Restore My Heart (5 page)

She assembled her dad’s favorite, boiled ham and baby Swiss cheese on rye, not that he’d notice. His Celexa pill lay untouched where she’d set it out that morning. Sometimes he took it, but usually he didn’t. She’d stopped nagging him about it, afraid he’d refuse to take it just to be contrary. She wasn’t qualified to treat his illness, and long ago he’d stopped his therapy.

She longed to talk with him about the FBI’s request, to seek his advice. But Justin Clay seemed to want as little conversation with his daughter as he could manage, although they lived under the same roof. Was she a disappointment to her father? Is that why he’d been unable to break free of his depression?

She’d pushed herself at rehab, proud of her progress with her upper body muscles. Her leg was a different matter. Her physical therapist assured Sally she had exceeded even the most optimistic prognoses. Translated, she should be thankful she wasn’t in a wheel chair. But Sally had defied the odds nine years ago, and she’d defy them now. She’d go the distance to strengthen what leg muscles she still had.

Taking careful steps to balance the tray, she carried her dad’s meal into the living room. “Here you go. Need anything else?”

He shook his head, still avoiding her gaze, and mumbled a “thanks.”

“Well, I’ll be in the shower.” She shrugged at his lack of response, then made her way down the short hall to her bedroom.

She carried her gown and robe into the bathroom, closed the door, then leaned against it and blew out a lengthy sigh. Ever since that damned accident, her father had deteriorated every day, sinking deeper into apathy. The doctor called it clinical depression, prescribed anti-depressants, and recommended therapy, both of which her dad said they couldn’t afford.

She pushed away from the door, slipped her arms through the straps of her overalls, then grabbed the vanity so she could step out of her clothes without falling.

Although Sally knew she could never make things right for her father, she intended to take care of him. That’s why she’d bought Mustang Sally’s. Even Uncle Sal didn’t know the real reason she needed the business. Somehow, someday, she hoped to rekindle her father’s interest in automobiles. In life. So what if the Kaiser Darrin job hadn’t panned out. She’d find more clients.

After adjusting the water to a hot spray, she grabbed the safety bar and pulled herself over the side of the tub. The welcomed heat pelted her aching shoulders, pulsating against the tightness from her workout. She closed her eyes, moaning as the water sluiced over her scalp.

From out of nowhere, a vision of Joe Desalvo invaded her mind. For a brief and insane moment, Sally allowed herself to fantasize. Remembering the light touch of his finger skimming her chin, she imagined Joe stroking the skin along her jaw and neck, then lower. The shower spray became his tongue, licking the points of her breasts to rigid peaks. She moaned again, this time from the deliciously painful sting of his teeth grazing her nipples.

She shook off her erotic thoughts.
You’ve been without sex too long
. She may have crushed her leg in the accident, but not her libido. If only Joe hadn’t asked her out. It wasn’t as if she’d never been asked out before, although, remembering Orel, she had to remind herself that Joe had been the first
sober
man to ask her out in nine years. And it had stuck in her mind all day, all evening, triggering a multitude of dangerous thoughts.

Tempted to turn the temperature to cold, she roughly soaped her body, then rinsed away the suds. Instead of shaking free of her fantasies, she indulged in another, with Joe sharing the shower, slowly rubbing shower gel across her fevered flesh.

Get a grip, Sally!

As she toweled off, she focused on the ugly scar tissue marring her leg. What man would want to join her in the shower and look at
that?
Sight of her disfigurement jerked her from her erotic daydreams, dousing her with an icy torrent of reality.

Composed and dressed, Sally later flung clothes into the washing machine, then joined her father in the living room. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, which wasn’t unusual. During a muted commercial break, Sally made a stab at conversation.

“Leo Desalvo’s Darrin doesn’t have an original motor, Dad. But somebody went to a lot of trouble to fake it.”

“They faked it?” Her father glanced at her, frowning. So she’d gotten his attention. “How?”

“Somebody forged an engine number plate, even engraving an authentic-looking serial number. It’s not a valid number, but close enough the average collector wouldn’t catch it unless he checked.”

“Any AACA judge would question it,” he said, referring to the Antique Automobile Club of America inspection. “I hope Leo didn’t pay much for it.”

“Me, too.” Would it have caused enough of a financial loss to make Leo kill himself?

“Have you told his son yet?” Her father’s attention drifted back to the TV.

“Not yet. I’ll tell him tomorrow. Roy’s going to put it on the lift and identify the engine first. It looks like a Ford.”

He un-muted the basketball game, shutting her out by remote control. Sally wanted to talk about the FBI investigation, especially her part in it. If only things were different, she could ask for her dad’s guidance.

Unable to get interested in the game, she dug through the stack of magazines on the floor beside the sofa until she found her latest issue of
Healthy Body
. She’d try again with her dad during the next commercial if he hadn’t fallen asleep by then.

When she blinked open her eyes to an empty room an hour later, she realized she’d been the one to fall asleep. Closing the forgotten magazine, Sally limped to the washing machine. She needed to stay awake until the dryer stopped, so her unplanned nap was probably for the best. Her dad’s footsteps overhead told her she’d lost her opportunity to seek his advice tonight.

The next day, Roy lowered the hydraulic lift and gave Sally a quick nod. “We were right. It’s a Ford 170.”

“What does the car need to run right?”

He shrugged. “Just a tune-up. Except for the motor discrepancy, it’s in good shape.”

The telephone rang. “I’ll get it, Roy.”

Pleased with her faster gait, she hobbled to the office and answered on the third ring. The additional leg exercises were paying off. “Mustang Sally’s garage.”

“Sally? It’s Joe Desalvo.”

His smooth baritone shot a jolt of pleasure through her. “Hi, Joe. We’re just taking your Darrin off the lift.”

“So you’ll be able to give me that estimate this evening?”

“Evening?”

“I’m asking again, Sally. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“And I’m telling you again, no.” Then she added in her sweetest tone, the one she saved for telemarketers who called at dinnertime, “But thank you for asking.”

“You have to eat, don’t you? Couldn’t we grab a couple of rolled oysters at Mazzoni’s?”

God, she loved rolled oysters, and Mazzoni’s had the best in the world. Besides, hadn’t Special Agent Ferguson asked for her help? She’d agreed to find out what she could about the Desalvo family’s business. She needed to spend time with Joe, gain his confidence, if she wanted to learn what he knew about his father’s activities.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” A pause. “Is that ‘okay’ as in ‘yes, I’ll have dinner with you, Joe’?”

“You played upon my one weakness.”

“Hmm.”

She cleared her throat. “Rolled oysters.”

“Darn. And I thought it was me.”

He sounded so wounded she burst out laughing.

She still laughed hours later as she scrubbed her face in Mustang Sally’s small restroom. Looking into the tarnished mirror, she pulled a stern face.

“You are acting like an adolescent, Sally Clay. You know nothing will come of this. It’s way dumb to go out with the guy in the first place.”

She doubled over in laughter again.

A quick appraisal of her stained work clothes sent her home for something decent to wear. Her father wasn’t in the house when she arrived. He was probably cloistered in the old garage workshop in the rear, where he repaired lawn mowers and trimmers to earn beer money.

She didn’t want to leave Roy alone at the garage too long, so she rushed. She’d finished a load of laundry last night and had clean clothes, but they were mostly jeans and coveralls. Digging through her closet she discovered an almost new pair of navy slacks, a Christmas present from her cousin Maggie. A pale yellow shirt and her tweed blazer, usually saved for church, completed the ensemble.

She stole a quick glance at her reflection in the dresser mirror as she turned to leave. “You clean up fairly well, Sally.” Maybe the fashion police wouldn’t arrest her, after all.

Sally’s giddy mood vanished when Joe Desalvo strolled into her office at six o’clock. His leather loafers and Rolex wristwatch reminded her she was in over her head. What had she been thinking, anyway? The guy just invited her to dinner, probably a one-time thing. She had no reason to be grinning like a lovesick puppy.

As if an omen, the sky darkened, then dumped sheets of rain.

At Mazzoni’s, Joe bit into crusty cracker breading, savoring his first rolled oyster in ten years. “Yum-m-m.”

“As yum as you remembered?” Sally asked.

He nodded, his mouth full from stuffing the rest of the deep-fried treat into his mouth. Sally’s gusto matched his as she indulged in her meal of rolled oysters, French fries, and coleslaw. “Thanks for letting me drive your Mustang tonight. It would’ve been even better if we could’ve lowered the top.”

“It’s a little chilly, even if the rain stops.” Taking a sip of her soda, she shrugged. “Although, my cousin Maggie and I rode around in it with the top down in February the first time I had it running right. Of course, we had the heater on full blast.”

Joe chuckled. “April’s not much warmer.”

Sally swallowed another bite of rolled oyster, then lowered her fork. “We have to talk.”

“Sounds serious.” Her troubled frown sobered him. “What is it?”

“It’s the Darrin, Joe. It isn’t authentic. Someone’s forged the engine identification number plate.”

All air left his lungs. He bristled at her unspoken words. “And you think Dad did it?”

“No!” Reaching across the small table, Sally patted his arm. “Your dad was a stand-up guy. Besides, he didn’t own the Darrin long enough to do anything like that.”

“The guy in Indiana he bought it from, then? What was the name on that bill of sale?”

Staring at her hand on his arm, Sally plucked it back as if she’d touched a hot griddle. “Howard Steele? Maybe.”

“But—?” Joe dragged out the word. He’d known Sally Clay all of two days, but he sensed more trouble.

She shrugged, her eyes downcast. “Leo wouldn’t have bought that Darrin, Joe. He’d been in the business too long not to recognize the difference between an F head Willys 161 and an overhead Ford 170.”

Say what? But he didn’t ask for a translation. “Dad did buy the Darrin, though.”

“That’s what bugs me.” Sally picked up her fork, punching the air with it. “Why?”

“I guess we’ll never know. Just another mystery he took to the grave with him.” He flinched at his own words.

Sally’s uplifted fork froze. Her liquid brown eyes gazed at him with concern. “Joe, I’m sorry. You’re still getting used to the fact that your dad is gone. I hate that I’ve added to your grief.”

Joe nodded, finding comfort in her simple words of sympathy. His mind flashed briefly to the women he’d dated in Atlanta. His latest, Tracy Steadman in Client Services, had told him to call her after he’d had time to process his grief, whatever the hell that meant.

“It’s okay, Sally. I got you into this.” Whatever
this
was. “You’re doing the job I asked you to do.”

She looked away, as if he’d said something to make her uncomfortable. “The only job you need me to do is a tune-up. The Darrin’s engine may not be original, but it’s still a neat car, if you’d like to drive it for fun.”

Fun. Now there was a concept. Right now Joe doubted he’d ever have fun again. As if reading his mind, Sally wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

“I know you can’t think about having fun and enjoying life. For what it’s worth, I know what it’s like to lose one of your parents. I won’t tell you you’ll get over it. I never have. But it will get easier.”