Chapter 4
[Tate]
Only a few minutes pass before Neve returns to the garage, pulling up another metal stool and staring into the heart of the vehicle.
She doesn’t say anything while I work to check the current oil level, then slip a pan underneath the SUV and drain the old oil.
I don’t know how she’d get underneath this thing.
In her condition, I also think it’s dangerous to slide underneath a vehicle of any type.
Holy hell, what was she thinking?
I’m so caught up in seeing her again and her being pregnant, I can’t flip through my mental notes about this place.
Clearly, Neve works here. Lumi works for the local postal service but does the finances for the shop. Is there anyone else employed here? What about the other sisters?
I’m coming up blank, too distracted by her supervision of my progress.
“My granddad owned boats. And every summer when I came to Lovewell Landing to visit my cousins, he’d teach us everything from how the engine works to how to sail.”
She huffs. “Well, that certainly explains a few things.”
“Like what?” I ask, checking other fluid levels.
“Like how I’ve never seen you before. Or around town since . . .” our one and only meeting. “You’re a summer boy,” she adds.
“A what?”
“A boy who visits for the entire summer. Not quite a tourist. Not exactly a local.”
I chuckle. “I think I’m more than a boy, pumpkin.” I arch one brow, suddenly wanting her to remember New Year’s Eve.
“Is that term supposed to be endearing?” One corner of her mouth crooks higher than the other. A dimple forms near the crease of her lips.
How had I forgotten that parenthesis complementing her grin?
“Or are you making a fat joke?”
Instantly, I stand, nearly banging my head on the edge of the open hood. “You’re not fat. You’re pregnant.” My eyes narrow. And she’s fucking beautiful. She has a glow about her that I have forgotten.
“And you should have that mask back on your face.” I tip my chin, not knowing where the mask went.
She leans back, like she might tip off the back of the stool—which scares the bejesus out of me—and struggles to tug the mask free from her pocket. I’m a breath from catching her before she falls when she finally liberates the mask and holds it up. She dramatically snaps it on her face.
“Happy, Dad?” Her eyes widen the second she speaks, her voice muffled by the thick padding.
Somehow, I don’t think the mask is enough protection for her lungs and the baby.
She turns away as soon as she questions me, and my brows cinch, like there’s something I’m missing here.
“This job also calls for a transmission flush,” she says, bringing her face back to me. Her eyes have dulled. Her voice is stern.
A transmission flush? How the hell was she going to do one of those? Why is she the only one working here?
And why the heck do I care?
I turn toward the engine before glancing around the garage for the equipment I’ll need to flush the system.
We don’t speak for several minutes as I get set up.
I’m good at math. I like numbers, but something isn’t adding up here. Like the answer is right in front of me, but I can’t compute anything knowing her eyes are on me, watching every move I make in this garage.
Her family’s business.
Eventually, she says, “Who are your cousins?”
“The Abbotts and the Masters.”
She tips her head, struggling to make the connection.
The Abbotts own a hardware store near Rusty’s Wrecks. The Masters own a bait and tackle shop in Lovewell Landing.
“The families are connected by our mothers being sisters. They are Wells.”
“Lovewell,” she whispers, but the name still carries through the mask. “Your parents were a true match.”
I shake my head at the silly superstitions around here.
The idea that Loves and Wells are a perfect storm of devotion.
Then again, my parents are perfect for one another.
They loved each other fiercely, and I wanted the same thing.
I felt like I was constantly searching for it, but came up empty repeatedly, especially more than a year ago.
“Yoo-hoo?” The distinctly feminine yodel is one I’d recognize anywhere.
I twist to find Charlamaine Love standing at the entrance to the garage.
“Hello, Miss Charma,” Neve greets her, using the name the local historian asks everyone to call her. Neve adds a little wave from the hand that has been resting on the top of her belly.
“Aunt Charma.” I step closer to the woman in her mid-sixties who is my father’s sister.
In younger photographs of her, she was a real beauty.
She’s still pretty in an earthy, almost witchy way.
Her long hair falls down her back in waves of gray and white.
She wears loose skirts and logo t-shirts, and Converse gym shoes.
But the most eccentric thing about her is the collection of amulets and crystals hanging around her neck and the multiple silver rings on her fingers.
She tips her head so I can kiss her cheek, slipping her arm awkwardly around my back.
She immediately glances at Neve. “Did you feel that?” Her voice is hushed, like we should be listening for something I clearly don’t hear or feel.
Aunt Charma glances from Neve to me and back, pointing a finger between us as well.
“Drink from the well, find a true love.”
I chuckle choppily at the nonsense while arching a brow at Neve. A smile shows in her eyes, because the mask covers her mouth.
Charma is the one who told my cousins and me that the well in the center of Lovewell Landing is special. She was always spewing such things, suggesting magic is in the air. You only had to listen, then you could taste it.
I run my hand down Aunt Charma’s back. “Okay, Aunt Charma, that’s enough of that.”
Her forehead scrunches, and Neve gives me a chastising glance.
The only miracle we need in this place is the transmission flushed on this Toyota and some way for me to convince Neve she should no longer be working here.
“How is old Betty?” Charma steps closer to the RAV4.
“Is this your SUV?” I should have known. A single daisy in a vase is clipped to a vent in the dash next to a square air freshener.
“She sure is.” Charma smiles with pride. “Got to keep her engine ticking and her fluids flowing. She likes to be wet.”
I sputter, and Neve’s face turns a sweet shade of pink. She dips her gaze to her lap.
“And how are you, dear? Are you staying lubricated?” She addresses Neve.
“Charma,” I choke.
My aunt turns on me with mischief in her eyes. “What? Hydration is important when you’re pregnant.”
She steps closer to Neve and leans forward, dangling one of her crystals over Neve’s belly. I’m instantly on alert, feeling strangely protective of Neve, and not wanting any of Charma’s woo-woo hovering over the baby.
Charma smiles and softly says, “This one is a fighter. Just like the rest of you girls.” She stands taller and cups Neve’s chin, tender, familiar, compassionate.
What has Neve had to fight? Who? Why? How?
All questions that shouldn’t matter to me.
“Then again,” Charma turns toward me. “Her father was as well.”
Neve’s father? The baby’s father? I hate when my aunt talks in riddles, and I don’t like to engage, because she’ll never give a straight answer.
Instead, I turn back to the transmission work at hand.
“Not much longer,” Charma addresses Neve again. “I predict you’ll deliver early.”
Neve doesn’t answer her, reminding me she cut herself short earlier from telling me her due date.
“Not much longer on your service,” Neve counters, slipping off the stool. One hand comes to her lower back. The other rests on her belly. “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee? I have pumpkin spice creamer.”
I gag.
“As one should,” Charma simpers, slipping her arm around Neve’s shoulder and leading her toward the waiting room, like she owns this business and not the other way around.
Although the leaves haven’t officially changed color yet, and won’t for a few more weeks, I hear the rustle of dry leaves skitter over pavement behind me and turn to watch a swirl of them dance in front of the open garage bay.
Strange.
Then again, autumn signifies a seasonal shift.
Unfortunately for Neve, it won’t be much longer, and she won’t own this business.
She’s going to look at me as her enemy, which is too bad because we were once lovers.
Just once.