pretty woman like you should always have a great day,” he said, peeking at her through the rearview mirror.
“That’s not always how it goes,” was her bland reply.
“Do not work too hard,” he told her. “Take time to—what do you say…ah—smell the blossoms.”
His round head was nodding up and down with so much force his jaws shook. Tate couldn’t help but smile. He looked like the jovial grandfather little girls loved to visit. Which made her feel a pang of homesickness. Her mother had died when she was thirteen. She was raised by her father and grandfather, who were still alive and kicking, as far as she knew. They lived in a big old house on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. If she closed her eyes she could still see the porch with the weather-beaten siding and the front door with the lock that would grab hold of a key for dear life, coughing it out and releasing the latch only after a good fight. With a sigh, she sat back against the seat.
“Well, when someone shows me the blossoms in my life, I’ll take time to sniff them,” she said and felt a wave of pity that almost choked her.
Tate hated that feeling, hated feeling sorry for herself when she knew that ultimately she’d done what she thought was right. Everyone made mistakes, that’s what her mother used to tell her. It was what they learned from the mistakes that mattered. So what had she learned: not to trust another man with her heart ever again.
Pulling into the garage, she decided O’Shea didn’t really qualify as a man she shouldn’t trust, so she gave him a huge smile and thank-you for his services. It was when she went to tip him that he frowned.
“No. No. Keep your money. I just do my job,” he told her.
“But I want to. You’ve been so nice to me and my daughter today. Let me repay you. It’s not much,” she insisted.
They stood amid cars in various stages of disrepair. Behind them was a building about a half a block long, and through the open archways she could see cars up on the lift with mechanics standing beneath them reaching into the insides. It was a sunny day with a slight breeze that ruffled the ends of Tate’s ponytail.
O’Shea reached for the hand she held the forty dollars in, then he grasped her other wrist and held them both together. “Keep your money. You work for it. Buy a pretty dress and go out on the town. Have some fun,” he said, his eyes alight with what he thought was a fabulous idea.
She opened her mouth, almost telling him she had a date tonight, but she refrained. It was not a date. It was a thank-you dinner, and that’s all, she assured herself.
“Thank you,” she told O’Shea, not willing to insult him by insisting he take her money.
“Now, go get your car. I’ll wait to see that everything is okay.”
With a nod she went to a small office where she assumed the manager would be.
“Hello,” she said, knocking on the window.
There were two people sitting behind desks. One male and a female who was chewing gum as if it tasted like filet mignon.
“Hello, I’m here to pick up my car. I’m Tate Dennison,” she yelled through the Plexiglas when neither of them seemed quick to greet her.
They looked perplexed, and she figured out what the issue was. “Mr. Donovan sent my car here to be fixed. The back passenger-side window.”
The man was up and out of the office so fast Tate almost thought he was rushing to use the bathroom instead of coming to see her. A few seconds later he stood in front of her.
“Sure. Sure. The Volvo. It’s all done, ma’am,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later her car pulled up in front of her. Tate took the keys happily and slipped behind the driver’s seat. It was a good feeling to be in her own car, about to go pick up her daughter. She wasn’t used to being driven around or catered to in any way. The car was already running and she was about to shift into gear when she heard a horn beep. It was O’Shea, already in his
“That’s not always how it goes,” was her bland reply.
“Do not work too hard,” he told her. “Take time to—what do you say…ah—smell the blossoms.”
His round head was nodding up and down with so much force his jaws shook. Tate couldn’t help but smile. He looked like the jovial grandfather little girls loved to visit. Which made her feel a pang of homesickness. Her mother had died when she was thirteen. She was raised by her father and grandfather, who were still alive and kicking, as far as she knew. They lived in a big old house on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. If she closed her eyes she could still see the porch with the weather-beaten siding and the front door with the lock that would grab hold of a key for dear life, coughing it out and releasing the latch only after a good fight. With a sigh, she sat back against the seat.
“Well, when someone shows me the blossoms in my life, I’ll take time to sniff them,” she said and felt a wave of pity that almost choked her.
Tate hated that feeling, hated feeling sorry for herself when she knew that ultimately she’d done what she thought was right. Everyone made mistakes, that’s what her mother used to tell her. It was what they learned from the mistakes that mattered. So what had she learned: not to trust another man with her heart ever again.
Pulling into the garage, she decided O’Shea didn’t really qualify as a man she shouldn’t trust, so she gave him a huge smile and thank-you for his services. It was when she went to tip him that he frowned.
“No. No. Keep your money. I just do my job,” he told her.
“But I want to. You’ve been so nice to me and my daughter today. Let me repay you. It’s not much,” she insisted.
They stood amid cars in various stages of disrepair. Behind them was a building about a half a block long, and through the open archways she could see cars up on the lift with mechanics standing beneath them reaching into the insides. It was a sunny day with a slight breeze that ruffled the ends of Tate’s ponytail.
O’Shea reached for the hand she held the forty dollars in, then he grasped her other wrist and held them both together. “Keep your money. You work for it. Buy a pretty dress and go out on the town. Have some fun,” he said, his eyes alight with what he thought was a fabulous idea.
She opened her mouth, almost telling him she had a date tonight, but she refrained. It was not a date. It was a thank-you dinner, and that’s all, she assured herself.
“Thank you,” she told O’Shea, not willing to insult him by insisting he take her money.
“Now, go get your car. I’ll wait to see that everything is okay.”
With a nod she went to a small office where she assumed the manager would be.
“Hello,” she said, knocking on the window.
There were two people sitting behind desks. One male and a female who was chewing gum as if it tasted like filet mignon.
“Hello, I’m here to pick up my car. I’m Tate Dennison,” she yelled through the Plexiglas when neither of them seemed quick to greet her.
They looked perplexed, and she figured out what the issue was. “Mr. Donovan sent my car here to be fixed. The back passenger-side window.”
The man was up and out of the office so fast Tate almost thought he was rushing to use the bathroom instead of coming to see her. A few seconds later he stood in front of her.
“Sure. Sure. The Volvo. It’s all done, ma’am,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later her car pulled up in front of her. Tate took the keys happily and slipped behind the driver’s seat. It was a good feeling to be in her own car, about to go pick up her daughter. She wasn’t used to being driven around or catered to in any way. The car was already running and she was about to shift into gear when she heard a horn beep. It was O’Shea, already in his
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