The Guardian

But she didn't. For some reason, she couldn't. And he didn't tell her much about himself, either, she noticed. He had a way of avoiding the past as well.

But wasn't that what it came down to in the end? The ability to communicate, to open up, to trust? She and Jim had had that, but like "the chicken or the egg" dilemma, she couldn't remember which part had come first, the little tingles on the back of her neck or all those other things.

The ringing of the phone interrupted her musings. Singer followed her to the living room as Julie picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"So what happened?" Emma demanded. "I want to hear all about it. And don't leave anything out."

"A foot massage?" Mike asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief. It was the one part he hadn't heard about from strangers.

"That's what she told Emma yesterday."

"But . . . a foot massage?"

"I'll admit he does have a flair about him."

"That's not what I mean." Mike paused, pushing his hands into his pockets. His face took on a distracted look.

Henry leaned forward. "Listen, I hate to offer you more bad news, but Benny's called to say he's coming in today."

Mike winced. Benny, he thought. Good God, Benny.

Oh, this day was turning out grand, wasn't it?

"And Blansen still needs his truck," Henry went on. "You'll have it done, right? It's part of the contract I worked out with the bridge people, so it's important."

"Yeah, I'll be finished."

Andrea couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. The whole thing made her practically sick to her stomach, especially with Julie's oh-so-nonchalant attitude about the whole thing. A limousine? Champagne? The play . . . Phantom of the Soap Opera or whatever it was called? Hot-air balloon ride? Picnic at the beach?

Andrea didn't want to hear it. She didn't even want to overhear it by accident, but that wasn't possible in a small place like this.

Her weekend hadn't been anything like Julie's. No, her weekend was just like all the others she'd spent lately, just another in a long line of forgettable weekends. On Friday, she'd spent the evening at the Clipper, fighting off Cobra's advances for the second time. Even though she hadn't planned on meeting him there, he'd spotted her right off and had been all over her the whole evening like a bug on roadkill. And Saturday? How about spending hours mending the stupid fingernail tips she'd lost the night before? How's that for a weekend, honey? she wanted to shout. I'll bet that just makes your blood bubble with jealousy, huh?

But of course, no one had even asked about her weekend. No, all Mabel and Julie cared about was what Julie did. Then what happened? I'll bet you were surprised, huh? Sounds wonderful. Julie, Julie, Julie. It was always all about Julie. And Julie shrugging and going on like the whole thing was no big deal at all.

In the corner, Andrea filed her nails like a human belt sander. This, she thought, wasn't the way things were supposed to be.

Richard pushed open the door of the salon and held it as Julie's client made her way out.

"Oh, hey, Richard," Julie said. "Good timing. I just finished up."

Though she wasn't any closer to sorting through her emotions, she was still glad he'd come by, if only to understand whether seeing him would make them any clearer.

"You look beautiful," he said, leaning in to kiss her.

Despite the brevity, for Julie it was an almost analytical undertaking when their lips met. No fireworks, she thought, but no sense of dread, either. Just . . . a kiss.

And if I keep going on like this, she immediately thought, I'll end up as crazy as my mother.

"Do you have a few minutes to grab a cup of coffee?" he asked.

Mabel had gone to the bank. Andrea was flipping through the National Enquirer in the corner-"reading the paper," she called it-but Julie knew she was listening in.

"Yeah," Julie said. "I've got a little time. My next appointment is in half an hour."

As she answered, Richard's eyes focused on the soft triangle of flesh beneath her chin.

"Where's the locket?" he asked.

Julie's hand traveled automatically to her chest. "Oh-I didn't wear it today. It kept getting snagged on my clothes when I was working, and I've got a couple of perms this afternoon."

"Why didn't you just tuck it inside?"

"I tried, but it kept falling out." She took a step toward the door. "C'mon," she said. "Let's get out of here. I haven't been outside all morning."

"Should I get you a shorter chain?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's perfect just the way it is."

"But you're not wearing it," he persisted.

Julie didn't respond, and in the long silence that followed, she looked at him carefully. Though he was smiling, there was something almost plastic about his expression.

"Does it bother you that much that I didn't wear it?" she asked.

"It's just that I thought you liked it."

"I do like it. I just don't want to wear it while I'm working."

Again, his bland expression seemed forced, but before she could dwell on it, Richard seemed to snap out of the spell he'd been under and his smile suddenly became natural again, as if the whole thing had been an illusion.

"I'll get you a shorter chain," he said. "That way you'll have two and you can wear it whenever you want."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," he said, dropping his gaze for a moment, then meeting hers again. "But I want to."

She stared at him, suddenly feeling . . . what?

Andrea set down the Enquirer in disgust as soon as they left the salon. Julie, she thought, was just about the biggest idiot on the face of the planet.

After a weekend like she'd just spent, what was Julie thinking?

She had to know that Richard would be coming in. He'd been coming in every single day, and she could understand exactly why Richard was hurt by her lack of consideration. Who wouldn't be? It's not every day that a guy like Richard comes along, handing out gifts like a politician spending Christmas Eve at the orphanage. But did Julie appreciate the things he did? Did she ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, she should think of what might make Richard happy, instead of herself? Did she ever stop to consider that maybe Richard had bought her the locket because he wanted her to wear the stupid thing? Because wearing it would show that she appreciated all the things he was doing for her?

The problem was, Julie didn't know how good she had it. No doubt she thought all guys were like Richard. She probably thought all guys spent gobs of money on gifts and dates and took women out in limousines. But that wasn't the way things were. Not in this small town, anyway. There wasn't, as far as Andrea could tell, a single decent guy in the whole town. Hell, the limo alone probably cost more than all of her dates in the last year combined. It probably cost more than most of her dates earned in a year.

Andrea shook her head. Julie didn't deserve a guy like him.

It was just lucky for her that Richard was such a great guy. And let's not, of course, forget the way he looked. Richard, she was beginning to think, was just about the sexiest man she'd ever seen.

Manipulated.

That's how Julie was feeling now that Richard had gone back to work.

Manipulated. As though he'd wanted her to promise that she'd start wearing the locket at work again. As though she should feel guilty that she hadn't.

As though she should wear it all the time.

She didn't like that feeling, and she was trying to reconcile it with the man who'd taken her out over the weekend. Why was he so upset about something so . . . insignificant? Was it really that big a deal to him?

Unless, of course, he was wondering if it was some sort of subconscious statement as to how she was feeling toward him.

Julie froze momentarily, wondering if that might be true, especially given the way she'd been feeling on Sunday. She'd worn the locket since he'd given it to her, she'd worn it on the weekend. And the locket wasn't imposs

ible to work with, just inconvenient. But this morning, she'd decided to leave it at home, so maybe . . .

No, Julie thought, shaking her head, that wasn't it. She'd known exactly what she was doing. The locket did get in the way. She'd almost cut the chain twice last week, and it had gotten snagged in people's hair more times than that. She hadn't worn it because she didn't want it to get ruined.

Besides, that wasn't the point. This wasn't about her and why she did or didn't wear it, this was about Richard and the way he'd reacted. And not only that it happened, but how it happened. The way he'd said it, the look on his face, the feeling it gave her . . . all of it bothered her.

Jim had never been like that. When Jim got mad-which wasn't all that often, she had to admit-he didn't try to manipulate her. Nor did he try to hide his anger behind a smile. Nor did Jim ever leave her with the impression that Richard had left her with, one she didn't like at all.

As long as we do it my way, everything will be fine, Richard seemed to imply. We won't have this problem again.

What, she wondered, was that all about?

Ten

Mike was standing in the garage, nodding thoughtfully, doing his best not to wring his customer's neck.

And Henry's as well, for foisting this particular customer on him. As soon as Benny Dickens had entered, Henry had suddenly remembered an important call he'd forgotten to make and scampered out of sight.

"You don't mind taking care of him, do you, Mike?"

Benny was twenty-one years old, and his family owned the phosphorus mine just outside town; the company had more than three hundred people on its payroll, making it Swansboro's largest employer. Benny had dropped out of school in the tenth grade, but he owned a monstrous home on the river, purchased with Daddy's money. Benny didn't work, Benny had never so much as contemplated going to work, and there were at least two little Bennys living in town, by two different women. But the Dickens family was far and away the largest account at the garage, the kind of customer that small businesses couldn't afford to lose. And Daddy loved his son. Daddy believed his son walked on water. Daddy, Mike had long ago decided, was an idiot.

"Louder," Benny said, his cheeks beginning to flush, his voice rising to a whine. "I told you that I wanted it loud!"

He was talking about the engine of his recently purchased Callaway Corvette. He'd brought it into the garage so that Mike could "make the engine loud." Mike supposed he wanted it that way so it would match the flames he'd had painted on the hood last week and the custom stereo system he'd had installed. Though he didn't attend college, Benny was taking the car to Ft. Lauderdale for spring break next week in the hopes of seducing as many young ladies as he could. Such an impressive young man.

"It is loud," Mike said. "If I made it any louder, it would be illegal."

"It's not illegal."

"You'll get pulled over," Mike said, "I guarantee it."

Benny blinked, as if trying to understand what Mike had just said.

"You don't know what you're talking about, you stupid grease monkey. It's not illegal, you hear me?"

"Stupid grease monkey," Mike said, nodding. "Got it."

Two hands around his neck, thumbs on his Adam's apple. Squeeze and shake.

Benny put his hands on his hips. As usual, he was wearing his Rolex.

"Doesn't my dad get all his trucks serviced here?"

"Yes."

"And haven't I been a good customer, too?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't this the place that I brought my Porsche and my Jaguar?"

"Yes."

"Don't I always pay on time?"

"Yes."

Benny waved his arms in exasperation, his voice growing louder.

"Then why didn't you make the engine loud! I remember coming in here and explaining this very clearly just a couple of days ago. I said I wanted it loud! For cruising the strip! Chicks dig loud! And I'm not going down there for the sun! You hear me?"

"Chicks, not sun," Mike said. "Got it."

"So make it loud!"

"Loud."

"Right! And I want it done by tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow."

"Loud! You can understand that, right? Loud!"

"Right."

Henry was rubbing his jaw in contemplation as he stood behind Mike. As soon as Benny had screeched off in his Jaguar, he'd reentered the garage. Mike was still seething, mumbling to himself as he tinkered with the engine, unaware of Henry's presence.

"Maybe you should have made it louder," Henry offered. "The engine, I mean."

Mike looked up. "Shut up, Henry."

Henry raised his hands, as if playing innocent. "I'm just trying to be helpful."

"Yeah, sure. Like the guy flipping the switch on the electric chair. Why did you make me deal with that guy?"

"You know I can't stand him."

"Oh, and I can?"

"Maybe not. But you're much better at taking abuse than I am. You handle it so well, and you know we can't afford to lose his dad's company as a client."

"I almost strangled him."

"But you didn't. And just think, now we can probably charge him extra."

"It's still not worth it."

"Ah, Mike, c'mon. You handled yourself like a true professional. I was impressed."

"He called me a stupid grease monkey."

"Coming from him, you should probably take that as a compliment." Henry put his hand on Mike's shoulder. "But listen, if it happens again, maybe you should try something different. To calm him down a bit."

"Duct tape?"

"No, I was thinking of something a little more subtle."

"Such as?"

"I don't know." He paused and began rubbing his jaw again. "Did you ever consider offering him a foot massage?"

Mike's mouth opened.

Sometimes he absolutely hated his brother's guts.

Jake Blansen arrived a little after four to pick up the truck, and after settling the account in the office, he made his way toward Mike.

"The keys are in the ignition," Mike said. "And just to let you know, I adjusted the brakes so they're not so loose. Just be ready for it. Other than that, it's good to go."

Jake Blansen nodded. The consummate workingman, Jake was beer bellied and broad shouldered, with a toothpick wedged between his teeth and a NASCAR logo on his baseball cap. Wide swaths of sweat had soaked through his shirt, leaving circular stains beneath his arms. His jeans and boots were coated in concrete dust.

"I'll let 'em know," Jake said. "Though to be honest, I don't know why I got stuck with all this anyway. Maintenance was supposed to be handling all the vehicle stuff. But I guess you know how it goes. The bosses over there have everything screwed up."

Mike nodded in Henry's direction. "I know what you mean. That guy over there can be a real pain sometimes, too. But I heard he has to take Viagra, so I guess I can't blame him. Must be hard to know that he's only half a man."

Jake laughed. He liked that.

Mike smiled as well, feeling at least partially avenged. "So how many guys you got out there these days?"

"I don't even know. A couple hundred, maybe. Why? You looking for a job?"

"No-I'm a mechanic. It's just that I met one of the engineers who consults on the bridge."

"Which one?"

"Richard Franklin. Do you know him?"

Holding Mike's gaze, Jake removed the toothpick from his mouth. "Yeah, I know him," he said.

"Nice guy?"

"What do you think?" he asked.

The wariness in his tone made Mike hesitate. "I take it the answer's no."

Jake seemed to evaluate his answer.

"So what's it to you?" he finally asked. "You his friend?"

"No-like I said, I only met him once."

"Keep it that way. You don't want to know him."

"Why?"

After a long moment Jake shook his head, and though Mike tried to find out more, he said nothing. Instead, he turned the conversation back

to the truck and left the shop a few minutes later, leaving Mike wondering what it was that Jake hadn't told him and why that suddenly seemed more important than the things he had said.

His thoughts, though, were interrupted when Singer came trotting in.

"Hey, big guy!" Mike called out.

When Singer got close, he jumped up, balancing on two legs, his front paws pressing against Mike's chest as if they were dancing at the prom. Singer squeaked low in his throat, sounding excited.

"What are you doing here?" Mike asked.

Singer dropped back to all fours again, then turned and started toward Mike's locker.

"I don't have any food," Mike said, following him. "But I know Henry has some in his office. Let's go clean him out."

Singer led the way. After opening the bottom drawer of Henry's desk, Mike pulled out Henry's favorites-the miniature powdered sugar doughnuts and chocolate-chip cookies-and dropped into Henry's chair. He tossed them one by one, and Singer caught them in the air, gobbling them down like a frog catching flies. Though it probably wasn't good for him, his tail wagged in approval the whole time. Even better, Henry was going to be really annoyed when he realized his stash was gone. Sort of like getting two for the price of one.

With her last customer of the day on her way out, Julie glanced around the salon. "Have you seen Singer?" she asked Mabel.

"I let him out a while ago," Mabel said. "He was standing at the door."

"How long ago was that?"

"I guess about an hour."

Julie glanced at her watch. Singer was never gone this long.

"And he hasn't come back?"

"I think I saw him heading toward Mike's."

Singer was curled up on an old blanket, snoring off the sugary treats as Mike adjusted the transmission of a Pontiac Sunbird.

"Hey, Mike," Julie called out. "You still here?"

Mike looked up at the sound of her voice and moved out into the bay. "Back here," he called out. Singer raised his head, his eyes groggy.

"Have you seen Singer?"

"Yeah, he's right here." He nodded off to the side and grabbed a rag. As he wiped his hands, Singer rose and started toward her.