The Guardian

"So how much were the repairs?" she asked.

Mike seemed to debate the question as he scratched his chin absently. "Two haircuts should do it."

"Come on. Let me pay this time. At least for the parts. I do have money, you know."

In the past year, the Jeep, an older-model CJ7, had been in the shop three times. Mike, however, was somehow able to keep it running smoothly between visits.

"You are paying," Mike protested. "Even though my hair's getting a little thinner, it does need to be cut now and then."

"Well, two haircuts doesn't sound like a fair trade."

"It didn't take all that long to fix. And the parts weren't that much. The guy owed me a favor."

Julie raised her chin slightly. "Does Henry know you're doing this?"

Mike spread his arms, looking innocent. "Of course he knows. I'm his partner. And besides, it was his idea."

Sure it was, she thought.

"Well, thanks," she finally said. "I appreciate it."

"My pleasure." Mike paused. Wanting to talk a little longer but not knowing exactly what to say, he glanced toward Singer. Singer was watching him closely, his head tilted to the side, as if urging: Well, get on with it, Romeo. Both of us know the real reason you're talking to her. Mike swallowed.

"So how'd it go with . . . um . . ." He tried to sound as casual as he could.

"Richard?"

"Yeah. Richard."

"It was nice."

"Oh."

Mike nodded, feeling beads of perspiration forming on his brow. He wondered how it could possibly be so hot this early in the morning.

"So . . . um . . . where'd you go?" he asked.

"The Slocum House."

"Pretty fancy for a first date," he offered.

"It was either that or Pizza Hut. He let me pick."

Mike shifted from one foot to the other, waiting to see if she would add anything else. She didn't.

Not good, he thought. Richard was definitely different from Bob, the romantic number cruncher. Or Ross, the sex maniac. Or Adam from the bowels of Swansboro. With guys like that as the competition, Mike thought he stood a chance. But Richard? The Slocum House? It was nice?

"So . . . you had a good time?" he asked.

"Yeah. We had fun."

Fun? How much fun? This, he thought, was not good at all.

"I'm glad," he lied, doing his best to fake enthusiasm.

Julie reached for his arm. "Don't worry, Mike. You know I'll always love you the most, right?"

Mike pushed his hands in his pockets. "That's just because I fix your car," he said.

"Don't sell yourself short," she said. "You helped patch my roof, too."

"And repaired your washing machine."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then gave his arm a squeeze.

"What can I say, Mike? You're just a good guy."

Julie could feel Mike's eyes on her as she walked to the salon, though unlike the way she felt about some men's attention, she wasn't bothered at all. He was a good friend, she thought, then quickly changed her mind. No, Mike was a really good friend, someone she wouldn't hesitate to call in an emergency; the kind of friend who made life in Swansboro a whole lot easier simply because she knew he'd always be there for her. Friends like him were rare, and that's why she felt bad for keeping some of the more private aspects of her life-like her most recent date-off-limits.

She didn't have the heart to go into detail about it, because Mike . . . well, Mike wasn't exactly Mr. Mysterious when it came to how he felt about her, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. What was she supposed to have said? Compared to my other dates, Richard was great! Sure, I'd go out with him again! She knew Mike wanted to date her; she'd known that for a couple of years now. But her feelings for Mike-aside from regarding him as her best friend-were complicated. How could they not be? Jim and Mike had been best friends growing up, Mike had been best man at their wedding, and Mike had been the one she'd turned to for comfort after Jim had died. He was more like a brother, and it wasn't as if she could flip a switch and suddenly change the way she felt.

But it was more than just that. Because Jim and Mike were so close, because Mike had been part of both their lives, even imagining a date with him always left her with a vague feeling of betrayal. If she agreed to go out with him, did that mean that deep down, she'd always wanted to? What would Jim think about it? And would she ever be able to look at Mike without thinking of Jim and those times in the past that they were all together? She didn't know. And what would happen if they did go out, but for whatever reason it didn't work out? Things would change between them, and she couldn't bear losing him as a friend. It was easier if things just stayed the way they were.

She suspected that Mike knew all of this and it was probably the reason he'd never so much as asked her out, despite the fact that it was obvious he wanted to.

Sometimes, though-like when they were on the boat last summer waterskiing with Henry and Emma-she got the feeling that he was working up the nerve to do it, and Mike was a little comical when those moods seemed to strike him. Instead of being Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-the first to laugh at jokes, even those made at his expense, the guy you'd ask to go pick up some more beer from the convenience store because everyone knew he wouldn't mind-Mike would suddenly get quiet, as if he suspected his whole problem with Julie arose from the fact that she didn't think he was being quite cool enough. Instead of laughing at what the others were saying, he'd wink or roll his eyes or study his fingernails, and when he'd grinned at her on the boat that time, it had looked as if he were trying to say, Hey, baby, how about we blow this joint and have some real fun? His older brother, Henry, was ruthless when Mike got in those moods. Spotting his brother's sudden attitude shift, Henry had asked Mike if he'd had too many beans for lunch because he didn't look all that well.

Mike's ego had deflated right there.

She smiled, thinking back on it. Poor Mike.

The next day he was back to his old self. And Julie liked that version of Mike a whole lot better anyway. Guys who thought that any woman was lucky to have them, guys who acted tough and cool or picked fights in bars to show the world that they couldn't be pushed around, bored her. On the other hand, guys like Mike were pretty much a catch, no matter how she looked at it. He was both good-hearted and nice looking; she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and she adored his dimples. She had come to treasure the way bad news seemed to slide off him with a simple shrug. She liked guys who laughed, and Mike laughed a lot.

And she really, really liked the sound of his laugh.

As always, though, when she began thinking along these lines, she heard a voice inside her immediately pipe up, Don't go there. Mike's your friend, your best friend, and you don't want to ruin things, do you?

As she mulled this over, Singer nudged against her, freeing her from her thoughts. He looked up at her.

"Yeah-go on, you big mooch," she said.

Singer trotted ahead, past the bakery, then turned at the propped-open door of Mabel's salon. Mabel had a biscuit for him every day.

"So how'd her date go?" Henry leaned against the door frame next to the coffeemaker, talking over the rim of a Styrofoam cup.

"I didn't ask her about that," Mike answered, his tone implying the very thought was ridiculous. He stepped into his coveralls and pulled them up over his jeans.

"Why didn't you ask?"

"I didn't think about it."

"Mmm," Henry said.

At thirty-eight, Henry was four years older than Mike and in many ways Mike's alter, more mature, ego. Henry was taller and heavier and coasting into middle age with a waistline that expanded at the same rate his hair was receding; with a twelve-year marriage to Emma and three young girls and a house instead of an apartment, he had a bit more stability in his life. Unlike Mike, he'd never had artistic dreams of any sort. In college, Henry had majored in business finance. And like most older brothers, he couldn't

escape the feeling that he had to watch out for his younger sibling, to make sure he was okay, that he wasn't doing things he'd later regret. That his brotherly support included teasing, insults, and the occasional zinger to bring Mike back down to earth might have struck some as heartless, but how else was he supposed to do it? Henry smiled. Somebody had to watch out for Mike.

Mike had worked the grease-stained coveralls up to his waist.

"I just wanted to tell her that her car was finished."

"Already? I thought you said it had an oil leak."

"It did."

"And it's already done?"

"It only took a few hours."

"Mmm . . ." Henry nodded, thinking, If you were any more whipped, little brother, they'd serve you on ice cream.

Instead of saying that, Henry cleared his throat. "So that's what you did this weekend? Worked on her car?"

"Not the whole time. I also played at the Clipper, but I guess you forgot about that, huh?"

Henry raised his hands in defense. "You know I'm more of a Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw fan. I don't like that new stuff. And besides, Emma's parents came by for dinner."

"They could have come, too."

Henry laughed, nearly spilling his coffee. "Yeah, right. Can you imagine me bringing those two to the Clipper? They think the stuff you hear in elevators is too loud and that rock music is Satan's form of mind control. They'd bleed from their ears if they went to the Clipper."

"I'll tell Emma you said that."