Home for the Holidays. Sarah Mayberry
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away from me.”
Her mother shook her head. “My God, you always were a stubborn one.”
“Yeah, that’s me—stupid, loyal, stubborn old Hannah.” Her voice broke on the last word and her mother stepped forward, hand extended. Hannah jerked away from her. She was angry with her mother, unfairly or not. Kelly had hurt her, betrayed her utterly. It felt like a further betrayal to learn that her mother had been seeing her sister all these months behind Hannah’s back.
“I need to work on my bike,” Hannah said.
CHAPTER THREE
HANNAH DIDN’T STOP WALKING until she was safely in the garage, breathing in the smell of damp concrete and engine grease. She sank onto her upright tool chest, pressing her hands to her face. For a moment she was so angry and sad she could barely breathe.
I’m so sick of this. I’m so sick of feeling this way.
The problem was, she didn’t know what to do with her anger. She’d thought that not seeing Kelly or Lucas for all these months would have made a difference, taken some of the heat out of her feelings. But she’d only had to look into her sister’s perfectly made-up face to feel it all surging back. That, and seeing the pity in her mother’s eyes …
Of course, her mother wasn’t the only one who felt sorry for poor, jilted Hannah. It had practically become a national pastime once the wedding had been canceled. Their family, all of her and Lucas’s friends, the neighbors, her customers—they’d all offered their condolences and shaken their heads. After all, it wasn’t every day that a tomboyish older sister was cast aside for her younger, more glamorous, more beautiful sister. It was a classic tale of woe and everyone could relate. And more than anything—perhaps even more than the pain of betrayal and loss—Hannah resented being cast as a victim. It wasn’t until her life had crashed around her ears that she’d understood how much pride she took in her independence and her unusual vocation and her own unique, take-no-prisoners view of the world. And now, thanks to Kelly and Lucas, she was simply poor Hannah, victim. Object of pity and sympathy.
And right now she was acting exactly like a victim, wallowing in her own messy emotional soup. No wonder her mother felt sorry for her.
Hannah surged to her feet and crossed to her bike. There was still an hour or so of daylight left and she might as well use it while she attempted to fix the muffler. Seizing the handlebars, she rocked the bike off its stand and pushed it down the driveway. After propping it on its stand again, she went back for her toolbox.
She deliberately focused on what she was doing, on what she needed to do next as she worked, and slowly she calmed. Later, she would apologize to her mother. Hannah knew she hadn’t exactly been a dream to live with the past six months, and although she burned every time she thought about her mother listening sympathetically to her sister, she knew it was her mother’s right to do what she thought was best. And Hannah was the first person to admit she was hardly unbiased in this situation.
Her stomach rumbled with hunger but she wasn’t ready to go in yet. Instead, she grabbed a beer from the bar fridge she kept in the garage and palmed a handful of peanuts from the jar on the workbench. She’d downed half the beer when she became aware that someone was watching her.
She glanced across into a pair of big, intent blue eyes.
“What’s wrong with it?” the little girl asked, toes hanging over the edge of the curb as she hovered near the bike.
Hannah had never been very good at guessing kids’ ages, but the girl was small and skinny with a delicate, pointed face and Hannah figured she must be about eight or nine. Her very blond hair was caught up on either side of her head in pigtails, and her top featured lots of sparkles and stars in various colors of pink. When she clasped her hands in front of her tummy, Hannah saw her nails were painted with glitter polish.
“There’s a hole in the muffler. I’m about to patch it,” Hannah said.
“What’s a muffler?” the little girl asked, taking a step closer.
Hannah pointed to the round tube at the head of the exhaust pipe. “It’s this part here, in front of the exhaust pipe.”
“What does it do when it’s not broken?” She took another step.
Hannah could see the girl was aching to touch the shiny red finish on the gas tank and she nodded encouragingly. “It’s okay, you can touch it.”
“It’s so shiny,” the little girl said, glitter-tipped fingernails gliding over the paint.
“The muffler is supposed to stop the engine from sounding so loud,” Hannah said, answering the girl’s earlier question. She tapped the motor. “When the bike is going, there’s a whole lot of noisy stuff going on in here, and the sound has to escape somewhere. The muffler is supposed to turn the volume down.”
“But yours has got a hole in it. Is that why it was so noisy last night?”
Hannah shifted guiltily. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that this was one of Joe Lawson’s kids. She had his blue eyes, for starters. And there was something about the way she held her head … Which meant he’d been right last night—Hannah had woken his kids when she’d been fooling around in the garage.
“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize you guys had moved in yet,” Hannah said.
“It’s okay. I didn’t mind.” The little girl thrust her hand forward. “I’m Ruby Lawson, by the way.”
Hannah suppressed a smile. She held up her own hand, displaying the grease on it.
“I’m dirty, sorry. But I’m Hannah,” she said.
“I don’t care about dirt,” Ruby said, and before Hannah could stop her she’d reached out and grasped Hannah’s hand, her small fingers wrapping around Hannah’s larger ones.
“Pleased to meet you,” Ruby said solemnly.
It was impossible for Hannah to hide her smile then. “Pleased to meet you, too, Ruby.”
Ruby smiled back, then looked at the bike. “Can I help you fix it?”
Hannah flicked a glance at Ruby’s sparkly top and purple pants. She didn’t exactly strike Hannah as the tomboy type. Still, Hannah wasn’t about to discourage her—she’d been laughed at and sent on her way too many times when she was a curious kid to hand out the same treatment to another little girl.
“Sure. You can pass me tools when I need them, if you’d like.”
“Okay. You might have to tell me which one is which, though.”
“Deal,” Hannah said.
They worked side by side for a while. Ruby was a fast learner, quickly working out how to tell what size the various spanners and wrenches were by checking the little markings on their sides. She took great delight in slapping each requested tool into Hannah’s hand with vigor. Hannah figured the kid must have seen more than her fair share of medical dramas on TV over the years.
“My dad used to work with tools like this,” Ruby said as they were refitting the patched muffler.
Despite herself, Hannah’s curiosity pricked up its ears. “So your dad is a mechanic, is he?” It couldn’t hurt to know a bit more about the man. He did live next door, after all. Might as well know what she was up against.
“My dad is an oilman. He works on the offshore rigs,” Ruby said proudly. “He’s done every job there is.”
Hannah didn’t know much about oil work, but she was pretty sure that offshore postings meant the person was away a lot. “You must miss him when he’s working, huh?”
She knew she was being nosy, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“He’s been working in an office since Mommy