Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Renthrow
Why did it have to be Cordelia Davenport?
Of all the people in town, of the billions of people in the world, why is she the one Gordie responds to during her episodes?
I dump herbs among the cut potato cubes in the pan, my thoughts whirring faster than a blender.
What is it about that stubborn, sharp-tongued, unfairly beautiful woman that has my daughter wrapped around her little finger?
I shove the potato trays into the oven, set the timer, and turn my attention to the chicken breasts. I’m assaulting the chicken with spices when the front door opens.
I look up expectantly and notice Mom has re-entered the house alone.
My voice erupts gruffly. “Where’s Gordie?”
“She’s helping Cordelia fix the car.”
I glance through the window in the living room and spot Cordelia and Gordie in the driveway.
The mechanic holds out a hand to my daughter. Gordie puts a tool in it, and Cordelia bends over the hood of my truck.
Mom floats toward me, grinning from ear to ear. “This is great, isn’t it?”
“Nothing great about it.”
“You must be joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Gordie’s improving. She’s letting someone in.”
“That woman is a stranger.”
“That woman?”
“We don’t really know her.”
“She’s a sweet young lady.”
“Sweet?” I bark out a laugh. The only thing sweet about Cordelia Davenport is the scent of vanilla that follows her around, masking her thorny personality. “Have you met her?”
Mom leans back, searching my face. “You’re the one who invited her to dinner, Viking. Why are you being so combative?”
Mom’s the one who invited her to dinner, not me.
“I’m just worried about Gordie. She’s vulnerable right now. We should be cautious.”
“Cautious? You think Cordelia’s going to what? Hurt her? Let her loose on a biker gang?”
“She does ride a Harley,” I snarl.
“What’s your point, Viking? Tell me so I can understand.”
“Everyone around town says the new mechanic doesn’t like kids. And what? We’re just going to trust her with Gordie?”
“You saw what happened earlier. Gordie trusts her. Isn’t that enough to give her a chance?”
I ground my teeth as I massage the chicken. Mom has a point, and it’s the reason I practically fell on my knees and begged the woman to stay for dinner tonight.
Mom folds her arms over her chest. “And since when have you listened to the gossip around town?”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” I grumble.
I know I’m being unreasonable. The truth is, I’m grasping at straws to keep Cordelia Davenport out of my life.
“Is it against the law to ride a motorcycle? Does being a female mechanic mean you don’t like kids or can’t be motherly?”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t say that.”
“She’s good for Gordie.” Mom throws her hands up. “I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation.” She pauses and then gives me a knowing look. “Unless…it’s not Gordie you’re worried about.”
I avert my gaze to the chicken and rub until the seasoning practically melts into the skin.
Thankfully, the front door opens, and Cordelia and my daughter skip inside.
My eyes lock on Gordie. It’s astonishing the way she’s bounced right back to her usual self. Big smiles. Sparkling brown eyes. Effervescent energy. It’s almost as if the withdrawal episode never happened.
“Gordie!” Mom hustles around the counter and sprawls her arms wide.
Gordie runs into them, her eyes alight with laughter. “Gran.”
“Did you fix your dad’s car?”
“I can’t, but Delia will. She’s so cool.”
If I hear that woman is so cool one more time…
“I want to be a mechanic when I grow up,” Gordie declares.
“Oh, how wonderful.”
“Can I have a toolbox like Delia?”
“Yes, you most certainly can.” Mom presses a noisy kiss to my daughter’s cheek.
Cordelia shuffles her feet. “I took a look under the hood, and the wiring is all messed up. I think you’ll need to buy some parts.”
“My car was working completely fine,” I argue.
“Not according to what I saw. I’m surprised you were able to start that thing. When was the last time you took it in for an oil change?”
I bristle. “You must be mistaken. My car is more reliable than your bike.”
“Right. Right. I forgot that you went to school for auto repair,” Cordelia snaps, her tongue as poisoned as always.
One corner of my lips curls up in an amused smirk, and I turn my back. Grabbing a pan, I pour oil into it and turn the heat up.
“We’ll buy whatever parts you need,” Mom says, smoothing things over. “Gordie, go wash your hands, and help your dad with the salad.”
“Okay!” Gordie chirps.
Mom stomps over to me, her brows pulled into a harsh V. “Behave.”
I shrug and grab the tongs from the drawer.
“Actually”—Cordelia’s voice sounds louder, which means she probably walked closer to the kitchen—“I think you’ll need to call the police rather than a parts shop.”
My fingers tighten on the tongs.
“The wires that were missing were all concentrated in one section of the car. When I looked into it, I realized that someone grabbed a handful of any wires they could find and just…tugged.” Cordelia makes a grabbing motion.
“If your mom hadn’t called me and you tried to start your truck, it would have been bad for the engine. ”
My eyes veer straight to Mom.
She bursts into shrill laughter. “I don’t think you need to call the police over such a matter.” Mom grabs her purse and tucks it close to her chest as if it’s hiding a stolen diamond. “Wow. Would you look at the time? I’ll check on Gordie and then head out.”
“Why are you in a rush, Mom?” I ask, eyeing her.
“I forgot I have an appointment.” She rushes up the stairs.
Clipping the raw chicken pieces with the tongs, I set them in the oil and listen to them sizzle. Mom runs back down the stairs a few minutes later, throwing a frazzled “toodles” to us and disappearing out the door.
“How long will my car be down for?” I ask Cordelia.
“I could have had it up and running today if your mom handed over her purse.”
I chuckle. It seems like we both know who’s responsible for this.
Turning the chicken over to the other side, I admit, “I’ll need new parts.”
“We can order them for you. Just come in tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I peer up the stairs. “Why hasn’t Gordie come down yet?” My mind instantly jumping to the worst of conclusions, I grow somber and set the tongs down.
“I’ll go,” Cordelia offers.
My eyes zip to her in surprise.
She lifts one shoulder in an uncomfortable shrug. “If that’s okay with you.”
I think about everything I said to Mom and realize I’m a big, fat hypocrite. Not an inch of me feels uneasy sending her upstairs.
Who cares what the rumors say about her? Maybe she doesn’t like kids, but she likes Gordie, and that’s all that’s important to me.
I nod.
Cordelia heads upstairs, and I finish preparing the chicken. Earlier, Mom asked Gordie to help with the salad, but she hasn’t come down yet. Neither has Cordelia.
Curious, I tiptoe upstairs and silently push my daughter’s bedroom door wider. Inside, Gordie is dressed in her pink overalls, and her hair is tied back in a bandana. She has her pink Barbie car suspended on stacked books and is “working” underneath it.
“Wrench!” Gordie squeaks, holding out a hand.
“Got it.” Cordelia hands her a spoon from the toy kitchen set I bought Gordie for Christmas. “Ma’am, can you help Larry feel better? He’s been coughing real bad and makes this strange, high-pitched noise when he drives. I’m so worried about him.”
For a moment, I wonder who Larry is. Then Cordelia strokes the pink Barbie car’s hood, and it dawns on me that they’re discussing the toy car.
“Don’t worry, lady. I’ll fix Larry up. But you need to keep calm.”
“I’m trying to be, but…it’s been so difficult. I heard you’re the best mechanic in town. If you can’t fix Larry, no one can.”
Gordie squirms from beneath the car and pats Cordelia’s shoulder. “This isn’t looking good. Larry might need new parts.”
“New parts?” Delia sobs dramatically. “Oh no!”
I smile to myself and quietly retreat down the stairs. As I prepare the salad, I replay the scene I just witnessed, and my grin goes wider and wider.
What a dilemma.
Cordelia Davenport should stay far, far away from me. That isn’t a question.
But…
She’s good for Gordie.
And at the end of the day, Gordie’s well-being trumps everything.
I need to find a way to keep that woman around without losing my mind in the process.