mother, who hadn't been much but was all Laurel had; and the father she'd never known; and the Sportsman's Grill, where Denny's band had been replaced by a DJ who did Elvis impressions at parties; and her poor, sad Camaro, thrown away without as much as a good-bye. She cried for all the changes she didn't want in her life, and the empty spaces inside her that no amount of presents in spiffy boxes would fill up. She bent over so her head was on the steering wheel of her new car and cried for things she didn't even remember.
Chapter Nine
H AVING A MAJOR MELTDOWN in the middle of a parking lot was embarrassing, especially when it was in front of the hangout you once considered your turf. So when Laurel lifted her head from the steering wheel after about twenty minutes of blubbering, she offered a quick
thank you
to heaven that no one had seen her and began rooting around in her purse for a tissue. It was a useless exercise because she never remembered to carry them, not even when she had a cold. But she searched anyway, which, she told herself, did not have anything to do with stalling or not wanting to go home alone, or wishing that Denny was back at his old station in the Sportsman's Grill.
She was about to dump the contents of her purse on the seat next to her when a familiar voice at her side made her jump.
“Laurel?” Perry was standing next to her car; she remembered he ate supper every night here at his dad's restaurant. Given what Maggie could pay him at the clinic, it was probably the only decent meal he had all day.
She knew he was going to take one look at her swollen red eyes and kick into Kindly Doctor mode. That would lead to one of those chats that had helped in the past when the subject of the chat was Peggy, but tonight it was going to make her want to throw things. The thing to do was cut him off with a breezy, Hey, Wiener, gotta run, and get the hell out of there. Instead, for reasons she couldn't control, she turned her tearstained face up to his and said, “Hi, Perry,” in a voice that cracked pathetically.
But instead of offering sympathy and a comforting shoulder to cry on, the fool was staring at her Viper. “Is this yours?” he asked reverently.
Dr. Sensitivity hadn't even seen her tearstained face. The car had brought on an industrial-strength attack of Guy's Toy Lust. Which was pretty much the same lust that had attacked her, so she should have understood it.
“What's the top it can do?” asked the Wiener. In another second he'd be drooling. She wanted to snatch a handful of his T-shirt and yank his head down so she could bang it on her steering wheel. She wanted to turn on the ignition and drive the Viper over his feet. Instead, she grabbed his hand and said, “Wiener, please. You've got to help me get my car back.”
The desperation in her voice finally penetrated. He dragged his gaze away from the Viper.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I want my car back!” She choked.
“This isn't yours?” His eyes wandered back longingly to the Viper.
“Yes, it's mine! I want my Camaro back!”
“Why?” His hand stroked the side door in an involuntary motion. She was losing him again.
“Because she's my baby and she's at the Dodge dealership out by I-Eighty-five, and I need to get her home before someone buys her and chops her up for parts. Please, Wiener, I can't let them do that to her. She was my first car!”
The words brought him back from whatever automotive la-la land he'd been inhabiting. He looked down at her with the same understanding she'd seen him give Peggy so many times. “Too many changes going on right now, aren't there?” he said gently.
She wanted to tell him just how bad it really was. But if she did, she'd go to pieces.
“It's not that big a deal—getting the Camaro back,” she lied. “I just thought I'd like to have a second car for”—she searched for a second—“for backup. If I have to—you know . . . haul things. This Viper isn't a good hauling
Chapter Nine
H AVING A MAJOR MELTDOWN in the middle of a parking lot was embarrassing, especially when it was in front of the hangout you once considered your turf. So when Laurel lifted her head from the steering wheel after about twenty minutes of blubbering, she offered a quick
thank you
to heaven that no one had seen her and began rooting around in her purse for a tissue. It was a useless exercise because she never remembered to carry them, not even when she had a cold. But she searched anyway, which, she told herself, did not have anything to do with stalling or not wanting to go home alone, or wishing that Denny was back at his old station in the Sportsman's Grill.
She was about to dump the contents of her purse on the seat next to her when a familiar voice at her side made her jump.
“Laurel?” Perry was standing next to her car; she remembered he ate supper every night here at his dad's restaurant. Given what Maggie could pay him at the clinic, it was probably the only decent meal he had all day.
She knew he was going to take one look at her swollen red eyes and kick into Kindly Doctor mode. That would lead to one of those chats that had helped in the past when the subject of the chat was Peggy, but tonight it was going to make her want to throw things. The thing to do was cut him off with a breezy, Hey, Wiener, gotta run, and get the hell out of there. Instead, for reasons she couldn't control, she turned her tearstained face up to his and said, “Hi, Perry,” in a voice that cracked pathetically.
But instead of offering sympathy and a comforting shoulder to cry on, the fool was staring at her Viper. “Is this yours?” he asked reverently.
Dr. Sensitivity hadn't even seen her tearstained face. The car had brought on an industrial-strength attack of Guy's Toy Lust. Which was pretty much the same lust that had attacked her, so she should have understood it.
“What's the top it can do?” asked the Wiener. In another second he'd be drooling. She wanted to snatch a handful of his T-shirt and yank his head down so she could bang it on her steering wheel. She wanted to turn on the ignition and drive the Viper over his feet. Instead, she grabbed his hand and said, “Wiener, please. You've got to help me get my car back.”
The desperation in her voice finally penetrated. He dragged his gaze away from the Viper.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I want my car back!” She choked.
“This isn't yours?” His eyes wandered back longingly to the Viper.
“Yes, it's mine! I want my Camaro back!”
“Why?” His hand stroked the side door in an involuntary motion. She was losing him again.
“Because she's my baby and she's at the Dodge dealership out by I-Eighty-five, and I need to get her home before someone buys her and chops her up for parts. Please, Wiener, I can't let them do that to her. She was my first car!”
The words brought him back from whatever automotive la-la land he'd been inhabiting. He looked down at her with the same understanding she'd seen him give Peggy so many times. “Too many changes going on right now, aren't there?” he said gently.
She wanted to tell him just how bad it really was. But if she did, she'd go to pieces.
“It's not that big a deal—getting the Camaro back,” she lied. “I just thought I'd like to have a second car for”—she searched for a second—“for backup. If I have to—you know . . . haul things. This Viper isn't a good hauling
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