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The reaction came out before I had time to stop it.

“I don’t need Hale money.”

Silence filled the truck.

Lorrie turned slowly. “I didn’t offer you money, I said my father knows someone.”

“I know.”

“Apparently you don’t.”

I tightened my hands on the wheel while the wipers dragged back and forth across the glass.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

She looked out the window which was worse than if she’d argued with me.

After another mile, I said, “People like your father usually offer help with strings attached.”

Her head turned. “You’ve only met my father twice.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

I almost smiled, then thought better of it.

“I don’t want to owe anybody,” I said.

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is.”

I looked at her, and for a second the space between us felt like a chasm.

Then Lorrie sighed and tucked one leg beneath herself on the seat. “My father likes you.”

Startled, I blinked. “What?”

“He asked about the store.”

“Why?”

“Because he likes music.”

“Your father listens to Perry Como.”

“He contains multitudes.”

I laughed despite myself and the tension eased, though not enough for me to forget how quickly I’d put it there.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

She nodded. “Better.”