Page 110 of First-Time Caller
I pull my hand from his and flip back to the front page of my clipboard. “Have you brought Rosie in before?”
“No, like I said, I’m new to the area. It’s something else. It’s—” He drags his hand over his mouth, considering. “It’s something about your voice. Have you—you haven’t done any jingles, have you?”
“Jingles?” I laugh. “No. Not by choice.”
His mouth twists. “You sound familiar.”
I stand and brush my hands against my thighs. “Just one of those voices, I guess.”
Ms. Shirley makes aharrumphsound on the other side of the waiting room. I ignore her.
“I’ll give you a call when Rosie is ready, yeah? Probably a week or two.”
Chevy Guy stands with me. I have to tip my head back to get a good look at his face. I didn’t realize how tall he was when I was behind the desk.
“I look forward to it. Thanks”—his eyes flick down to the name patch on my coveralls and he grins—”Lu.”
He steps out the front door in two gigantic strides, the bell above the door jingling after him.
“Mm-hmm. That irritating man liked you.” Ms. Shirley loops another bit of yarn around her needle. She’s watching the window with interest. Particularly Harvey, lifting her power scooter to get a look at something on the side. His arms strain beneath the sleeves of his white T-shirt, his coveralls looped at the waist. Ms. Shirley makes a happy sound.
I drop my clipboard on the front counter and pour my barely touched coffee in the small sink by the creamer. “He did not.”
“Did too.”
“You just like to gossip.”
“And you, apparently, like to be oblivious.” She twists another loop of mustard-colored yarn around her needle. “Now I know why your daughter intervened in your love life.”
I open my mouth to say something else—that he wasn’t flirting, that flirting means a feeling at the base of my throat like there’s a hand cupped gently around it, eyes that might be blue and might be gray but are always looking right at me—when an air horn splits the conversation down the middle. I groan.
I know what that sound means.
“Best get back there,” Ms. Shirley tells me with a delighted little grin. “Or you’ll forfeit.”
I slam the door to the garage open and drag my feet over to where Harvey, Angelo, and Dan are standing huddled together. Dan’s holding four dried spaghetti noodles in his closed fist.
“All right,” he says as I drag myself closer. “Usual rules apply. Shortest stick has to drive the tow.”
Everyone at the shop hates driving the tow truck. It’s old, it smells faintly like onions from when Harvey let an Italian cold cut sandwich marinate in the glove compartment for two weeks, and the steering wheel sticks. Tows also mean sharing the front seat with a stranger who may or may not think talking on their speaker-phone in close quarters is acceptable.
“But let me remind you,” Dan says, shifting on his feet. “Whoever pulls the tow can leave early for the day. Really, this is a benefit to you. You three should be begging for the opportunity.”
“It’s already the end of the day,” I point out. “By the time we tow the car to the shop, everyone else will be gone.”
“Yeah,” Harvey crosses his arms over his chest. “If it’s such a good opportunity, why don’t you volunteer to drive the tow?”
“Because I’m the boss,” Dan says, scratching at his eyebrow. “I’m indispensable.”
Harvey snickers. “I’m gonna remind you of that during the baseball season when you’re leaving early to catch the O’s.” He shakes his head. “Indispensable. You haven’t picked up a wrench in sixty-three years, old man.”
“Yeah.” Angelo digs a bony finger into Dan’s chest. “You just don’t like talking to people.”
“Neither do you!”
This happens every single time we get a tow. The three of them bicker back and forth until it devolves into shoving and name-calling. I don’t have the patience for it today. I reach forward and pluck one of the dried spaghetti sticks and then groan immediately.
“Please tell me you made really tiny spaghetti sticks today.”
