Page 56 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
ZANDER
The music thumps out a bruising rhythm in my earbuds. A hard beat pairs with a screaming guitar and angry lyrics. Energized, I welcome the weight of the wrench in my hand and the distraction of fixing Getty’s car to quiet the noise in my head.
But at least this noise differs from the racket that’s been filling my head as of late. Giving me a reprieve of sorts.
My mind is in constant overdrive. The photos play on repeat through it like negatives on a reel—a ghost of a memory I can almost see but not clearly.
I prefer the almost-there ones to the in-living-color nightmares any day.
With my head under the hood and grease on my hands, I feel a little more connected to my old life. Feel a bit like my old self as I work on the engine.
Something to my right catches my attention and I startle when I look up to find a woman standing a few feet away. Her hands are clasped in front of her, an envelope somewhere in their mix, a nervous smile on her lips as she stares at me.
Stepping out from beneath the hood, I take my earbuds out and wipe my hands on a red rag and wait for her to say something. Anything. But she just stands there, feet fidgeting, and smile widening while her cheeks slowly turn red.
Fangirl down. It’s the term my brothers use when they come to a race and witness the tongue-tied, finger-twisting, feet-shifting phenomenon that happens occasionally when I come face-to-face with female racing fans. The pang of regret is there instantly. Over how I’ve shut my brothers out. But I needed to. And I know they’ll forgive me. This is nothing compared with what we’ve all been through before.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I take a step forward.
“Yes. I’m—hi—hello,” she says, and then rolls her eyes with a chuckle as she smooths down the skirt over her hips. “I’m Mable from Mable’s Closet in town.”
The storefront comes to mind. Resale clothes on mannequins. Lacy curtains that look like they belong in a funeral home. A local townsperson or two always
going in or out. Quaint. Classy. Completely feminine. And definitely a place I’ve steered clear of.
“Oh yes. Hi. Zander,” I say as I hold out my hand and then lift my eyebrows in apology for its greased-up state. She reaches out anyway—a nervous chuckle, cheeks turning redder—and shakes it. “Can’t say that I’ve been in there, but I know the store. What can I do for you?”
“Everyone here on the island is so excited that you’re here. I haven’t seen this much chatter since . . . since I can’t remember when. Maybe when Dolly Parton came through a few years back.”
My ego dies a slow, silent death. A few months off the gas pedal and I’ve become irrelevant enough that I’m being compared to Dolly Parton? But my reaction goes unnoticed as Mable continues on without a care in the world and without any need for me to be an active participant in our conversation.
“I mean you should see the phone calls and texts that buzz around Main Street when you go on your morning run. Or to the hardware store. I mean the thought right there—of you in a tool belt and no shirt—is enough to make the women around here suddenly need to nail something. I mean hammer something. Or . . . you know what I mean.”
I can’t help it. I throw my head back and laugh at this frumpy woman with round cheeks and a kind smile who means no harm with her ramblings that are making me blush. In an instant I realize just how small of a town this really is and how oblivious I was to everything going on.
She looks at me, lips in a perfect-shaped O and eyes narrowing as I shake my head back and forth. “You are exactly what I needed right now.” My smile widens with each passing second.
“Well, I am a married woman, but I always wanted to try the cougar thing.” She offers me a wink. “I’ve never been town gossip before . . . just the one spreading it, but you’re easy on the eyes . . . and I could probably teach you a thing or two. . . .”
“I like you, Mable from Mable’s Closet,” I laugh, and think about how much I already love this new friend I’ve made.
“I like you too, hottie, as the ladies are calling you in town.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “How was the food at Mario’s last night? That new cook they hired sure can whip up some mangia bene.”
And once again I’m reminded of the size of this town and how everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s definitely annoying and yet a part of me likes the predictability.
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod. “Now, I know you didn’t come here to talk about pizza, so what can I do for you?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m sure you have plenty of stuff to do and I’m here blathering away taking up your time. I came to see Getty. Is she home?”
“I’m sorry, Mable, but she’s at work right now. Took an extra shift. Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask out of courtesy, surprised the town gossipers didn’t already know Getty’s whereabouts.
“No. Yes.” I can sense her hesitancy. “She normally stops by once a week to pick up her check and so I wanted to make sure she was okay but feel stupid now because obviously she has you here to occupy her time now and—”
“Check?” My interest is piqued. “She works at the store?”
“Oh no, honey. That’s silly. I sell all of those designer clothes she has on eBay for her. I’d do it for free for her, but she gets upset if I don’t take ten percent for my time. And so this here is a check for that pile she brought me last week to try to get the money to fix that heap over there you’re working on.”
Her words take a moment to sink in. And before I can fully process everything, Mable continues on. “What I’d give to have her eye. To be able to go to an estate sale and find these beauties . . . except I’d have a much harder time parting with them.”
