“I don’t know about that,” the older girl corrected. “Mom’s going to get home pretty late. And I bet we have to eat soup and sandwiches like last time.”
Was the widowed church secretary going out after work? That seemed a little surprising, although he didn’t know much about nice women like her. Maybe she and the Bible thumper had a thing going.
“Why is she coming home late?” he asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t.
“She has to take the bus home,” Jessie said. “That’s how she got to work today. The car is broken again.”
He didn’t doubt it. That old Plymouth had sounded as though it was on its last wheel when she’d come home yesterday.
“She’s probably going to be riding the bus for a long time,” the older girl said. “She can’t afford to have someone fix the car yet.”
“That’s all right,” the younger girl said. “Riding the bus is really fun.”
It might be fun for a child. And public transportation was certainly an option. But Zack doubted their mother was happy about not having a dependable car.
“How far away is your mom’s work?” he asked.
“About twenty minutes when she drives us to church,” Becky said. “But it takes a lot longer on the bus, because it’s all the way in San Diego, and we have to take two or three different ones, just to get there.”
For a moment he thought about a darkened bus stop in the bad part of town. A pregnant woman waiting alone, trying to catch the 209 home. A dark sedan driving by. The glint of metal. A gunshot. A body slumping to the ground. A pool of blood. Screams. Sirens.
It had been a fluke. A random shooting that wasn’t likely to happen again.
He’d been locked up, unable to help Teresa. Unable to sit with a premature baby. Unable to do anything but stare at the damned bars that had imprisoned him.
Zack blew out a sigh. Maybe he ought to check out that rusted out old clunker Diana drove. He was a pretty decent mechanic and knew a guy down at the auto junkyard where he got used parts at a discount.
He reached into the bag of barbecue chips, but paused before sticking one in his mouth. “After work, I’ll take a look at your mom’s car. Maybe I can get it running again.”
“That’s way cool,” Becky said. “My mom is going to think you’re a real live hero.”
With his record and his past, Zack was about as far from hero material as a man came, especially in the eyes of a pretty widow who worked as a church secretary.
It was almost seven o’clock when Diana finally started down Shady Lane to the small rented home where she and the girls lived.
She wished she’d worn walking shoes rather than heels, but when the car engine wouldn’t turn over this morning, she’d been afraid to take the time to run inside for a pair of tennies or flats. If she couldn’t make it to the bus stop by eight o’clock, she would have had to wait another thirty minutes for the 213. As it was, she’d power-walked and had to run the last fifty yards.
The sun had lowered over the Pacific, but due to a hurricane off the coast of Mexico, there wasn’t the usual ocean breeze to cool the sultry air. After two long bus rides and a five-block walk, her clothes were clinging to her damp skin. She tugged at her silky blouse and shifted the long strap of her purse to the other shoulder.
Jessie had asked for meat loaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, but there was no way Diana would turn on the oven tonight. In fact, she planned to take a shower and slip on a pair of shorts and a tank top as soon as she got home.
As she neared her driveway, she spotted the opened hood of her car and a hulk of a man bent over the engine. Her daughters stood at his side.
Zack?
Her heart fluttered, and she’d be darned if she wanted to contemplate why.
When Jessie glanced down the street, she let out a shriek. “Mommy’s home.” Then she ran down the sidewalk with open arms, welcoming Diana home with a child-size bear hug.
Diana wrapped her youngest child in a warm embrace. “What’s going on, Jes?”
“Zack is the best car fixer in the whole wide world. And he’s going to fix ours for free. Isn’t he nice?”
“It sure looks that way.” She took Jessie’s hand and continued home, aware of the way her bra stuck to her skin, the way her blouse clung to her chest and arms. Aware that she needed to comb her hair and apply a light coat of lipstick.
She tried to use the excuse of the weather, physical exertion and being hot and tired as a reason to dash inside and freshen up.
But she was having a hard time buying into that explanation, especially when the tall, dark and ruggedly handsome man pushed away from the car to face her.
He wore a T-shirt this evening, yet she could still see the flex of his muscles as he slowly lifted his head from the car and turned.
His size alone was enough to make a woman catch her breath. But that’s not the only thing that caused sexual awareness to build into a slow and steady rush.
A shank of unruly dark hair taunted her to brush it off his forehead. And a sky-is-the-limit gaze lanced her to the core. A square cut jaw suggested he could take it on the chin—and probably had, more times than not.
His lips quirked in a boyish half smile, and he nodded at the worn-out sedan. “I hope you don’t mind that I took a look under the hood.”
“No. Not at all.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling a bit awkward. Shy. Self-conscious.
How could she have such a silly, adolescent reaction to a stranger who was only being a Good Samaritan?
The screen door squeaked, and Megan walked outside. “How was your day at work, Mrs. Lynch?”
“It was fine.” The trek home had been a bit bothersome. But other than that, Diana couldn’t complain. At least she had a job. And Reverend Morton had been more than understanding about her plight. In fact, he’d wanted to give her a ride home, but he’d had a meeting with the deacons at five-thirty.
“Well,” the teen said, reaching for her backpack that sat just inside the door. “I guess I’d better go.”
“Thank you for looking after the girls. Can you please come a half an hour earlier tomorrow? I’ll need to take the bus again.”
“Sure.” The teenager turned toward the Plymouth. “It’s too bad about your car.”
Diana merely nodded in response. The trusty vehicle had gotten them from Texas to California without any mishaps. And she ought to be thankful it had broken down in the driveway, rather than on the interstate. At least she’d saved money on a towing bill.
“If it makes you feel better,” Zack said, “I think I can get it running. But I’ll need a few parts.”
“I hate to put you out.”
“No problem.” Those baby blues locked on her again, this time drawing her in like a fisherman reeling in his catch—hook, line and sinker.
The intensity of the tenuous connection made her overly conscious of the moisture gathering under her arms, made her wish she’d run a brush through her hair before leaving the bus stop, maybe sprayed on a light splash of perfume.
For a woman who had absolutely no intention of allowing another man back in her life, how crazy was that?
She cleared her throat, hoping to gain control over her pulse and her wits. “I’m afraid my budget is pretty stretched right now.”