On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful--MIC (2 page)

BOOK: On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful--MIC
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Scott’s blood
went cold in his veins. Jaci didn’t know the first thing about his
grandmother’s life, let alone be able to proclaim it long enough or fulfilled
enough.

It hadn’t been
long enough, damn it. There were still so many things he wanted to do with her,
share with her. Nonie had only been to New York once. Had that been enough?
She’d always wanted to vacation in Europe and Scott had been planning a
surprise Christmas trip to France. Had her life truly been fulfilled?

They pulled to a
stop, at one of only three traffic lights in Tatum, and Scott reached for the
door handle, the sudden desire to breathe fresh air stifling him. “Listen, I
need to stretch my legs. Thanks for—”

“Wait.” Alarm
rang in Jaci’s tone and he eased back into his seat. She leaned close, her hand
on his thigh. “I want you to know that I’m available for anything you need.”
She slipped a business card into his coat pocket. “If you want to talk,
or…whatever.”

Scott closed his
eyes, allowing her voice, the consistency of warm butter, to seep into his
brain. The various manners of her sympathy were quite clear. The hand on his
leg squeezed and his groin tightened.

“Call me, ‘kay?”

The light turned
green and he climbed out. He stared at Jaci, his agreement to her offer almost
out of his mouth.

“At
eighty-seven, guess it was your grandmother’s time to go,” she stated.

Scott closed the
heavy door with care so as not to slam it off its hinges. Anger seethed through
him. No, it
hadn’t
been Nonie’s time. He clamped his mouth shut to keep
from railing at Jaci. He stepped onto the curb and raised a hand in farewell.
The SUV drove off while he headed down an adjacent street, hands in his
pockets.

If one more
person placated him with some bullshit about Nonie’s death “being for the best”
or how “she’s in a happier place now,” he’d go ballistic on their ass. Did no
one in this miniscule town understand how devastated he felt?

He scoffed. The
answer was a resounding no. Except maybe for Mic. The distress in her eyes
almost matched what he’d seen in the mirror every morning for the past two
weeks. Her sympathy had seemed genuine, like she knew what he was going
through.

Scott continued
on his way and soon Nonie’s two-story, white colonial came into view. Aside
from getting the Comet out of the garage, this was the first time he’d been
back to the house since last summer.

When he’d
received the call about the stroke, he’d flown straight out and stayed with
Nonie around the clock at the hospital. Though she never regained
consciousness, he knew she was aware of his presence. After her heart finally
gave out, he’d gotten a room at a local motel to arrange the memorial service,
unable to stay at her house without the five-foot-nothing, blue-haired old
girl.

At the bottom of
the dozen steps that led to the spacious, wrap-around porch, he squinted
against the sunlight. His chest wanted to crack apart from the anguish. With a
deep breath, he compelled his legs to climb the steps, extracting the house key
from his pocket along the way.

He tried to keep
his mind blank, tried not to think about all the times he’d sat with Nonie on
her large porch swing, drinking her homemade lemonade and talking about nothing
in particular.

It didn’t work.
Each step across the weathered boards caused his soul to grow heavier, his
heart more empty. The skeleton key slid smoothly into the lock and the familiar
sound of the tumblers turning had Scott anticipating, if for only a split
moment, what Nonie had baked today. But she hadn’t been baking.

His knees almost
buckled and he took a minute to fortify his defenses before shoving open the
door. He inhaled the smell of potpourri mixed with lemon furniture polish. Closing
the door, he crossed the three feet of entryway tile to the plush carpet he had
installed last year to stave off the cold of Nebraska winters.

The eerie quiet
of the house thundered in his ears. He glanced around. The grandfather clock on
the wall wasn’t tick-
tocking
. It hadn’t been wound in
over two weeks. He walked through the living room, his gaze taking in the thin
layer of dust on the white, stone mantel and antique end tables. Nonie never
would have tolerated such neglect.

 Her
favorite easy chair, parked in front of the TV so she could give those
political yahoos a piece of her mind during the news, caught his eye. A small
smile quirked his lips. He rounded the chair, sidestepping a basket of yarn
that had toppled over, the colorful skeins scattered about.

The doctor who’d
initially called him had said Nonie suffered the stroke at home. A tall fichus
plant was also knocked over, the dirt ground into the carpet. She must have
been walking to the kitchen when the massive blood clot—

Collapsing under
the burden of his sorrow, Scott fell to his knees, scooped the jumbled mass of
yarn into his hands, and wept.

Chapter Three

Michaela sniffled and reached for
another tissue to wipe her still weepy eyes. Since learning of Ester’s death,
she’d been on an emotional bungee-jump. Scott’s obvious distress at losing his
grandmother brought back the memories of her own father’s death four years ago,
not that those memories were ever very far away.

All morning, she
stayed cloistered in her office to avoid breaking down in front of her crew.
The mismatched group of auto mechanics were kind and lovable, but any show of
emotion, especially something morose—like a woman crying—had them scurrying to
safety. That was probably the reason none of them had shown the courage to tell
her about Ester. To spare everyone an embarrassing scene, she took the
opportunity to go over the accounting books.

It was almost as
depressing as someone dying. Her father’s idea to relocate the garage to the
intersection of Heartache and Hopeful had seemed like a good business decision
five years ago. However, the actual results were far less than stellar.

While they had
managed to maintain their client list, the move hadn’t brought in any new
customers like her father had anticipated. Only the thought that her dad
couldn’t see first-hand the disappointing reality of his choice made her
grateful he wasn’t alive.

Combine the
lackluster business with several other recent setbacks, like needing to replace
the expensive hydraulic lift, and the truth was clear. The garage faced
bankruptcy by this time next year if something significant didn’t happen. And
happen soon.

She laid down
her pen and cradled her face in her hands, swallowing the sob. Losing the
garage would be like losing her dad all over again. Bert Anderson had started
this business the year she was born. She refused to allow all his hard work to
disappear.

It took several
long minutes for Mic to shove her demons back into their dark closet. She sat up
and organized the papers. She’d do whatever was necessary—mortgage her house,
hell,
sell
her house—to keep the garage solvent. Her loyal mechanics
deserved that much. So did her father’s memory.

With the papers
in neat piles, she stood. A wave of dizziness hit her. She glanced at the
clock. Well past lunchtime. No wonder she had a killer headache. She picked up
the receiver, intent on ordering the usual deli lunch for everyone, when a
ruckus broke out in the shop.

Mic hung up the
phone then ran to the office door and threw it open. Glenn and Boyd were
restraining Scott Trehune, if just barely. Abe and Chuck came to stand on
either side of her, seeming prepared to defend her.

When Ester’s
grandson saw her, he stopped struggling. “You!” He stuck a finger out. “Tell me
how the hell you did it?”

Confusion
swamped Mic. “How’d I do what?”

“Oh, that’s
right, play stupid.”

He lunged
forward, but Glenn and Boyd held him secure. Scott glared at the brothers then
pinned her with his angry glower. The blatant animosity, bordering on hatred,
in his clear, green eyes made her shrink back. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about, Scott.”

He barked a loud
laugh. “You mean you don’t know anything about Nonie’s will?”

She shook her
head.

“Oh, come on.
It’s the one where you convinced my frail grandmother to
leave half of
everything she owns to you.”

Mic’s mouth
dropped open. “
What?

“Wow, nice
acting,” he scoffed.

She took a step
forward. “I had no idea about any of this, Scott. You have to believe me. Let
him go guys.”

Reluctantly,
Glenn and Boyd released Scott. He straightened his coat. “Too bad I don’t
believe you.” He jabbed his finger at her again. “Just so you know, I plan to
contest the will. You won’t see a nickel. I promise you.”

He spun on his
heel and stalked out. Mic watched him go then looked at the mechanics who wore
the same stunned expression she knew was on her face. With a sad shake of her
head, she went back into her office.

What else
could go wrong today?

~
* ~

Scott gave the
closed garage door a light rap. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to face
anyone after his deployable behavior that afternoon. Another part hoped only
Mic was there so he could say what needed saying without having to return.

The air backed
up in his lungs as he waited, but no one answered. He contemplated knocking
again, dismissed the idea and turned to leave, thankful he’d dodged the bullet,
for tonight. The door creaked open behind him.

He whirled
around. Mic stood in the doorway, her slight frame backlit by a muted light
inside the garage. Her hair wasn’t cover by her signature cap or in its usual
braid. The incredible length of her shimmering mane punched him. He never
realized it reached her hips.

Though shadows
covered most of her face, he could read the tension in her stance. His gut
roiled. God, he’d been such a prick to her. He slipped his hands into the back
pockets of his jeans and forced his lips into a smile. “I wasn’t sure if anyone
was still around.”

She crossed her
arms. “I was doing paperwork. If you’re checking on the Comet, it should be
done—”

“I’m not,” he
said and swore to himself when she jumped. “I mean I know you’ll do your usual
great job.” He paused, despising himself. “I just, uh, stopped by to, uh…” He
blew out a gush of air, rubbed the back of his neck and forced himself to meet
her gaze. “I came by to apologize for this afternoon. I was a total ass.”

She licked her
lips. “I don’t know anything about Ester’s will. I swear.”

“I know you
don’t,” he assured her. “After my little performance, I went back to Nonie’s house
and started sifting through her things. That’s when I found her journals. Did
you know she wrote every day? Even if it was just a sentence or two, everyday,
since Christmas Day, 1933. That’s when she got her first journal.”

Mic shifted
again. Why was he suddenly rambling?

“Anyway, Nonie
wrote about how much she appreciated the care you gave the Comet, and her.
Those Sunday visits when you two played backgammon kept her from feeling so
lonely.”

Another pause.
Guilt ate at Scott that he hadn’t been the one helping his grandmother feel
less alone. And it was that guilt which had caused him to lash out at the woman
standing before him. He cleared an unexpected lump from his throat. “Close to
five years ago, she decided to will you half her estate.”

“I don’t want
any of Ester’s money,” Mic stated with quiet finality.

“I understand,
but her will is clear. You get half. Do whatever you want with the money. Go on
a trip, buy a new house, whatever. But you’re getting it.”

The lump grew
bigger, along with a burning sensation in his eyes. He ducked his head and
blinked, determined not to break down. “Uh, you were special to my Nonie and I
want to, uh, thank you for everything you did for her.” To his absolute horror,
a sob clawed up from his chest. He pivoted, his jaw clenched tight.

“Hey.” Gentle
hands rubbed his back. “You want to come inside for a minute?”

He nodded then
followed her through the open door. The smell of grease and motor oil stung his
nose. Mic indicated a row of ugly, vinyl and metal kitchen chairs where
customers could wait for their cars. He plopped onto one and she sat next to
him.

Minutes ticked
by, but she didn’t say anything. She just sat there, her hands folded in her
lap. Scott stared at the discolored concrete wall, dotted with an array of
tools, until he’d gained a foothold on his emotions. When he was confident he
wouldn’t dissolve into tears, he looked at Mic. Moisture glistened in her eyes.

“God, I’m
sorry,” he choked out.

She swiped at
her cheeks. “For what?”

“For making you
cry.”

“Don’t
apologize. I know how tragic it is when someone you love dies.”

“Oh?”

She nodded.
“When my dad died, I was a mess for months.”

“Shit. I didn’t
mean to dredge up bad memories for you.”

“It’s okay. He
died four years ago. But I still miss him. Every single day.”

“Then it’s not
true that the pain gets easier with time?”

“Easier?” She
shook her head. “No. But you get used to it. It becomes a part of you, like a
dull ache you learn to live with. It’s there every morning when you wake up.
Waiting for you.”

 A soft sob
escaped and she turned away, but Scott wrapped his arm around her, bringing her
closer. She laid her head on his shoulder. Soon moisture seeped into his
t-shirt and he tightened his embrace. He had no idea how long they sat there.
He only knew it felt right.

Finally, she
shifted away with a sniffle. “Guess it’s my turn to apologize. I don’t usually
do break down in front of people.”

He gave her
shoulder one last squeeze then released her completely. “Don’t apologize. This
was nice, sharing the grief with someone who knows how I feel.”

BOOK: On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful--MIC
4.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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