Page 17 of First-Time Caller
I lean over the half wall that separates our stations and grab the clipboard with today’s assignments. I can hear Harvey somewhere in the front bellowing the wrong lyrics to “Bye Bye Blackbird.” Dan’s in the office frowning at his computer screen, and Angelo is standing here, distracting me. Everything is exactly where it always is, and I can be too. As soon as I calm down.
Angelo drops his hand onto the middle of the clipboard, obscuring the list. He has a scar across his knuckles. A smudge of grease between his thumb and forefinger. “I’d like your attention, please.”
“I can see that,” I mutter. I suck in a deep breath to brace myself and then focus on him. He’s still watching me carefully from behind his glasses, an unusual seriousness in his blue sky eyes. Angelo always looks as if he’s just blown in off the harbor, white hair wild and windswept. I try to find some of my patience beneath my panic. Best to play it cool and all that. “What can I do for you?”
“My mother has a saying.”
He stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to engage in this ridiculous conversation. My patience is somewhere in my disaster of a kitchen, along with my dignity. “Okay?”
“She always used to say, ‘There is truth in wine and children.’ She’d usually say it after my idiot brother spit out something ridiculous at the dinner table, but she’d say it nonetheless. ‘Wine and children.’” He snaps his fingers. “Three times a day, at least.”
“Do you—” My whole face pinches tight in confusion. “Do you need some wine?”
“No,” Angelo answers simply. “It’s before nine in the morning. Don’t be silly.”
Don’t be silly.Okay. I’m the one being silly.
“Listen. I’m having a weird morning. If you could just tell me what you’re tiptoeing toward, that would be great.”
Angelo continues to frown, clearly put out that I’m not hanging on to his every word. The music at the front of the shop swells louder as Harvey elbows his way through the door that leads to the small reception area, his coveralls unzipped to his belly button, a white T-shirt beneath. He’s still serenading an audience of zero, eyes closed as he does a ramshackle waltz to his station.
“It’s his turn for the music today, huh?”
Angelo huffs. “Unfortunately.”
“It’s not so bad.” I slant my eyes away from Harvey using a broomstick as a dance partner. “Certainly better than that garbage you put on every third Thursday.”
His spine straightens. He is indignant. “Country music isn’t garbage.”
“Sure.”
“Tim McGraw is a talented artist.”
“If I hear ‘Don’t Take the Girl’ one more time, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”
Angelo rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, you’ll hear it in another week. I can guarantee that,” he snaps. He frowns and flicks his hand in dismissal. “I don’t even want to tell you my story anymore.”
“Oh no,” I say dryly, fighting to keep the grin from climbing my face. “Not that.”
This is good. This is what I needed. A distraction from everything else. I needed Angelo’s stories and Harvey’s warbly singing and Dan smacking at his computer because he forgot how to print something again.
I go back to the clipboard in my hand and try to figure out where I’m supposed to start today. There’s a muffler that needs work on an old Ford Focus. A tune-up on a pretty pink Volkswagen Beetle that all the guys have been ribbing me over. Maybe I’ll start there.
Angelo’s hand appears over the list again.
I sigh and drop my head back with a groan.
“What?”
“‘Wine and children,’” he says again, snapping his fingers. “There is truth in children. And I’m glad you listened to yours.”
“Maya?”
He gives me a saucy look over his glasses, swinging that damn towel back and forth. “She is your child, yes? I remember attending a birthday party or seven over the years.”
“She is. But what are you—”
“LU!” Harvey bellows my name across the garage. The music cuts out and his shoes squeak as he speed-walks across the floor. Dan stands in his office, watching us with interest.
