of the trunk until he secured the lid. “I’ll follow you to a body shop.”
“A body shop?” She closed her eyes, the strain evident on her face. “I have no idea where one is.” She shook her head. “I’ll…I’ll drive home and call a friend.” She glanced at her watch. “Lexie should be home.”
Quinn’s jaw slacked, hearing the uncommon name. “Lexie Fox?”
She drew back, her eyes widening. “Do you know her?”
“She and Ethan are members of my church.”
Her eyes glazed as if unable to comprehend what he’d said. “Really?”
“Really.”
She gazed at him without a response, her face taut.
He rubbed his hands together, sensing he had to do something to relieve her stress. “I’m here. There’s a body shop a few blocks from here on Main Street. Randy will give you a free estimate.”
“Free?”
“No charge.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this?”
Something about her tugged at his heart as he managed to grin. “I’m a nice guy.”
Her suspect expression melted. “I guess you are.”
Quinn had to look away to stop his pulse from racing. “It’s on my way home.” He eyed his SUV’s damage, his heart sinking. “I’ll follow you to keep an eye on your trunk. If it pops up, pull over.”
Her shoulders lifted in a sigh. “Thanks.” She rotated her wrist and looked at her watch. “I’ll be late getting home. I should call my son.”
A son. Blurred memories raced through his mind.
She delved into her handbag, pulled out a cell phone and pressed a couple of buttons.
Though he stepped back, her voice reached him.
“Bran. This is Mom.” She pressed her lips together as she listened. “You want to what?” The corners of her mouth pulled down. “Okay, but be home by eight. No later and no excuses.”
Quinn’s lungs constricted as the boy’s baritone voice murmured from her cell phone so like his son’s.
“No. I’m running a little late. I didn’t want you to worry.” She paused as if ready to disconnect. Instead she pulled the phone back to her ear. “Did you take your pills?” She nodded. “Good. Now remember. Eight o’clock. And no excuses, Brandon.” She clicked off and slipped the phone into her handbag.
Quinn waited, a multitude of questions rattling in his head—questions about her son, about the medication and about her and the hint of tears.
She looked into the distance and said nothing.
Silence pressed against his ears. He’d lived with silence and had accepted it as a way of life, but this was different. He wanted to know her.
“Why do problems always come in a row?” Her voice caught him off guard, and when he looked at her, her eyes said far more than her words.
“I don’t know.” His guilt-riddled thoughts intensified as he reviewed checking his mirrors. Since the tragic accident, he’d become overly cautious. But had he been today? “Problems multiply.” His certainly had.
As if the wind had been knocked out of her, she nodded. “My son is bugging me about his learner’s permit. He’s completing his classes, and every day he asks and whines about why I’m not enthusiastic. Once he starts driving, my insurance will…” Her brows furrowed.
He suspected she’d picked up on his distraction. He struggled to dig himself from the deep crevice. “Teens can be persistent.”
His feeble response hung in the air as he diverted the conversation by giving her directions to the body shop. In the driver’s seat, he pulled forward to give her room to back out while the sound of grating metal assaulted his ears.
She maneuvered the sedan into the lane and drove ahead, her trunk lid bouncing