Right Brother (10 page)

Her daughter professed herself relieved to not have him
following me around like a puppy dog,
but Jennifer knew she missed Warren.

“Plus Jonas—you know, the guy you hired at the dealership. And Sarah's brother, Barry.” She yawned hugely. “I'm going to bed now. Mom, I'll do the grocery shopping for you tomorrow. I can use the cart.”

Jennifer's brows hiked up, but she said only, “That would be great, sweetheart. Sleep well.”

Ashley kissed first Darcie, then her mother on the cheek and wished them good-night before leaving.

Jennifer and Darcie stared at each other in the dim light.

“Let's recap,” Darcie said. “Glowing smile, the movie was just
okay,
complete list of who was there, the sudden desire to go to bed early, and butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth goodness. Clearly meant to reassure and/or distract the maternal watchdog.”

Jennifer groaned.

“And the verdict is?”

“A boy,” they said in unison.

“Her first crush. Probably the star of the movie.” Darcie shook her head in wonderment. “All I can say is, count yourself lucky she's still just a kid. A few more years and this'll really be a problem.”

“Gee, thanks.”

 

Trent had put off making this phone call as long as he could.

“I'm not going to make it for the Fourth, Linc. You know I'd make it if I could. I love the Fourth with you guys.”

“Yeah, and us guys,” Linc said with only a shadow of his usual teasing for that Midwestern term, “are going to have the best one yet. Everybody's coming. Tracy and Ben are flying in from Chicago—and don't think it's gone unnoticed that you haven't contacted them since you've been in Illinois. We've got a great beach house rented and Mama's already baking.”

Trent groaned.

Apparently feeling Trent had been sufficiently chastised—and he did hate to miss a Fourth with the group of friends who had coalesced around the Johnsons like iron filings
around a magnet—Linc asked, “So what are you going to do for the Fourth out there in the vast wasteland of cornfields?”

“Feed the town.”

“Is that some metaphor for living in the breadbasket?”

“No. That's the literal truth. Feed the town. A free cookout for all of Drago to advertise Stenner Autos' grand reopening.”

After a silence, Linc asked, “How much is it going to cost you?”

“The whole day.”

“Dollars, Stenner. How many dollars?”

“I have no idea. Jennifer's handling all that.”

“Well, you'd better find out, fella, because that's your money.”

“Are you saying we can't afford it?” he asked, torn between hope that he could fly west for the holiday weekend after all, and a sinking at the pit of his stomach at the prospect of informing Jennifer.

“How can I know if you can afford it when you don't know how much it is?” Linc asked. “Actually, it sounds like a really good idea. Make sure you have new cars around. Nothing too pushy, just models folks can see while they're there. Casual. You know, it really is a good idea. I'm surprised you came up with it.”

“Not me. Jennifer. I'll pass on your thoughts about the cars.”

“So what are you going to do at this thing?”

“Supervise.”

“Thank God. Just tell that Jennifer of yours not to let you near a grill.”

 

Jennifer pushed back from her computer screen and stretched her tight back.

Amazing that the phone had been silent long enough for her back to tighten up. She linked her hands overhead and bent to the right.

She was almost afraid to let the thought form, but maybe, just maybe, she was getting the gist of these tax requirements, so her order of IRS bulletins and informational booklets would be pared from her initial, panicked send-me-everything-you've-got to a mere four dozen or so.

But her to-do list for the Fourth of July and the reopening at the end of the month stretched for miles. In the meantime, day-to-day financial issues and duties accumulated faster than she could sort them. Layer upon layer of paper formed on her desk, each layer weighing down and compacting the previous layers, the way geological ages compacted dirt. She expelled a deep breath as she bent to the left.

Coffee. She needed coffee. No, better make that a soft drink. As long as they didn't have customers—or income—yet, she'd told Trent to keep the thermostat set high to save on air-conditioning.

Coming out of her windowless office she blinked at the bright—and hot—midafternoon sunlight streaming through the showroom windows. Despite the financial issues piling up, they were making good progress in other areas. They'd hired more people, including a pair of high school boys to clean the back building and compile a list of the old parts that were there.

She'd talked to Warren Wellton about a Web site. She'd had to bite her lip to keep from smiling when he informed her that he was far too busy himself, but he had a protégé who could do the Web site and, as a personal favor, he would oversee the work. A thirteen-year-old entrepreneur with a twelve-year-old protégé.

If she'd had just one thought in her head about business at that age, how much different her life, Ashley's life, might be now.

But she'd make it up to her daughter. She had to.

She had her hand on the door handle when she saw Trent outside, tossing a football with Bobby Flickner under the
trees. He wore shorts that revealed a length of muscled, medium-hairy legs. His motion twisted the fabric of his polo shirt tight against his firm abdomen.

Several of Trent's old teammates had gotten in the habit of stopping by. Bobby was the most frequent. She tried hard not to resent his taking up Trent's time. Bobby had been out of work for more than a year, and she'd heard it was rough for him and his wife, getting by on her wages as a cashier at the grocery store. She could understand his needing the outlet.

And, she realized in that moment, watching Trent's easy rhythm and motion as he gathered in the ball, shifted his stance and threw it back, it wasn't even the time she resented the most. It was Trent's reaction.

Oh, he did his duty around Stenner Autos. More than his duty. He had a good mind, and he applied it.

But it was duty. Work.

While there was something of love in the way he gathered in, held, then threw that football. The look of a man doing what he was meant to do.

For the first time in her life she felt a twinge of empathy with Franklin Stenner. If he'd worked half as hard as she had these past several weeks, she could begin to understand his pique with Trent's lack of interest in the dealership. Or had Trent's disregard for the business resulted from his father's disinterest in Trent?

The family version of the eternal chicken-or-egg question.

“Something wrong, Jennifer?”

Jorge O'Farrell came from the men's room drying his hands on a paper towel. Seeing him reminded her she needed to order the list of required tools he'd given her yesterday.

“No, nothing's wrong.”

As long as Trent helped make this dealership a success—securing her job and Ashley's financial future—it wasn't any
of her concern whether he did it from duty or love. And the Stenner family dynamics certainly weren't any of her concern.

She made sure to smile as she approached the two men.

“Hi, Bobby. Good to see you. How're you doing?”

“Hey, Jennifer. I'm doing great.” He smiled back. “Was just telling Trent, here, that I got hired on for the Zeke-Tech construction.”

“Oh, Bobby, that's wonderful. When do you start?”

“Next month. Doing some preliminary work on the site, helping them coordinate with local suppliers and such.”

Bobby told her more details as she dropped coins in the machine for her soft drink. As far as she knew, Trent never looked anywhere but at the ball that he and Bobby kept exchanging.

“See you later,” she said with another smile as she hurried across the flight path of the ball.

But she was in no danger of being hit. Trent had caught the ball and now held it in one hand. He slapped the other hand against its surface.

“Jennifer's right, Bobby. Time for me to get back to work.”

“I didn't say—”

“You didn't have to,” Trent said, overriding her righteous protest. “You're still right.”

 

“Phone call for you, Trent,” Loris called as he was about to walk out the café door.

He knew immediately. So did the bulk of the breakfast eaters who were Drago natives. He didn't even consider trying to get out of it.

He thanked Loris and said hello into the receiver.

“Why did I have to track you down at the café?”

“I'm glad you did,” he interrupted. He'd learned as a kid that if you hoped to say anything you couldn't let Franklin
Stenner get a full head of steam up. “I have a question for you. How can I get in touch with Eric?”

“Wha— Why?” his father demanded.

“Found some things of his at the dealership.”

“Nothing he'd care about.”

“I'd like his phone number and address.”

“I don't have it. He calls me.”

In Franklin Stenner's voice, Trent heard what a hard admission it had been that Eric was calling the shots.

“And you're no better,” his father added quickly, regaining his footing. “I have left messages on your machine, which is the only number you deign to give us. If I didn't have friends in that town, I still wouldn't know we had the dealership back.”

“We don't.”

“What?” his father bellowed. “I know for a fact that you bought it.”

“That's right. I bought it. Not we.”

“I know you bought it, that's what I said,” Franklin said impatiently. “Now, we have to talk about what to do next.”

“No, we don't. I bought it, and I'm deciding what to do next. Bye. If you hear from Eric have him call me. Give my best to Mom.”

 

The only time Trent spared a moment for regretful longing for the gathering he was missing in California was when he was detailed to open hamburger buns and hold them out to receive patties grilled by Jorge.

He looked at the hunks of essentially white bread that were as little like the featherweight, melt-in-your-mouth pastry Linc's mother made as two things made from flour could be, and felt a definite culinary twinge.

To Trent's surprise, Linc hadn't even mocked the menu—much—asserting that it suited the tone they should set with
the dealership. Part of the community. A hometown business that would treat customers as friends…so friends should be loyal to the hometown business in return.

Five new cars were strategically placed around the lot—he didn't even want to remember the hours spent discussing where to place them. Followed by more hours of moving them after Jennifer didn't like the scheme she'd picked out in the first place.

Not that he begrudged her that. She'd grabbed on to Linc's suggestion when Trent relayed it like someone wrapping up a game-saving fumble. She'd worked hard to arrange to have the cars here, haggling with the manufacturers' marketing managers until she wore them down.

And then she'd tackled flyers as “teasers” for the reopening, agonizing over each detail of wording, design and color. They looked good, but to his eye so had the other samples she'd produced. And if he didn't hear any more about fonts for the next year that would be soon enough for him. How could a font be friendly and inviting? They were just letters.

So the cars were here and the flyers were here and, lo and behold, most of Drago was here. And Jennifer…Jennifer, wearing a jacketed dress with a skirt that flipped and flirted at her knees, was everywhere.

His gaze followed her as she left one group and moved to another. She did it with such grace and ease he doubted anyone would realize exactly how good she was at working a room—or in this case, a car lot.

One of the high school kids, hired originally to clean and organize the old parts shed but assigned to cleaning the lot to Jennifer's standards and to planting a phalanx of rosebushes out front in preparation for the cookout, hustled up to him.

“Mr. Stenner, Ms. Truesdale says I should take over for you.”

“Great.” He handed over the package of buns.

“And you should mingle.”

Trent groaned. He'd already talked with his fifth-grade teacher, Judge Dixon, a nosy matron named Mildred Magnus and dozens of other people.

The kid, the sandy-haired one with the snub nose and freckles, flashed a sympathetic grin, then pretended he hadn't noticed a thing.

“Did Ms. Truesdale specify who I'm supposed to mingle with?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Trent hitched his hips on the supply table screened from most of the crowd by a Stenner Autos van. “I'll mingle with you.”

The kid shot him a look—first startled, then considering. “Then may I ask a question?”

“Go right ahead.” He didn't get flooded with questions the way stars did, but he'd fielded his share from kids dreaming of the pros. He had answers all ready, including the one none of them wanted to hear: plan for college, do your course work and get your degree as though it's going to support you for the rest of your life, because it probably will.

“Are you going to need more help here once the shed's cleaned and the parts are inventoried?”

Okay, that question wasn't what he'd expected. “You want a permanent part-time job? After school starts, too?”

“I'd rather work full-time until football practice starts the second week of August, then part-time. When school starts I don't know if I'll be able to work if I make the team.”

The last was said in such a low voice Trent almost missed it.

“You're trying out for varsity?” The kid nodded. “What position?”