The Man Who Would Be Daddy
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Malcolm slammed the car door shut behind him. He nodded at the dark metallic green Jaguar. Her husband must be the sporty type, he decided.
“Nice car. Yours?”
She shook her head. With a bank account barely in the triple digits, she could ill afford maintenance on something like that.
“My father’s.” She smiled, thinking of the way he pampered the vehicle. “It’s his baby now that he’s retired.”
Malcolm nodded absently, acutely aware that she had turned her electric blue eyes up at him. He didn’t quite know what he was doing here. He was going out of his way, and he’d made it a practice never to go out of his way. The less involved he was with people in general, the less there would be to trigger him, to remind him of what he no longer had.
Of what he had allowed, because of a momentary lapse in skill, to slip through his fingers.
Feeling uncomfortable, Malcolm slowly shoved wide, capable hands into his back pockets. He stood looking at her van.
Now would be the time to back out. Before he got in too deep.
“Well, you got here without any mishaps. Maybe your husband could take a look at the van for you.”
He was already turning to go when he saw the amused smile rising to her lips. It feathered up to her eyes. The sight was appealing, though Malcolm didn’t want it to be.
She could just see Jim staring into the interior of the engine. He would have been more lost than her.
“I don’t have a husband, at least, not anymore. And when I did have one, he would have been far more prone to look at a deck of cards than a car. Jim wasn’t what you’d call handy by any stretch of the imagination.”
What he had been, she thought, was a spinner of dreams. Unattainable, impossible dreams. They’d been magical once. But the magic had long since faded from his dreams and their life together.
Malcolm gave no indication that he had heard her or absorbed the information she offered. But he did approach the van with a resigned expression on his face.
He was here, he thought, so he might as well take a look at it. “Pop the hood for me.”
Obediently, Christa pulled the lever on the dashboard. The hood made a noise as it rose an inch, still tethered to a lock.
Feeling around for the release latch, Malcolm found it and pulled. He moved the hood back and looked in, letting out a long, low whistle. That had to be one of the dirtiest engines he’d seen in a long, long time. And just possibly the worst cared for. He shook his head.
Christa joined him and looked down below the yawning hood. She had absolutely no idea what she was looking at, other than the fact that there was a great deal of metal and rubber snaking into itself that she didn’t begin to understand.
She was standing too close to him. The light scent she wore somehow managed to block out the smell of gasoline that was now much more prevalent since she had opened the hood. He wished she would move.
“So, what’s the prognosis, Doctor?” Her voice was teasing as she crossed her arms before her. “Can the patient be saved?”
Not without a hell of a lot of work, he thought. Malcolm looked at her, trying to gauge just how knowledgeable she was. “How much do you know about cars?”
That was an easy one. “You put the key in and they go?” she offered with an apologetic shrug that should have irked him but did just the opposite.
He laughed very softly, but she heard him and it warmed her.
“Not this time,” he said. The hoses all looked worn. A couple of them were cracked. And he’d been right about that smell of gasoline. She had a leak somewhere. His guess was that one of the seals on the fuel injectors was cracked.
“You’re lucky to have gotten home. From the sound of it, I’d say that your starter motor has just about had it and I’m surprised that you’re getting anything out of your battery.” He indicated the corroded couplings. “The cables are completely corroded with residue. By all rights, there shouldn’t even be a connection being made.”
He wasn’t even going to bother getting into the hoses and the fuel injectors, except to warn her. “I wouldn’t drive it if I were you. There’s a faint smell of gasoline. It’s not safe.”
Christa wrinkled her nose; she believed Malcolm’s assessment. She knew she’d been pushing her luck with the van, but she’d had no choice. A new one, or even a new used one, was out of the question right now.
“Can you fix it?”
He felt as if she had just placed a wounded baby bird in his lap and asked him to breathe life into it.
“Well, it needs a new starter motor, and there’s no telling what else might be wrong with it—”
This was beginning to sound worse and worse. “So it won’t be fixed by tomorrow?”
Did she think he was a miracle worker? He began to say just that, then decided against it. “No, it won’t be fixed by tomorrow.”
Christa sighed, dragging her hand through her hair. “Oh, God.”
She sounded as if he’d just told her the car was terminal. “Is tomorrow important?”
“It might have been.” She dug deep, trying to rally her sinking spirit, but it wasn’t getting any easier. “I have a job interview. Had,” she amended. “I was counting on getting there with this.” She waved a disparaging hand at the van.
“Not unless the place interviewing you is located at the bottom of a hill.”
Christa nibbled on her lower lip again, thinking. Watching her stirred a distant feeling in Malcolm that he had been certain had completely vanished from his life the day he’d buried Gloria.
He pushed it away.
Christa knew she had no right to impose. But she was desperate. “Could you work on it for me?”
Malcolm had never seen so much hope in a woman’s eyes before. Unfounded hope, he thought, but hope nonetheless. It pinned him to the spot and kept him there. It also gave him no choice.