“Pick up, Stephen. It’s Mitch.” His brother’s voice wasn’t nearly as soothing as the heavy metal had been. The oldest of Stephen’s younger siblings, Mitch was the one who consistently refused to let him stay off the family radar for too long.
“I know you’re there,” Mitch pressed.
Where else would he be?
“He’ll come through,” Mitch promised in an undertone to someone on his end of the call.
“Not your job to make promises for me, little brother,” Stephen muttered.
“Pick up,” Mitch said, bossy now. “I’ve got a friend here at the club with car trouble. Tow it out of the employee parking lot and we’ll come by and look it over when I have time tomorrow.” He gave the make, model and license plate number of the car.
Huh. Stephen rolled out from under the Camaro, wiping grease from his hands. His brother knew as much about cars as he did. If Mitch couldn’t get his friend’s car rolling, there was a serious problem. Still, he didn’t pick up, waiting to see if his brother would sweeten the deal.
Mitch swore. “Come on, Stephen. The club has your kind of group onstage tonight. I’ll buy you a beer and help you hook up the car.”
Stephen picked up the handset. “I’ll head over.” He glanced down at his stained T-shirt and jeans. The customer waiting on the Camaro wasn’t in any rush, preferring this rebuild and restoration be done perfectly rather than by a specific date. If only they could all be that patient, Stephen thought. “Give me an hour or so.”
Dropping the receiver back into place, he scowled at his stained hands and T-shirt. Promised beer or not, if he wanted inside the Escape Club during business hours he had to clean up. He put his work space to rights and lowered the bay door. The Camaro would be waiting when he returned.
He walked through the office and around to the refurbished camper he’d parked behind the building. Not that long ago, he would’ve headed to the house he once shared with Mitch, but his brother and Julia, his recent bride, had eventually settled there after their honeymoon.
Stephen had promised his mom he’d find a decent house somewhere near the shop. It was a good neighborhood. Instead, he kept taking on more work, limiting his time to search. The last time he’d gone house hunting had been with his fiancée, Annabeth. Even after three long years he still couldn’t walk a property without hearing in his head how she’d react.
Last year, when his parents had suggested he move back home with them, he’d bristled. He hadn’t taken it any more gracefully when Mitch and Julia swore he wouldn’t be in their way. The newlyweds didn’t need a big brother crowding them. His parents didn’t need him returning home when they could all but taste the empty nest. His youngest sister, Jenny, was almost ready to spread her wings.
Although they meant well, there were days when he was sure he’d drown under all the love and good intentions of his family.
Losing Annabeth before they’d had a chance to experience the life they’d dreamed of didn’t make him an invalid. He maintained a successful business and supported the PFD and other causes in the community that mattered to him. Stephen continued to give special attention to the after-school program where his fiancée had worked, and where three years ago she’d been shot and killed for having the audacity to help kids avoid gangs and drugs.
He’d long since given up on shedding the melancholy that hovered like a storm cloud over his life. What his family wanted for him and what he knew he could handle were two different things. He didn’t bother trying to convince them anymore. Work was all the sunlight he needed. Cars and engines he could understand, fix and make new again. People were too fragile, himself included. In his mind, that was all the rationalization necessary for the old Airstream trailer he’d purchased. After months of work, inside and out, he considered it home, though he wasn’t yet brave enough to use the word within his mother’s hearing.
As the oldest, he really should get more respect for his good judgment, if only by default.
Having washed off the pungent smells of the shop, he debated briefly about clothing. He’d prefer shorts on a summer night, but since he was going to hook up a car, he opted for jeans and a red polo shirt. When he finally reached the club, he found room for the tow truck near the back of the employee parking lot across the street. With the Escape Club perched at the end of the pier, few cars were granted the prime spaces on busy nights. No one emerged from a parked car or otherwise expressed any interest in his arrival, so he walked down to the club.
On the rare occasions his brother got him here, Stephen couldn’t help but admire what Sullivan had made out of his forced early retirement and an old warehouse. He’d never heard anyone question Sullivan’s choices, or express worry over what he was or wasn’t doing with his life. Though admittedly, a club naturally was a more social environment than an auto shop. People came from all over for the bands the Escape Club drew to Philly.
Striding straight to the front of the line, Stephen realized maybe he had more in common with Sullivan than he thought. Galway Automotive was building a solid reputation and people were calling from all over the region to get their cars on his restoration schedule.
“Unless you hire a female mechanic, you’ll never meet a nice girl under the hood of a car.” His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. Myra Galway had a way of saying things that slid right past his defenses and lingered, mocking him with her maternal logic. If only his mom would admit there was more to life than filling lonely hours with pointless chatter with women who sneered at his stained fingernails and the rough calluses on his palms.
At the burly doorman’s arched eyebrow, Stephen gave his name and was quickly waved inside.
The bold, heavy sounds of the metal band onstage slammed into him and battered away at the discontent that persistently dogged Stephen since his fiancée’s death. He leaned into the music, weaving through the crowd until he reached Mitch’s station at the service end of the bar, closer to the kitchen.
His brother eyed him and popped the top off a bottle of beer, setting it in front of him between serving other patrons. Good. Stephen wasn’t in much of a talking mood. The delayed conversation was no surprise, considering the sea of humanity supporting the band from all corners of the club.
“Took you long enough,” Mitch said at the first lull between customers. “You might be here awhile.”
Stephen checked his watch. He’d said an hour or so and had hit the mark precisely. “How come?” he asked, though he didn’t care about the time, since the band was as good as Mitch had promised.
“No way I can get out there right now. This set just started.”
Stephen shrugged and swiveled around on the bar stool to watch the band. They were good, from the sound to the showmanship. He was enjoying the music, the process of being still and people-watching. Waitresses in khaki shorts and bright blue T-shirts emblazoned with the Escape Club logo brushed by him with friendly glances and quick greetings as they exchanged trays of empty bottles and glassware for the fresh orders Mitch filled with startling efficiency. From Stephen’s vantage point everyone in the club seemed to be focused on excellent customer service. Sullivan had definitely created an outstanding atmosphere.
“Do you always ignore the signals?” Mitch asked when another waitress walked off, tray perfectly balanced.
“What are you talking about?”
Mitch shook his head. “Signals from interested women,” he said. “If you’d pay attention, you’d see it for yourself.”
“Please. Not you, too.” Stephen glared at his little brother. “You know I’ve got too much work to spare time for dating.”
“Uh-huh.” Mitch slid another city-wide special across the bar to a customer and marked the tab. “Then I’m sorry I called you. Another beer?”
“Water,” Stephen answered,