12. Wrench
Chapter Twelve
WRENCH
Church runs for two hours the next day.
Prez stands at the head of the table with a map and lays out what he and Doc spent months digging up out of state.
The room goes uncharacteristically quiet.
Lucky sits forward the whole time, jaw working, because a lot of it points at the Lodge.
When Prez finally raps the table he looks around at all of us and says, “That's next week’s war. Tomorrow, I'm told Marvin’s diner does a decent pie, courtesy of our very own baker. I’m buying. ”
Savage tells the whole story of me grappling with Shawn. In his version I hit Shawn so hard his shoes came off. By late afternoon we know Shawn Jebson is going back inside to finish a long stretch plus interest, two states away.
Me, I've got a starter to install. I spend another hour on things she didn't ask for, cleaning the car inside and out. I drive it to Strawberry Street running smoothly, admiring my own handiwork.
Lila's on the porch steps in the afternoon sun, waiting. I climb out and hold up her keys.
“Fixed,” I say. “Starter, belts, brakes. Purrs now.”
She comes down the steps and takes the keys, and turns them over in her hand. I remember what she said. If you can fix it, we'll stay until then.
“Well. A deal's a deal.”
“Lila…”
“I said we'd stay until you fixed it.” She steps in close, right into my shadow, and hooks her finger into my cut pocket, and the sun makes her dark hair glow almost red. “You'll notice I never said what needed fixing.”
I stand there a second, outplayed.
“There's a lot broken around here,” she goes on, counting on her fingers.
“The porch step. The bathroom faucet drips.
The gate hinge sings in the wind. Rosie's bike has a wobble.
And I've got a whole life,” her voice is unsteady, “...
a whole life that got pretty banged up along the road, and I'm told you're a patient man.”
“That’s right.” I manage. My chest is tight.
I take her face in both hands and kiss her until the keys drop out of her hand into the flowerbed.
Behind us, a small dry cough.
Rosie stands at the gate with her backpack on and Waffles at her side, both of them wearing the same bemused expression.
“Mama. You're kissing Wrench?”
“I am, baby.”
“Maria's mom said it was quite the town gossip. It’s okay. I like him. Not as much as Waffles, but he’s nice.” She hikes her backpack, supremely unbothered, and looks up at me. “Are you going to be here more often now?”
I crouch down to Rosie's level the same as I did the first day she marched up to my dog.
“That's the plan, chiquita. That okay by you?”
She considers it. “Can Waffles sleep in my room?”
“He's the head of your security detail. Of course.”
“Then okay.” She shrugs, deal closed, seven years old and better at negotiating than most parts suppliers I know. Then she pulls the napkin from her pocket, with some leftover bacon and holds it up, looking for my approval.
I put my hand on Waffles' big head. “New rule. Waffles eats when you say so, Rosie.”
Her whole face lights up. She looks at the dog and he looks back at her, ears up. “Waffles. Here’s your bacon.”
The bacon's gone in an instant and the four of us go inside for dinner.
Sunday morning, Marvin's is packed, and we walk in together. Marvin comes out from the pass himself, wiping his hands, looks the three of us over, and jerks his chin at the best corner booth, the one with the view of the mountains.
“Family table,” he grunts, and dares anybody to comment.
Taryn's got pancakes coming before we've sat down. Rosie sneaks Waffles bacon. And I sit in the booth with my arm along the back of Lila's chair, her shoulder warm against my hand, as she laughs at something Taryn hollered from the kitchen.
It feels like home.