Who Do I Lean On? (12 page)

The coffee timer dinged. Smelled wonderful. And I was proud of myself for obeying Rule One about prayer, according to Jodi Baxter:
Pray first
.

My conference call to my sisters only half worked. I tried at noon Chicago time and got Celeste on her landline at the ranger station in Denali National Park. It was only nine o'clock there, but her husband, Tom, was already out chasing down a report of campers trying to feed bears. “And then they wonder why somebody gets mauled!” Celeste fumed.

At least I didn't have to deal with
bears
here in Chicago. I put Celeste on hold and dialed Honor's cell in Los Angeles, but only got her voice mail. “Huh. You think she's out already or still in bed?” I asked Celeste when I got her back on the line. Our middle sister was a tad unpredictable.

“Who knows? She's doing that jewelry thing, you know. Maybe she's got an art fair or something. We can try again tomorrow. How are you doing, Gabby? Did P.J. and Paul get the package I sent them for their birthdays? What's up with Philip these days?”

We commiserated for nearly an hour until Mr. Bentley rang my door buzzer, and a few minutes later I hopped into the front seat of his RAV4. I still wasn't used to seeing Mr. B in his “civvies,” but that tweedy slouch cap really did suit his shaved head. “What are you grinning about, Firecracker?” he asked, glancing at me sideways as he pulled out.

“Just feeling glad. I talked to my sister in Alaska. We're trying to keep in touch better since Mom died. It feels good to have family right now.” A sudden lump caught in my throat. Oh dear, Mr. B was going to think I was an emotional yo-yo, up one minute, down the next. But talking to my sisters again after years of emotional distance was like a miracle. I blinked back some happy tears. “And,” I rushed on, “I met with the Manna House board this morning, and guess what?” I spilled it all—the crazy idea Jodi and I had come up with for me to buy the six-flat and turn it into a House of Hope for homeless single moms. “In partnership with Manna House, of course.”

Mr. Bentley stared at me so long, I was afraid he was going to run a stop sign or something. Finally he wagged his head. “Young lady, do you know what you're doing?”

I snorted. “No. Not really.” But I was still grinning.

Mr. B threw back his head and laughed. “Good! You might just have a chance with this crazy scheme if you realize that.” And he chuckled all the way to the Toyota dealership, where he said we wanted to look at the pre-owned Subaru wagon they'd advertised online. “But let me do the talking,” he murmured as the salesman led us past the new Toyotas—my eyes lingered on a silver Prius like the one Lee Boyer had—to the cars they took as trade-ins.

The Subaru Forester wasn't bad. Only three years old with twenty-seven thousand miles on it. Sticker price said $16,999. A nice burgundy red, clean inside, automatic transmission, fairly roomy space behind the second seat, even a rollback luggage cover to keep the area nice and neat. Mr. Bentley spent a long time looking under the hood, inspecting the tires, even getting down and looking under the chassis while I wandered a bit, looking at some of the other, sportier cars on the lot. I was tempted by the new Toyotas . . . I mean, why not? Wouldn't have to be a Prius. Some of those Camrys were really nice—sunroof, leather seats . . .

“Come on, Gabby!” Mr. Bentley called. “Let's take it for a drive.”

I drove. It handled pretty nice. When I tried to say something, Mr. B held up his hand for silence, as if he was listening to the motor or something.

I felt a little annoyed. Sure, I'd asked him to help me look for a car. But what if I didn't want to buy a pre-owned? Someone got rid of it for a reason, right? Maybe I'd just be buying someone else's problems.

We drove it back onto the lot. Mr. Bentley steered me away from the salesman and pretended to look at some of the other cars. “It's a steal, Gabby. Good, solid car. I know a mechanic who can check it out for you, to be sure. But as far as I can tell, somebody probably just wanted to upgrade. A lot of people do that, even though the car they got is still perfectly good.”

I got stubborn. “But shouldn't we look at some of the new Toyotas? You drive a RAV4 and like it. Wouldn't a new car be smart in the long run?”

He scratched the horseshoe-shaped beard along his jawline. “Well, sure, if that's really what you want to do. But a new car in the Wrigleyville neighborhood . . . well, just more of a temptation for car thieves. You'll spend a whole lot less on a pre-owned and still get a good car for you and your boys. No shame in that. All my cars are at least a year old when I buy—even the RAV4. And pardon me saying so, but you're on your own now, Gabby girl. Doesn't hurt to cut your expenses where you can.”

My face heated. Mr. B was right. Sure, I had Mom's insurance money right now, but it was going to have to go a mighty long way—especially if I was going to take a leap of faith and buy an honest-to-goodness Chicago six-flat! I sighed. “You're right. Guess I got a little greedy. Should I—?” I dug my checkbook out of my purse.

“Put that away! No way are you going to pay that sticker price. C'mon, let's go talk to that baby-faced salesman, who's probably only been on the job a month.” Harry Bentley chuckled. “He ain't had to deal with Harry Bentley before!”

Don't know how Harry finagled it, but we drove the Subaru to a mechanic friend of his, who gave the Forester a once-over and a clean bill of health. “'Cept the coolant in the air conditioner is low. We can recharge it, but there might be a leak that could be expensive. Can't tell without running a pressure test. You'd want to get that fixed, 'specially in this hot weather.”

Mr. B told him to hold off on recharging, and once back at the dealer, used what the mechanic found to knock down the price a cool thousand. I paid cash, drove the wagon home, and parked it in front of the six-flat with Mr. B tailing me. I walked back to his RAV4, and he rolled down the passenger side window. “Take that in next week, have my guy recharge it, see what happens. He'll do right by you.”

“Thanks, Mr. B. Don't know what I'd do without you.” He shrugged it off, as I knew he would. “The boys will be home soon. You want to stay for supper or something?”

“Can't. Gotta pick up DaShawn. My former partner—a great gal named Cindy—took him to a Cubs game today.” He grinned as he started the car. “Radio just said they beat the Cardinals, 5 to 4. Go Cubbies!”

I was stuck back on this great gal named Cindy. “Your former partner? What do you mean, partner?” I tried to imagine Mr. Bentley, former doorman at Richmond Towers, with a side business that needed a partner . . . named
Cindy
?

“You know . . . partner. Two to a car, got my back, all that stuff. She was the best on the force. Still is. I'm a retired Chicago cop, Firecracker. Didn't you know that?”

chapter 10

Know that?
I stared at the spare tire mounted on the back of the black-and-silver RAV4 as it disappeared around the corner. How could I not know something as important as that? To be honest, I'd just assumed Mr. Bentley had been a doorman all his life.

Mercy! A retired Chicago cop.

I felt embarrassed. Stupid me. What else didn't I know about Harry Bentley? Or about his ladylove, Estelle Williams, for that matter? Still didn't know why she'd once been a resident at Manna House. She never said. On the other hand, I had never asked her either.

That
was going to change.

I was locking my “new” burgundy red Subaru and wondering if the rental car place could come pick up their car today so I wouldn't have to wait until Monday and pay for another two days, when Philip's big black SUV came down the street and pulled up to the curb. P.J. and Paul piled out. “What's that, Mom? A new car?” Paul ran a circle around it. “Kinda small for an SUV, isn't it?”

“Big enough.” I kept my voice light. “Yep, just drove it home.” I snatched him as he whirled past. “C'mere, kiddo. I need a hug.” He let me hug him long enough for him to snatch the car keys out of my hand, unlock the car, and crawl in, inspecting the travel cup holders, the pockets on the back of the front seats, and figuring out how to work the rollback cover over the luggage space in back. Even P.J. got into the driver's seat, checking out the dash and console. I had to smile when he adjusted the rearview mirror to check out his hair and wraparound sunglasses.

I was so distracted watching the boys that I didn't realize Philip had gotten out of the Lexus until I heard his voice right beside me. “So. You got a used car.”

I looked up.
Gosh
. With the wraparound sunglasses P.J. was wearing, the two looked like spitting images of each other. The fact kind of unnerved me—or maybe because I didn't know what Philip really meant. Did he approve? Disapprove? Did he think a secondhand car wasn't good enough for his boys?

“Yes,” I said—and bit my tongue, realizing how easy it would be for me to blather on making excuses for why I got a pre-owned car, trying to convince Philip it was a good deal.

He was dressed in neatly pressed tan slacks, dress shoes, and an open-necked short-sleeved black silk shirt that looked good against his tan skin and dark hair. Dressy casual, like he was going somewhere. Not exactly knockabout clothes like he'd been hanging out with the boys at some city fest or down at the lakefront.

“You're a half hour early,” I said. “You got somewhere to go?”
Ouch
. I knew Philip didn't like me asking personal questions about his comings and goings. It just popped out. But why not, if he was going to bring the boys back early? What if I hadn't been here?

Wasn't surprised that he didn't answer. He just walked over to the Subaru and inspected a tiny dent in the rear fender, then walked around the car giving it the eye, and came back to me. “Looks okay for a 2003. Hope you had a mechanic check it out. They give you decent financing?”

He was fishing. No way was I going to tell him I paid cash. “Mm.” I took a few steps to the Subaru and knocked on the windows. “Come on, guys! I've got to call the rental car place to pick up the car before they close!”

Philip was still standing on the curb. “Is it far? If you want to drop it off, I could follow you over and give you a lift back.”

I stared at him. Had Philip Fairbanks just offered to do me a favor? I opened my mouth but stumbled over the words. “Uh . . . no, thanks anyway. This place picks up and delivers. You, uh, look like you're headed someplace. Don't want to make you late.” I raised my voice. “Boys! Come on! Lock up the car!”

Philip shrugged and headed for the Lexus. Then he turned. “Maybe you and I could get together next week sometime, talk over some stuff.”

What—
? “About the boys, you mean?”

“Well, yes, that too. But maybe we should talk about us. Think we could do that?”

The boys dashed past, grabbing their duffel bags off the sidewalk and bounding up the low steps to the front door, Paul jangling my keys. “We got a new movie, Mom!” P.J. hollered over his shoulder. “Can we watch it tonight?”

I was glad for the momentary distraction. Philip wanted to
talk
? In person? The two of us? Sudden anger . . . confusion . . . longing . . . all pounded on the doors in my heart where I'd locked them all away, begging to come spewing out.

Don't, Gabby, don't. You don't have to respond right now. Breathe, Gabby .
. .

“Um, let me call you about that, okay? I gotta run.” And I did, escaping into the foyer of the six-flat as the big black Lexus pulled away with a squeal of its tires.

“Mo-om!” P.J. yelled from the living room while I was putting together a quick taco salad to eat while we watched their new DVD. “I thought you were going to get an air conditioner this weekend!”

“I tried!” I yelled back. Well, I had called one store. “They're out. Everything's for fall now—leaf blowers and stuff like that.” Which was a bummer. I'd hoped to get two or three end-of-the-season air conditioners at a rock-bottom price. At least I'd be prepared for next summer. Hadn't figured they'd all be gone.

Well, the three fans would have to do for a few more weeks. While waiting for the hamburger to fry, I called Jodi Baxter. No answer. She'd said to call her, hadn't she? Then I remembered. She and Denny were going to drive Amanda down to Champaign-Urbana that afternoon to get her settled for her second year at the University of Illinois. How long a drive was it? Three hours? Three down . . . three back . . . it would probably be late by the time they got in.

Shoot!
I had to talk to Jodi! Somebody! What was I going to do about Philip's request?

The boys had bought one of their favorite movies,
Secondhand Lions
with Robert Duvall and Michael Caine, even though we'd seen it at least two times already, and it kept us laughing the third time around despite the lingering August heat and the noise from the fans trying to keep the air moving. Curled up in my mom's wingback rocker, I relished just hanging out with my boys having simple fun—but felt guilty about it too. Was I too easily slipping into “just me and the boys” mode, too easily giving up on my marriage, giving up hope that it could be the four of us again?