Page 109 of First-Time Caller
“I forgot he named her Rosie.” I grab my clipboard off the top of my workstation.
Chevy Guy is waiting in the same place he was last time, propped up against the front desk with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time he was here, his broad shoulders hunched beneath a canvas jacket. His jeans are splattered with paint and his work boots make athunk, thunk, thunkas he idly kicks at the reception desk.
I can’t believe he’s waited here this whole time.
Ms. Shirley—a small woman with an affinity for hand-knit sweaters who rides her power scooter to the shop once a month for a tune-up—doesn’t bother looking up from the scarf she’s working on. She schedules her tune-ups for whenever Harvey has a shift and sits in the same chair every time, watching him work through the window.
“The boy won’t sit down,” she mutters. Her needlesclick-clacktogether. “He’s driving me through the roof.”
“He’s fine, Ms. Shirley. I’m going to talk to him now.”
“Good. Get him out of here.” She peers over the top of her glasses to the window above the desk that looks into the garage. Harvey is crouched down in front of her power scooter, tinkering with the seat. I bet she “lost” the screws again. “He’s ruining my view,” she says.
“Harvey is a married man, Ms. Shirley.”
She shrugs. “No shame in lookin’, hon.”
Chevy Guy’s head snaps up and his mouth pulls tight, blue eyes soft and wide. He looks less intimidating today. More like a sad puppy.
“How bad is it, Doc?”
I flatten my lips against a smile. He clearly loves his car a lot. It’s cute. “I’m not a doctor. I’m a mechanic.”
“You’re my baby’s doctor,” he insists, not a trace of humor on his face. “Break it to me. Is Rosie going to make it?”
“She’s going to make it.”
He breathes a sigh of relief and thrusts both of his hands into his hair.
I grin. “Though she’s going to need a lot of loving. Let me walk you through my recommendations and you can decide what you want to go with. No underglow.”
“No underglow,” he agrees. “I’ll do everything else, though. Whatever it takes.”
“Still.” I laugh. I nod toward two seats in the corner and hold up my clipboard. “Let’s have a look. Do you want a coffee? You look like you need it.”
“You got any liquor? I’ve been spinning worst-case scenarios out here for hours.”
“Coffee is all I’ve got.”
“That’ll do.” He smiles and crinkles appear on either side of his eyes. “But I’ll grab it. You sit.”
He goes to the coffee station in the corner while I flip through my notes. His truck has a fairly long to-do list, but not much of it is major outside the fuel pump replacement. His transmission is in decent shape and it looks like the brake system was replaced recently. She’s been well tended to, his Rosie.
“Here.” He hands me a small paper cup and folds his body into the seat next to mine. “I guessed on how you take your coffee. Sugar seemed like a good idea.”
I don’t like sugar in my coffee at all, actually, but he was nice enough to get me a cup, so I take it without complaint. I manage to take a sip without wincing and walk him through the repairs. I explain the ones that are needed and the ones that are suggested, careful to note the estimated cost and the general timeline. He listens attentively, his gaze flicking between the sheet and my face.
I finish and hug the clipboard to my chest. “She’s in really good shape, overall. Plenty of road left to travel.”
Chevy Guy drops his head back in relief. “Thank god. My uncle handed that truck down to me when I turned sixteen. It’s been in the family for ages.”
“You think they’d kick you out if Rosie went to the big garage in the sky?”
He laughs, a low raspy sound. “Nah. No one to kick me out,” he answers easily. “It’s just me now. The truck is all I’ve got left of them.” His smile softens into something gentle. “I recognize I’ve formed an emotional attachment to an inanimate object, but she’s important to me.”
I pat his forearm. “I understand. She’s in good hands, I promise.”
He drops his hand over mine and searches my face. “Yeah. She really is.” A crease appears in the middle of his forehead and he squints, studying me. “Something about you is familiar. Do I . . . know you from somewhere?”
