“...so old?”
Someone chuckled. The crowd released a collective sigh. The young woman behind the counter waved them over with a sunny, welcoming smile. Joe’s sense of déjà vu receded.
Now was the perfect time to announce the garage was back in business, before conversations resumed.
Words stuck in the back of Joe’s throat.
He’d never been much good at public speaking or composing smooth sentences. Joe and his brothers had grown up on the wrong side of the river. Their parents weren’t perfect or even well liked. Dad had mental-health issues that made him unpredictable and volatile. Mom liked to argue with anyone about anything. Their parents and status in life made the boys self-conscious, but had also given them a tough core that held up the chip Uncle Turo later placed on their shoulders.
When Turo came to town, he’d given them an outlet for their resentment—motorcycles—and, not being a fan of mama’s boys, he’d encouraged their rebellious attitude. Not exactly the best way to help them fit into small, sleepy Harmony Valley, but a blessing to three teens longing for a guiding hand. Any guiding hand.
But that was in the past. Joe was done with motorcycles and mischief. He was a single dad. A business owner. A responsible taxpaying citizen of Harmony Valley.
Joe cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’m Joe Messina and this is Sam. We’re reopening the garage over by the highway.”
“Messina?” A thin old man squinted at them. He wore a red tie-dyed T-shirt and had a gray ponytail hanging down his back. “One of Tony Messina’s boys?”
Joe nodded.
“I’m Mayor Larry.” The aging hippy eyed Joe as if unsure how to tally his vote. Perhaps assuming Joe’s opinion was favorable, he added with all the enthusiasm of a politician, “Welcome home.”
“Are you the Joe Messina whose mother used to be in the quilt club?” A wrinkled woman with short purplish-gray hair sat in the window seat. She wore a hot-pink tracksuit and had a quilt square in her lap. She stared at them with kind curiosity. “Her pinwheel quilt blocks were exquisite.”
Joe nodded, breathing easier.
“The Joe Messina who was a lineman on the high school team?” asked an elderly Asian man with a walker next to his seat. The table in front of him held a checkerboard, pieces midgame. “The one who lost his temper and punched the other team’s quarterback?”
The mayor wrinkled his brow.
“Uh...” Joe barely dipped his head, very much aware of Sam at his side. This was like entering a room of talking elephants. They hadn’t forgotten anything. He hoped they didn’t mention his dad. But he prayed they didn’t mention Uncle Turo.
“The Joe Messina who set fire to the gymnasium?” This from a beefy senior with what looked like orange cat hair on his red polo shirt. He sat across from the checker player and might have been the fire chief back in the day.
“That fire was an accident.” Grabbing Sam’s arm, Joe moved toward the main counter. A large tablet above the cookies flashed a message: Read Today’s Blog (Zucchini and Jalapeño Cookies with Sweet Lime Glaze). “I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day.”
A well-dressed brunette paying for her coffee turned to give him a teasing smile. “Man, it sucks to be you.” It was Regina, the B and B manager and would-be car-part thief. She was too pretty and high-maintenance-looking to pick auto parts regularly. No. It was Brittany who was the brains of that outfit. “Makes me glad I didn’t grow up here. My past remains in the past, if you know what I mean.”
Regina didn’t seem the type to have a dark past. Her sister, on the other hand... He’d bet she and that wrench of hers were trouble.
“Do you have fifty dollars now?” Sam said in a voice that was far too businesslike for a kid. She widened her eyes and her smile, having been taught how to work a crowd by one of the best crooks in the family tree. “I can sell the grille to you.”
“Samantha Ellen,” Joe said sharply. Sometimes his daughter was too big for her coveralls.
Regina stared at Sam as if working through a complicated math problem.
“It’s my property, too.” Sam jutted her delicate chin. “It’s the Messina Family Garage.”
“Samantha?” Regina’s gaze flicked up to Joe’s hesitantly.
What was there to be hesitant about?
“Samantha,” Regina said again, firmly this time as she looked Sam in the eye. “You can ask Brit about the grille. She buys junk like I buy new clothes. All the time.” With a tug at her gray sweatshirt—which hadn’t been made for sweating—Regina took her coffee and left.
“I remember you now,” the mayor said to Joe. “I was confused because all the Messina boys had long hair, drove fast and had a penchant for getting into scrapes.”
“All in the past,” Joe assured him. Vince had a decent job on an oil rig in the Gulf Coast, Gabe was overseas with the military and Turo was behind bars.
“You still have long hair.” The woman with purplish-gray curls didn’t sound reproachful. She sounded flirty. “I bet women love that rebellious scowl of yours.”
“Eunice,” the blonde behind the counter scolded. She was in her twenties with a friendly face that was naggingly familiar.
“Nine times out of ten,” the former fire chief said in a loud voice, suggesting either a need for hearing aids or a grudge against accidental arsonists, “long hair and getting into scrapes go hand in hand.”
“Hey,” said the tie-dyed-T-shirt-wearing mayor as he flicked his long gray ponytail. “I resemble that remark.”
While the fire chief apologized, Joe spied his reflection and overgrown hair in the glass bakery case. He knew he needed a haircut, but it’d been at the low end of his budget priorities.
“Ignore them.” The woman behind the counter grinned. “They’re...a conservative bunch. But harmless.” Her bright smile, short blond hair and lack of a history with the Messinas should have soothed him. “I’m Tracy. I think...you went to school...with my older brother. Will Jackson?”
So much for a lack of shared history.
“I remember Will,” Joe said tightly. Mr. Golden Boy. Mr. All-American. Mr. Could-Do-No-Wrong.
“Now, Will,” the former fire chief boomed. “There was a boy who turned out right.”
Joe’s shoulders locked as tight as the old BMW’s carburetor was sure to be. He’d been hoping for a new start. For anonymity. Maybe some leftover goodwill from the past. The Messinas hadn’t been all bad...had they?
Samantha took his hand. “My dad turned out all right.” So young to be his fiercest supporter.
What did it say that she also defended Uncle Turo?
Joe had to do right by her. He was doing right by her. He’d make the citizens in Harmony Valley see he was reformed.
Look on the bright side, Athena would have said. A new start.
Don’t apologize for who you are, Uncle Turo would have said. Stand tall.
So he had long hair? At least it wasn’t winter and Joe wasn’t wearing his black leather jacket. And he hadn’t ridden into town on a Harley. Wouldn’t that have played to type?
On the other hand...
He brushed his fingers through his hair. A haircut to show the conventional crowd he was respectable wouldn’t hurt. The barbershop was down the street, and Phil Lambridge used to cut his hair. At least he had until Joe took Leona Lambridge’s new Cadillac for a midnight joyride on a dare from