Page 39 of Shifting Sands
“No. We skipped it. Now I can ask you the hard-hitting questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like … when was the last time you washed those jeans?”
He looks down at his grease-slicked pants. “Honestly? I think they were new when I put them on yesterday.”
“Your back pocket is stapled on,” I point out, immediately regretting saying anything.
Nice, Brandee. Embarrass the man, why don’t you?
He lifts his hips from the bench and glances at his backside. “Oh, damn, this must be the pair I wore in the bar the other night. Some rowdy kid I helped kick out grabbed my pocket and yanked. It ripped a large hole and exposed my ass cheek, so I had Leonard staple it shut.”
I lean back on my hands, gazing at him. “So, what’s the deal with the car? It looks expensive. Are you guys restoring it for a client?” I ask, changing the subject.
He pauses for half a second—just long enough for me to catch it. Then he shrugs. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Oh wow. That’s cool. Do you guys do engines and body work?”
“Kind of.” Brew picks at a grape from one of the fruit cups, like it’s suddenly fascinating.
“Have you worked here long?” I ask.
And he clears his throat. “I’ve known Willis since I was a kid. He and my grandfather are old friends. They used to run a little racing team together back in the day.”
I narrow my eyes. “You mean, like … NASCAR?”
“Not that big, just a dirt track team,” he says.
“Oh, that sounds fun. I don’t know much about racing. But I do know a cool car when I see one. My best friend’s husband, Langford, and his brother Graham are into old cars. They buy them and restore them all the time.”
“Langford and Graham?” he repeats.
“Yeah, Langford and Graham Tuttle. They live in Balsam Ridge. That’s where I’m from.”
Something passes on his expression.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m just listening,” he says.
It feels like there’s something he’s not telling me. But I don’t push.
“So,” he says, brushing grease off his arm, “sorry about the sweaty mechanic show.”
“Please,” I scoff. “I told you, I like cars. I’m practically a gearhead.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s a carburetor do?” he asks, leaning into me, voice low and teasing.
I blink. “It … carburates.”
He bursts out laughing, head thrown back, and I can’t help but laugh, too, even if I feel like I just flunked a pop quiz.
“No brownie for you,” I say as I snatch the confections from the table.
“I’m sorry,” he says through bouts of laughter.
We sit like that for a while—talking, teasing, stealing bites of each other’s food like we’ve known one another for years instead of days. He tells me about the island’s old dirt racetrack, how it’s overgrown now but used to buzz with engines every summer weekend. I tell him about Balsam Ridge.
