He drops my hand and folds his arms across his chest. Casual. Easy. “Chip said you’d be dropping by. Said you’re looking for work.” It’s only now that his grin slips. “I’m afraid we don’t have anything full-time. And I really only need somebody for small jobs… oil changes and battery replacements and that sorta thing.”
I blink again. Is he already offering me work? Or is he trying to get me to find something better?
“I’ve gotta give the bigger jobs to my regular guys. At least for right now.” Cody shrugs. “Low man on the totem pole. You know what I mean?”
Frowning, I find my voice. “Y-you mean you’ll hire me?” I realize as I ask just how nervous I am he’ll say no. Because I don’t have any idea what I’ll do if he does. And in the two minutes I’ve been in the garage, I’ve figured out I don’t want to leave.
For the first time since I got out yesterday, I feel like I might be able to relax. The sights, sounds, and smells of this place feel like home. I’m itching to pick up a socket wrench and duck under the hood of any of the cars in the garage bays. Get to work and get out of my own head.
Something about my question makes Cody’s grin stretch wider. “Well, yeah, I told you Chip and I talked about it. And you’re Chip’s family, right?” he asks, looking at me like I’m slow but in a way I know he means no insult. “And family helps out family.”
I swallow, confused. I should just thank him, but I can’t let it go. I clear my throat. “Is that what Chip said?”
His brows shift into a frown for just an instant, but the glimpse tells me all I need to know. “That’s whatIsay.”
No one’s told me who has the controlling share of the garage, but now I’m guessing it’s Cody. And I’ll bet money it’s Cody, not my cousin Chip, who’s okay with me working here.
“So,” he asks, the frown clearing and that unstoppable grin taking over again. “When do you want to start?”
Cody spends most of his morning with me. After I fill out employment forms, he gives me an old set of coveralls with the nameDannystitched over the chest, and puts me to work. He watches me do two oil changes before turning me loose on the steady stream of customers that run through the garage.
Chip gets back sometime around one — startling me again with his resemblance to Anthony — but other than giving me barely a nod when he first moves through the garage, he pretty much ignores me and goes about his business.
At five, I clock out, cross Johnston Street, and catch the bus back.
And I’m half-starved. Grandma Q made me a giant breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast before I left on my job hunt, but that was hours ago.
I don’t expect my grandmother to cook for me, but I know there’s leftovers from yesterday. I’ve been fantasizing about a cold brisket sandwich for about the last two hours.
But when I open her kitchen door, the smell of smothered pork chops nearly brings me to my knees. Not only do I find Grandma Quincy at the stove with three saucepans going, but she’s not alone. At first I assume the woman by her side is one of my cousins, but then the visitor turns.
And it’s her.
The girl from yesterday. The yoga girl. She’s standing in Grandma Q’s kitchen, stirring a pan of sliced apples in what looks and smells like butter, sugar, and cinnamon. And she’s smiling at me.
Atme.
It’s a smile so warm and open that I feel it. Like a hand on my bare chest.
“Oh, good,” Grandma Q says, drying her hands on her blue apron and tilting her head toward her guest. “You’re just in time. This is Evie Lalonde. She’s our backdoor neighbor. Evie, this is my grandson, Andrew Moroux.”
Evie Lalonde.I repeat her name to myself, wanting to save its music for later. It’s a trick I learned in prison. Holding something in your mind is better than not holding it at all. Holding something beautiful in your mind can carry you a long way. Her name is beautiful.Sheis beautiful. Tomorrow, when I’m waiting to meet with my probation officer, I will hold Evie Lalonde in my mind.
Evie sets down the wooden spoon and offers me her hand, still smiling. “Hi Andrew. Nice to meet you.”
For the second time today, I’m stunned someone wants to shake my hand. But that surprise is quickly replaced when her small palm presses against mine. Soft, warm, and grasping, this is the handshake of a sincere person.
That’s another thing I learned in prison. Handshakes, fist bumps, hand clasps, hi-fives, hugs. The way a person presses flesh says everything. Either they do it because they have to, and they’re pulling away even before they get there, or they’re all in. They press. They seal. They make it mean something, and even if you know they’re bad news — I’ve known murderers who knew how to shake hands way better than drug dealers — with a real handshake, you know where you stand.
Evie Lalonde presses. Evie Lalonde seals. Her handshake is all in.
“It’s Drew.” I hear myself say, lost in the feel of her hand in mine.
“Drew,” she echoes, her smile growing. Her eyes are a pale green. Like the underside of oak leaves. Her hair is as dark as Steen’s syrup, a mass of tight curls pulled back into a ponytail. She nods. “That suits you better.”
She must not know who I am or what I’ve done. She wouldn’t be smiling this way if she did. And with this thought comes a heady buzz, because all of a sudden, I realize that this is bound to happen. Countless times. With hundreds of people.
Everyone from my old life knows about me. But there’s a world of strangers who don’t. Temptation, a beast with claws, digs deep into my soul. What could happen if she never knew about me?