“A maroon van. I have no idea what year it is,” she says, still bobbing the baby up and down. “I barely know what I had for breakfast at this point.”
Thrust into what my mom calls “do-er mode,” I scramble for something to do to make her day easier.
“Do you have your keys?” I ask, holding up a couple of random papers. “I found your invoices.”
“Walker always leaves them on the floor mat,” the old man says. “What do I owe him?”
“Well,” I say, forcing a swallow, hoping this doesn’t bite me in the ass. “You, sir, have no charge because the tire they used was going to be thrown away anyway. Right?”
“That’s what he said,” the man agrees, but doesn’t look convinced.
“And you, madam,” I say, hurrying along, “there’s something here about insurance and write-off’s, but Walker’s writing is crap and I can’t figure it all out. It just says zero with a circle around it,” I shrug.
“You’re kidding me.” A flitter of hope casting across her face. “I don’t owe anything? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Says it right here.”
Holding my breath, seeing if they believe me, I wait until they prepare to leave. The woman opens the door and grabs the little boy’s hand. “Tell Walker thank you,” she says. “I’ll send Mike over this week to double check. I just . . . I appreciate it.”
I round the corner and offer a hand to the old man. “Do you need help outside?”
Groaning as he gets to his feet, he takes both of my hands in his. “I’m going to be fine. Have a blessed day, sweetheart.”
“You too. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“It’s the best part of my day.”
I take a quick step and open the door for him. As he heads to his truck, I move to the window and watch him make his way off the stoop and through the gravel. Rummaging around the floorboard, he retrieves his keys. He hobbles into the front seat, adjusts his hat, and pulls out.
“Was someone here?” Walker asks from behind me. “I thought I heard the door a couple of times.”
Giving myself a moment to adjust before turning around, I scramble for an angle to talk myself out of this jam. I’m sure he’s not going to be thrilled with this bit of news, but I’m just as sure I didn’t have a choice other than to help them both.
“I was going to ask you,” I say, turning around. “How much would a used tire cost for my car?”
Furrowing his brow, he shrugs. “Depends on what size you have.”
“Um . . . the size of a Ford Ranger, I think.”
Walker crosses his arms in front of him, the muscles in his thick forearms flexing. “Funny. I didn’t have you pegged as driving a Ranger.”
“Funny. How do you know me well enough to know what I would drive?”
“I don’t,” he admits. “I’d say that a used tire would run you thirty-five bucks or so.”
He moseys across the room and stands next to me, so close I can barely think. He’s a step from my personal bubble, his cologne knowing no bounds and filling it with his heated, working man scent that has me shivering despite the heat.
“Looks like I need to call Kip,” Walker notes.
“Why?”
“Someone stole Dave Cooper’s truck. A Ranger,” he adds, watching me carefully.
Gulping, I take a step away. “I have another question. What would it cost to repair a car that hit a deer?”
He’s not amused. Storming across the room, he swings open the door. “Where is MaryAnn Maylor’s van?”
“Well, she was here,” I say, taking a couple of steps to the corner. “And so was Dave . . .”
His face doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even make an attempt to speak, just stares at me in a mixture of disbelief and disdain.
“Can you add their bills onto my tab?” I cringe, waiting for his eruption.
“You let them take their cars without paying?” he booms.
“No, I didn’t. I mean, I did,” I correct. “But it’s okay. I’ll pay for them.”
He walks in a circle, shaking his head. “Dave’s tire is about thirty-five bucks. But MaryAnn’s van was about fifteen hundred.” He stops and looks at me. “You have that in your pocket?”
“No, but I’ll get it.”
He flashes me a glare before heading back to the desk. One look at it and he’s back to me. “And I suppose you just messed this up too?”
“Oh, no. That was a mess before,” I shoot back. “I looked for the invoices, trying to do you a favor—”
“I didn’t ask you for a favor. I asked you to come by and apologize for fucking up my truck, not waltz in here like you own the damn place and cost me another two grand.”
“Fifteen thirty-five,” I correct, hoping for the best.
I think he’s going to explode. He turns away, his back heaving as he fills his lungs with air. The sound of it whooshing out of his body gushes through the room.
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask when he turns to face me.
There’s a weakness in his glare, one that tells me I can make him see the light. I see this in my brother Graham every so often when he’s trying to nix some idea I have. It’s an opening, a small window of opportunity to appeal to their humanity and get them to come around.
I stand in front of the desk, game face on. “I felt sorry for them. Dave needed to go have breakfast with his wife who has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t even know he’s there every day. How sad is that? And MaryAnn walked all the way over here and it was like two miles with two babies.”
This seems to weaken his resolve.
“Why didn’t she call? Peck would’ve gone and picked her up,” he says, the irritation in his tone a little less prevalent.
“I don’t know,” I rush, trying not to lose momentum. “But she was stressed out, her husband’s working doubles, and they have a sick baby. So sue me for having a heart if you’re that much of a dick. But I’ll pay for all of it.”
He fiddles with the papers in front of him, the lines on his forehead melting away with each passing second. The room settles, the only sounds the beating of my heart and the papers he’s pretending to deal with.
“Don’t act like you know what any of that is,” I kid.
“It might look like a mess, but I actually do know where everything is. Most everything, anyway,” he grumbles. Retrieving two pieces of paper, one missing the bottom corner, he holds them in the air. “These are the invoices you were looking for.”
“I’ll take care of them.”
He sets them back down and leans on the desk. His brown eyes are filled with something I haven’t seen before, something that makes me feel like everything over the past few days comes down to this moment, like if I fall, I may never recover. Only it’s not a fall from a ledge or a fall from grace, it’s a fall into those chocolatey eyes. It’s a delicious and yet uncomfortable feeling and all I can do is shift my weight from one foot to the other and hold on tight.
“How am I supposed to take your money when you won’t take anyone else’s?” he asks.
“One is not dependent on the other.”
He looks over my shoulder and laughs. “Brace yourself.”
“Why?”
“My Nana is two seconds from walking through the door.”
The chime hits on demand and the entire feel of the room shifts.
“Walker Elder Gibson, what do you think you’re doing?” The door latches closed as she sees me. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Are you busy?”
“No, Nana,” he says, his chin dipping with a shy smile. “I’m never busy. I just come here to hang out all day every day.”
“Don’t give me that . . .”
She’s in her mid-sixties, if I were guessing, wearing a white dress with tiny blue flowers. Her hair is gunmetal silver and set in a way that makes me wonder if she still visits the beauty shop on Saturday morning like the little old ladies in Savannah do. Her belly is round and in her arms is a wooden picnic basket.
She pauses in the middle of the room, giving me a quick once-over with the finesse of a professional. “I didn’t mean to walk in on the middle of anything,” she alludes, smiling at me. “Should I come back another time?”
“Stop it,” Walker hisses before I can respond. He crosses the room and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Did you bring me lunch? I heard you made fried chicken yesterday.”
“And you would’ve known that yesterday had you had your fanny in a pew at Holy Hills like you should’ve,” she sighs. “I wasn’t going to bring you any, then I prayed about it and thought maybe you had a good excuse.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, a grin tipping up the edge of her lips. “She’s awfully pretty, Walker, but she’s no excuse to miss out on Jesus.”
“Nana!”
Before I know what’s happening, my laughter fills the room. “You tell him, Mrs. Gibson,” I say, then cover my mouth with one hand.
“First, call me Nana,” she corrects. “Second, don’t cover your mouth. Women around here have to speak up or we’re never heard. Remember that.”
“I will,” I say, relieved.
“And you are?”
“I’m Sienna,” I say, offering a hand her way. She gives it a firm, yet gentle shake. “It’s nice to meet you. But, for the record, I’m not his excuse for missing church.” Peering over my shoulder, I give Walker a little smile. “How could you disappoint this woman and miss church?”
Licking his lips, he’d say something altogether different if Nana weren’t standing here. That I know for sure. But she is, so he cocks a brow. “You better stay out of this, Slugger.”
“Now, I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” Nana says, either not paying attention or choosing to ignore the look her grandson and I are exchanging. “It’s just that I don’t ask nothing of this boy, or any of ’em, for that matter, except they get their behinds to church on Sunday and come over for dinner most of them. That’s it. I’m not gonna be alive much longer and I—”