She wrapped her fingers around the skinny steering wheel and stared out the front windshield into the woods. What was she going to do now? She couldn’t bail on this assignment. She had to get this car to Pennsylvania. But now was probably not the best time to learn to drive a manual. She’d have to get someone else to drive. She hated that. She wanted the credit for delivering the car. But there was no help for it now—she was going to have to share the glory with someone else.
Olivia was the obvious choice, but they’d left early this morning as she’d been enlisted to make the bulk of the food for the party. (Roasted prime rib, mashed potatoes, and homemade yeast rolls, for starters.)
Who else could Allie ask? Not Charlotte—she was all the way back in Atlanta, and she had her shop to run. Her other friends were also three hours south of here. She could hire a driver—but who? It really had to be someone here in Copper Creek, given the time constraints, but she’d lost touch with her old friends. She couldn’t call someone out of the blue and beg a favor.
Why, oh, why was this happening to her? She thumped her head on the steering wheel once. Twice. Three times. Who could she ask?
As if the jarring had knocked something loose, an image of Luke Fletcher burst into her mind. Her parents had invited their next-door neighbor, but he declined, according to her mother. Probably because of Allie. He was still practically her parents’ adopted son, but he made himself scarce when Allie came around—as well he should.
A tap on the driver’s window made her jump. At the sight of Brady she composed herself and cranked down the window.
Even with a bad case of hat-head he was a handsome man. Lucky Hope. “Everything all right?”
“Um . . . sort of? It seems my parents forgot to mention this was a stick shift.”
He blinked. “Oh. You can’t drive a manual?”
“Well, I probably could, but I’m not sure we’d make it there in one piece.” She gave him a cautious look. “I don’t suppose you’re available for the next, say, ten hours or so?”
“Oh, hey, wish I could. But I have a ’67 Porsche 911 due tomorrow afternoon. It’s for this guy’s birthday . . .”
“No, of course, I understand.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Wish I could help.”
“Not your fault. I don’t suppose you might know of anyone . . . ? I could make it worth their while.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Gosh, everyone I know is working today. I’d ask Hope, but she hasn’t driven a stick in years. Plus, she’s studying for a big exam.”
Allie squeezed the steering wheel. “Right. No, I understand. I’ll think of something.”
“Maybe your dad could come back and get it.”
Wouldn’t that be exactly what her parents expected? Instead of proving herself, she’d reinforce their belief that she was a complete and total failure.
Unless . . . she called Luke.
Her heart pounded at the thought of seeing him again. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d spoken to him. That was a lie. She remembered every detail.
“Don’t worry about it.” Allie dredged up a smile that was as fake as her “natural” highlights. “Really. Go on and enjoy lunch with your wife and give me a minute to make other arrangements. I’ll be out of your hair lickety-split.”
“Sure you don’t want to join us while you work something out? There’s more than enough.”
“I’m sure, but thank you.”
As Brady headed back to the house, Allie turned her thoughts to what she had to do. She knew for a fact Luke was home. She’d seen his old Mustang in the driveway when she went inside her parents’ house for the check. Okay, sneaked inside the house. Those ugly hedges had to be good for something.
But, oh, she didn’t want to face Luke again. And he wouldn’t want to see her either. God knew he’d done nothing but avoid her since her senior prom.
She glanced around the beautifully restored vehicle. She was in a fix, and she couldn’t fail at this task. She couldn’t. Not even if it meant the favored surrogate son would receive half the glory.
She couldn’t just go up to his door—too much like groveling. And she would not beg Luke, not for anything. As it happened she still remembered his old home phone number (it was tattooed on her heart), but he probably didn’t have the landline anymore—who did?
So she would let fate decide what would happen. She’d make the call—just to prove to herself and the world that Luke Fletcher was not the answer to this or any other problem she might have. And if he wasn’t . . .
She was sunk.
Chapter 3
Luke wolfed down the turkey sandwich on five-grain bread, his mind on the maple cabinets waiting in his garage. The customer requested a black cherry stain, but that was a mistake. Maple didn’t take dark stains well. Luke still hoped to bring the client around.
He took his plate to the sink and rinsed it, then put it in the stainless steel dishwasher. Luke had upgraded the kitchen after his mother married Greg Barnes and moved to Florida, leaving Luke to assume the mortgage on his childhood home. When he was finished, he headed toward the garage, his bulldog, Walter, lumbering behind him.
The dog stared up at him with his wrinkled face and tragic brown eyes. “Ready to go back to work, boy?”
For Luke, every day was take-your-dog-to-work day. For Walter, the garage was just another place for a long nap. But what the dog lacked in energy he made up for with a big heart.
The phone rang in the living room—the landline. He reached for a work boot and shoved his foot into it. Most likely a solicitor. No one he knew used or even remembered that number anymore.
Except maybe his dad. If Luke was gut-level honest, it was the reason he hadn’t dropped the landline years ago.
He paused in lacing his boots as the shrill ring sounded again. He straightened and went into the living room, telling his heart it was only someone selling windows, a credit card, or a “free” four-day vacation to the Bahamas.
He picked up the handset. “Hello?”
A pause followed and Luke waited for the recording to kick on. He should just hang up. But a longing for a man he hadn’t heard from in years made him try one more time.
“Hello?” It was more of a bark, but he was impatient with himself and his pitiful yearning for someone who’d probably forgotten him long ago.
He’d just begun to hang up when a voice came through the handset.
“Luke?” A woman’s voice.
He pulled the phone back to his ear. “Yes . . . Who’s this?”
“It’s . . . It’s Allie. Allie Adams.”
As if there were another Allie. His heart skipped a couple beats, then made up for it by doing double time. For the past seven years Allie had been holding what was apparently a one-hundred-year grudge that still had many years left on it. He could only think of one reason she’d call.
Her parents’ trip to Pennsylvania—the anniversary party. Dread slithered down his spine. Bill and Becky had an accident in the mountains, and she was calling to tell him . . . “Your parents?”
“They’re fine.” Her voice was brittle.
Thank God. He released a breath, leaning against the solid chestnut cabinets.