The Closer. Rhonda NelsonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      2

      JESSALYN ROSSI WIPED her hands, stuffed a grease rag into the pocket of her coveralls, then dropped the hood into place with a soft click. She turned to the car’s anxious owner. “It’s the water pump, Walter,” she told the older man. “You know I’d fix it for you if I had time, but I’ve got to go to New York for a few days for Dad.” A shudder of dread rippled through her middle.

      Hell would undoubtedly be a more pleasant destination.

      She didn’t mind the city, per se, but spending any length of time around stick-thin, surgically enhanced lingerie models wasn’t her idea of fun. She had enough body-image issues, thank you very much. She didn’t need to compound them by being made to feel like a gluttonous hog with a sugar dependency. If it had been up to her, she and her “child-bearing hips,” as one kind but misguided soul had once told her, would stay here.

      Unfortunately, it wasn’t up to her.

      Walter’s frown deepened, but he nodded nonetheless. A senior citizen on a fixed income, she was sure the older gentleman would have preferred that she fix his car because he knew she’d be willing to take a basket of garden vegetables in exchange for parts and labor.

      “Take it to Shorty Greene and tell him I sent you.” She grinned at him. “I know for a fact that the deer got into his tomatoes and he’s running short.” And she would call Shorty and promise to make up the difference. So what if he chided her for being such a soft touch, telling her that the rest of the full-time mechanics in Shadow’s Gap would thank her not to accept produce in lieu of cash. It was a refrain she’d heard often enough before from her old mentor.

      Shorty Greene, one of her father’s oldest friends, had taught her everything she knew about cars. While nothing gave her as much pleasure as her jewelry, casting the perfect set and embellishing it with beautiful things, being able to rebuild a motor came pretty damn close. Having spent every summer from the time she was six to sixteen with Shorty and his late wife, Sybil, while her parents were at various trade and gem shows, Jess had found she liked being in the garage with Shorty more than being in the kitchen with Sybil. She preferred the smell of motor oil to cooking oil and liked the weight of a tool in her hand.

      It had all started innocently enough, by her merely handing Shorty the appropriate tools, but it hadn’t taken long until she’d wanted to know how the tools worked. Figuring out why a car wouldn’t run properly quickly became a mystery she had to solve and once she’d solved it, she reveled in fixing it, setting things right. Listening to a motor catch with the first turn of the ignition, then hearing the engine purr. She smiled, remembering.

      Music to her ears.

      Naturally, her mother, who’d sadly lost her battle with cancer when Jess was seventeen, hadn’t approved of a teenage daughter with grease under her nails. But she’d later revealed that she admired the fact that Jess hadn’t let her gender get in the way of doing something she loved. After all, it was one thing to tell a kid they could do whatever they wanted and then discourage them when they chose something not deemed “proper.”

      This was the argument Jess had used when she’d wanted to start racing, as well. Not surprisingly, it had come in very handy.

      Walter was too proud to look relieved for more than half a second, but his shoulders relaxed and a smile broke across his weathered, lined face. “Well, you know I’ve got plenty of tomatoes,” he told her.

      She inwardly snorted. He had plenty of everything. His green thumb was positively legendary in Shadow’s Gap. “I’ll give Shorty a ring and let him know you’re coming. You don’t want to drive any farther than his place, though, Walter,” she warned. “If the car overheats too much, you’ll crack a head and then you’ll really be in trouble.”

      “I’ll go on over there now,” he said. “Thanks, Jess.” His brow wrinkled once more and he shot her a look. “You’re going to New York?” he said. “Today?”

      Jessalyn’s cheeks puffed as she exhaled noisily. “Unfortunately, yes.”

      “Will you be back in time for the race on Saturday?”

      No, dammit. She’d still be babysitting the bra. “I’m afraid not.”

      He grunted, his face falling into a moue of regret. “That’s a shame. I think you could have given Lane Johnson another run for his money.”

      She did, too. Lane Johnson was a cocky, loudmouthed blowhard with more luck than skill and a sickening following of track whores—not to be confused with crack whores, though they could be easily mistaken for those as well—who stroked his giant ego, among other things, Jess thought with a shiver of disgust. They contributed to his misguided perception that he was, first, God’s gift to women, and second, almost on par with Dale Earnhardt Jr. behind the wheel.

      He was neither.

      Gallingly, while she’d taken plenty of heat for being a “woman driver” when she’d first started racing, she’d quickly won the respect of the majority of her fellow drivers. There were always going to be a few with the old-school boys’ club mentality—she’d be foolish to think otherwise—but of them, Lane was definitely the loudest. She’d thought beating him would shut him up, but instead he’d upped the trash talking and told everyone that he was going to “put her in her place” the next time they shared asphalt.

      That should have been this weekend, but she hadn’t been able to get either of her siblings to accompany the damn bra, so now it was going to look as though he’d scared her away.

      As if.

      It made her blood boil.

      Jess had always been proud of her Rossi heritage and took a keen sense of pleasure from being a part of the family business. She was a fourth-generation jeweler and thanks to inherent talent and creativity, the Rossi name was synonymous with excellence. Unfortunately, with the exception of her father, she was the last of the family with any interest in continuing the traditional trade. Her younger brother, Sean, played guitar for a popular country-music band and traveled all the time, and her even younger sister, Bethany, was a professional student, happy with higher education and her job at the Gap. Neither of them were likely to change their minds.

      Which just left her.

      To complicate matters, her father had developed agoraphobia after the death of her mother. It had begun gradually. At first, he simply refused to travel. He’d said that his wife had always been his companion and he couldn’t face going without her. Because her parents had genuinely been soul mates, Jess had understood and hadn’t pushed him, assuming that it would only be temporary, that, in time, he’d be able to move forward.

      She couldn’t have anticipated how wrong she’d be.

      Citing the need to “be closer to work,” the second her new home, a tree house, was finished, her father had sold the family house in the country and finished an apartment above the store. Initially, Jess had thought this would be a good idea. The house was still a painful reminder of her mother, being in town would keep him from being lonely, etcetera. But it was when the apartment was complete that she really began to notice a difference.

      Frank