Restore My Heart (3 page)

Vic nodded, stuffing another French fry into his mouth.

“I’ve promised to help Mom understand the business. Dad pretty much left work at the office, so she has a lot to learn.”

“Is she gonna sit in when Barbara shows you the books tomorrow?”

Joe sipped his cooling coffee. “That’s a good idea, since they’ll be working together anyway.”

Vic’s eyes clouded. “I’m just a salesman, Joey. Leo was the brains of the outfit. Somehow, I’d hoped you’d be the one to take the job.”

“Dad left his interest in the business to Mom. I got the classic cars, and I’m not complaining. Trust me. Mom is the better choice for making business decisions.”

“Come on! You’re the financial wizard.”

“A financial
advisor
. I develop retirement packages targeting a specific market, and make recommendations to clients for money managers, that sort of thing. That hardly makes me a wizard.”

“Not to hear Leo tell it. He bragged about you all the time.”

Anguish ripped Joe’s heart. His dad had been proud of Joe and his career. Regret for opportunities lost tormented him as it had every day since he’d gotten his mother’s phone call. She’d had to track him down last week with the terrible news of his dad’s death.

“Don’t underestimate Mom. She may not have had a career outside the home, but she has the requisite management skills.”

“You sure she’s ready? I mean, she took Leo’s— death really hard.”

Joe didn’t miss Vic’s hesitation at speaking of his dad’s death. Everyone seemed to tip-toe around the word
suicide
. “I think work will do her good. Give her a purpose.”

“I guess that’s it, then. Barbara will keep books. I’ll sell cars on the used car lot, and Lucinda can manage the office. Dan Alsop’s been handling the classic car brokering.”

“Dan Alsop? Who’s he?”

“He opened that new garage about six months ago, off Frankfort Avenue. He does restoration work, although he has a knack for finding good buys on antique autos. So far he’s been lucky enough to find whatever our clients are looking for.”

“But you think Mustang Sally’s is the better garage, right?”

“She does the best work. But Alsop’s faster and does brokering, too.”

Joe digested this, then changed the subject. “Are you interested in buying out Mom’s share?”

Vic shook his head. “We’ve been over that. Even if I thought I could pull it off without Leo, I don’t have that kind of money. Besides, Lucinda said she wouldn’t sell.”

His mom wouldn’t sell? That was news to Joe, but he didn’t let on. Vic lit up another cigarette. The strong smoke had taken its toll on Joe’s tired eyes and scratchy throat. Stress from the funeral, the legal problems, and the battle with the life insurance company all weighed heavily on him. He longed to stretch out and relax at home.

Home? For now, he was staying in the quarters behind the stables at his parents’ house. He’d promised himself to take one day at a time. As long as he had his laptop, he could work with his clients from Louisville as well as he could in his Atlanta office. Besides, after years of marriage to his career, he was due a break.

“I’d better get back to Mom’s. See you tomorrow.” Joe slid a five dollar bill toward Vic.

Vic pushed away the money. “It’s on me, boy.”

Joe nodded his thanks, slid out of the booth, then pocketed the money. He meandered through the growing crowd and headed toward the door. Negotiating his way through tray-laden waitresses, smokers and body-clenched dancers, he reached the jukebox that now played a soft Beach Boys tune. He moved on into the night and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air.

Sally Clay stumbled across the tiny parking lot toward a vintage Mustang convertible. Mustang. Sally. Of course. Well,
Mustang Sally
had over-imbibed, judging from the difficulty she had walking to her car. Surely she had more sense than to drive.

She reached the car, then rested against the driver’s door, her keys dangling from one finger. Using both hands to push herself upright, she inserted the key in the lock. Joe reached her side in three strides.

“Need a ride, Miss Clay?”

Gasping, she clutched at her throat. “You startled me. No, as you can see, I have my car.”

Joe counted to ten. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you talking about?”

“No offense, ma’am, but you could hardly walk a straight line coming across the parking lot.”

“So you think I’m drunk?” Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs.

“I’m offering you a ride, ma’am.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “No need to take offense.”

“But I do take offense. I drank exactly one beer tonight.”

The harsh lights from the street lamps revealed a face filled with humor, not anger. Judging from her quick words, she was as sober as he. But what accounted for her swaying?

She shrugged, then smiled. “As for my walking a straight line, it’s a miracle I can walk at all, Joe.” She gestured toward the Mustang, where a handicapped parking permit dangled from the rearview mirror. “I’m a cripple.”

Sally figured she might as well use humor to get her disability out in the open. Even in the web of shadows she could see the shock in Joe’s eyes. Better he be repulsed now, before she learned to like the guy. Before she forgot to ignore her attraction to him.

“It doesn’t affect my competence as a mechanic.”

“Why would you call yourself a cripple?”

She fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them. Not the first time she’d turned clumsy around this man, she thought, silently cursing herself. Giving up on the keys, she turned to face him. “It’s my way of putting others at ease. By making fun of myself, I voice what they’ll be thinking when they see my disfigured leg.”

Joe met her gaze and shook his head. “Not everyone is that shallow.”

“You have no idea.” Even her own father couldn’t bear the sight of her scars.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t.” Especially with a guy who hardly knew her.

Joe walked to the front of her car, running his hand along the fender. “What year Mustang is this?”

Thank God, he’d changed the subject, and to one of her favorites. “This baby’s a 19641/2 with the 260 V-8.”

He gave her a questioning look. “Now you’ve lost me.”

Lost him? With a father in the automobile business, Joe should’ve had a working knowledge of engines. Was he testing her? Then she remembered Uncle Sal’s remark that Joe worked in finance. Or maybe it was investments. Whatever, he was too white collar for the likes of a greasy mechanic—as if she needed reminding.

“The engine is 260 cubic inches. It has eight cylinders, arranged in a vee. Most V-8 Mustangs were 289s, starting with the 1965 models.”

“Did you restore it?”

“You bet. My dad found it for me for my sixteenth birthday. You should’ve seen it. What a rag!” She grinned at the memory. “He got it for a couple hundred bucks from a guy ready to junk it.”

Joe circled the car, peeking through the windows at the interior. “You did a great job. How long did it take you?”

Warmth flushed through her at his words of praise. “Off and on, ten years and about three thousand dollars. But it’s worth a lot now. Not many 260s around.”

He straightened, pinning her with a frown. “You aren’t selling it, are you?”

If business didn’t pick up, she’d have little choice. “I don’t want to sell it.”

“Good.” He caressed the rag top with his fingers. “Automatic transmission?”

“Yes. I couldn’t manage a clutch with my bum leg.”

Joe smiled, shaking his head. “I can barely manage a clutch myself. Dad gave up trying to teach me to drive a stick shift. My older sister finally taught me.”

“Really?” Score one for the females. “So what do you drive, Joe?”

He pointed toward a white Dodge Intrepid parked alongside a gaslight on the square. “That’s mine.”

“I figured you for a Beemer.”

Joe chuckled. “Should I feel insulted or flattered?”

“Neither.” She suppressed a groan. Since when did she mock her customers? “As you said, no need to take offense.”

“None taken.” He glanced at his designer wristwatch. “It’s late. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Joe.” She pushed the key into the Mustang’s door lock.

His retreating footsteps halted. “Sally?”

“Yes?”

The gaslight spotlighted his lopsided smile and his expressive eyes. “You may have trouble with your leg, but you’re the last person I’d call a cripple.”

Joe had driven off before Sally found her voice. She leaned against the door, still clutching the key, staring at his vacant parking space. Their brief exchange surprised her. Joe wasn’t like any guy she’d been around, not that there were many. He’d treated her with—what? Respect? No, it went beyond respect.
Admiration
.

“Now why did you have to go and say a nice thing like that, Joe Desalvo?”

The aroma of cinnamon and melted butter pulled Joe’s attention from the breakfast room window. Just outside were his mother’s full crop of tulips, ablaze in yellows, reds, and whites, bordering the bluegrass lawn. Two cinnamon rolls, hot, drizzled with glaze, beckoned from a china plate in front of him.

Biting into the warm pastry, he studied his mother’s pale face. Still trim and beautiful at fifty-seven, she handled her current crisis like any other. She cooked. As far back as Joe could remember, his mother’s freshly baked pies or cookies would appear amidst the worst of catastrophes. It amazed him that no one in the family was overweight. Between him and his two sisters, there had been a good many crises.

His mother refilled both their china cups with coffee. “You’ve been quiet this morning. Is anything wrong?”

He wiped away warm icing that had dribbled onto his chin. “You still make the world’s best cinnamon rolls, Mom.”

“Don’t dodge my question. What’s on your mind?”

“Too much to worry you with.” He wasn’t ready to talk about the ever-present specter of his father’s death. Nor did he want to discuss his preoccupation with a certain attractive brunette who thought of herself as a cripple. Joe’d bet that beneath Sally’s tough act and self-deprecating humor hid a vulnerable and sensitive woman.

“Joey.” She spoke his name like a warning, as if he were four years old instead of nearly thirty-two. “I’m your mother. I’m supposed to worry.”

“You have enough on your plate, Mom. By the way, how did it go at the bank?”

She sipped at her coffee. “Fine. I had to wait for the state people to get there. After they peeked inside the safe deposit box, satisfied themselves that Leo hadn’t stashed a bundle of money in there, they had me sign some papers. Then they lifted the freeze.”

“Good.”

“So what’s on the agenda for me today?”

“Vic thought you’d benefit from going over the books with me and Barbara Bloom.”

Her hand trembled as she settled the cup onto the saucer. “Yes. That will be helpful.”

“Mom, are you sure you’re ready to go to work?”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t. I told you, we could work out a deal to sell your half to Vic. He says he can’t swing it, but you could hold—”

“I have to pick up where your dad left off. Otherwise, I’ll never get to the bottom of his death.”

His cup clattered against the saucer. “What?”

“I have to do this.” She fixed him with a steely gaze, filled with determination and resolve. And something else. Anger? He’d never seen this side of his mother.

“Mom, look. I know Dad’s suicide is hard for you. It’s hard as hell on me, too. How do you think I feel? I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve been here for him.” He swallowed the unbidden sob. “I should’ve stopped it.”

“Is that what you think?” Her eyes filled. “You have your own life, son. Your father understood that. He was so proud of you. Don’t think for one second you failed him.”

But Joe had failed him. Nothing his mother said could absolve him. The cinnamon roll knotted into a painful lump in his stomach. “You think it had something to do with money? With the business?”

“I don’t know. He seemed troubled last week. Something was on his mind. But suicide?” She shook her head. “Nothing was so bad Leo would’ve taken his own life. He devoutly believed that life was only God’s to take.”

“I know. I use to attend mass with him, too, Mom. But if he was deeply depressed or not in his right mind—” He shook his head, disturbed by his mother’s denial. “The fact remains, we can’t ignore the evidence. The police—”

His mother interrupted him with an expletive he’d never heard her use before. “Leo didn’t kill himself, Joey, no matter what the police say. Your father was
murdered.”