Page 10 of Fall Love

“Is that term supposed to be endearing?” One corner of her mouth crooks higher than the other. A dimple forms near the crease of her lips.

How had I forgotten that parenthesis complementing her grin?

“Or are you making a fat joke?”

Instantly, I stand, nearly banging my head on the edge of the open hood. “You’re not fat. You’re pregnant.” My eyes narrow. And she’s fucking beautiful. She has a glow about her that I have forgotten.

“And you should have that mask back on your face.” I tip my chin, not knowing where the mask went.

She leans back, like she might tip off the back of the stool—which scares the bejesus out of me—and struggles to tug the mask free from her pocket. I’m a breath from catching her before she falls when she finally liberates the mask and holds it up. She dramatically snaps it on her face.

“Happy, Dad?” Her eyes widen the second she speaks, her voice muffled by the thick padding.

Somehow, I don’t think the mask is enough protection for her lungs and the baby.

She turns away as soon as she questions me, and my brows cinch, like there’s something I’m missing here.

“This job also calls for a transmission flush,” she says, bringing her face back to me. Her eyes have dulled. Her voice is stern.

A transmission flush? How the hell was she going to do one of those? Why is she the only one working here?

And why the heck do I care?

I turn toward the engine before glancing around the garage for the equipment I’ll need to flush the system.

We don’t speak for several minutes as I get set up.

I’m good at math. I like numbers, but something isn’t adding up here. Like the answer is right in front of me, but I can’t compute anything knowing her eyes are on me, watching every move I make in this garage.

Her family’s business.

Eventually, she says, “Who are your cousins?”

“The Abbotts and the Masters.”

She tips her head, struggling to make the connection.

The Abbotts own a hardware store near Rusty’s Wrecks. The Masters own a bait and tackle shop in Lovewell Landing.

“The families are connected by our mothers being sisters. They are Wells.”

“Lovewell,” she whispers, but the name still carries through the mask. “Your parents were a true match.”

I shake my head at the silly superstitions around here. The idea that Loves and Wells are a perfect storm of devotion. Then again, my parents are perfect for one another. They loved each other fiercely, and I wanted the same thing. I felt like I was constantly searching for it, but came up empty repeatedly, especially more than a year ago.

“Yoo-hoo?” The distinctly feminine yodel is one I’d recognize anywhere.

I twist to find Charlamaine Love standing at the entrance to the garage.

“Hello, Miss Charma,” Neve greets her, using the name the local historian asks everyone to call her. Neve adds a little wave from the hand that has been resting on the top of her belly.

“Aunt Charma.” I step closer to the woman in her mid-sixties who is my father’s sister.

In younger photographs of her, she was a real beauty. She’s still pretty in an earthy, almost witchy way. Her long hair falls down her back in waves of gray and white. She wears loose skirts and logo t-shirts, and Converse gym shoes. But the most eccentric thing about her is the collection of amulets and crystals hanging around her neck and the multiple silver rings on her fingers.

She tips her head so I can kiss her cheek, slipping her arm awkwardly around my back.

She immediately glances at Neve. “Did you feel that?” Her voice is hushed, like we should be listening for something I clearly don’t hear or feel.