The Guardian (3 page)

"Is that it? Are you jealous?" Unlike with other dogs, Julie didn't have to bend down to run her hand down his back. He was bigger than she had been when she'd entered high school.

"Don't be jealous, okay? Be happy for me."

Singer circled to the other side and looked up at her.

"Now c'mon. We have to walk because Mike's still fixing the Jeep."

At Mike's name, Singer's tail wagged.

Mike Harris's song lyrics left a lot to be desired, and his singing voice didn't exactly make recording executives beat a path to his door in Swansboro. He did, however, play the guitar and he practiced daily, hoping his big break was just around the corner. In ten years, he'd worked with a dozen different bands, ranging from the big-haired noise of eighties rock and roll to the mamas-trains-and-pickup-truck style of country music. On stage, he'd worn everything from leather pants and boa constrictors to chaps and a cowboy hat, and though he played with obvious enthusiasm and the band members couldn't help but like him, he was usually pulled aside after a few weeks and told that for some reason it just wasn't working out. It had happened enough times for even Mike to know that maybe it wasn't just a personality conflict, though he still couldn't bring himself to admit that he might not be any good.Mike kept a notebook, too, and scribbled down his thoughts in his spare time with the idea of using these impressions in a future novel, but the writing process was more difficult than he'd first imagined it would be. It wasn't that he didn't have ideas, it was that he had too many ideas and couldn't figure out what should and shouldn't go in the story. Last year, he'd tried to write a murder mystery set on a cruise ship, something Agatha Christie might have written, and it included the usual dozen suspects. But the plot, he thought, wasn't quite exciting enough, so he'd tried to jazz it up using every idea he'd ever had, including a nuclear warhead hidden in San Francisco, a crooked cop who was witness to the JFK assassination, an Irish terrorist, the Mafia, a boy and his dog, an evil venture capitalist, and a time-traveling scientist who'd escaped the persecution of the Holy Roman Empire. By the end, the prologue had run to a hundred pages and the main suspects hadn't even arrived on the scene yet. Needless to say, he didn't get any further on it.

In the past, he'd also tried drawing, painting, working in stained glass, ceramics, wood carving, and macrame and actually assembled some free-form art pieces in a burst of inspiration that kept him away from work for a week. He welded and wired scraps from old car parts into three towering, off-balance structures, and when he was finished, he sat on his front steps, staring with pride at what he'd done, knowing in his heart that he'd finally found his calling. That feeling lasted for a week, until the town council passed a "no junk in the yard" ordinance at a hastily called meeting. Like many people, Mike Harris had the dream and desire to be an artist; he just didn't have the talent.

Mike could, however, fix practically anything. He was the consummate handyman, a veritable knight in shining armor when puddles formed beneath kitchen sinks or when garbage disposals went on the blink. But if he was a good handyman, he was a modern-day Merlin when it came to anything with four wheels and an engine. He and Henry co-owned the busiest garage in town, and while Henry handled the paperwork, Mike was in charge of the actual work. Foreign cars or domestic, four-cylinder Ford Escorts or turbocharged 911 Porsches, he could repair them all. He could listen to an engine, hear pings and clicks where others couldn't, and figure out what was wrong, usually in less than a couple of minutes. He knew manifolds and intake valves, shocks, struts and pistons, radiators and wheel base adjustments, and he could set from memory the timing on practically every car that had rolled in the shop. He could rebuild engines without having to look at a manual. His fingertips were stained permanently black, and though he knew it was a good way to make a living, he sometimes wished he could take a fraction of that talent and apply it to other areas of his life.

The traditional ladies' man reputation associated with mechanics and musicians had passed Mike by. He'd had two serious girlfriends in his life, and since one of those relationships had been in high school and the other with Sarah had ended three years ago, a case could be made that Mike wasn't looking for a long-term commitment, or even a commitment that might last through the summer. Even Mike wondered about it sometimes, but these days, no matter how much he wished otherwise, it seemed as if most of his dates ended with a kiss on the cheek while the woman thanked him for being such a good friend. At thirty-four, Mike Harris was remarkably well versed in the tender art of embracing women in brotherly hugs while they cried on his shoulder about what a jerk their previous boyfriend had been. It wasn't that he was unattractive. With light brown hair and blue eyes and an easy smile to go with his trim build, he was good-looking in an all-American kind of way. Nor was it that women didn't enjoy his company, because they did. His lack of luck had more to do with the fact that women who dated Mike sensed that a relationship with them wasn't what Mike was really looking for.

His brother, Henry, knew why they felt that way; so did Mike's sister-in-law, Emma. Mabel knew the reason as well, as did practically everyone who knew Mike Harris.

Mike, they all knew, was already in love with someone else.

"Hey, Julie-wait up."Having just reached the outskirts of Swansboro's old-fashioned business district, Julie turned when she heard Mike calling. Singer looked up at her and she nodded.

"Go ahead," she said.

Singer galloped off, meeting Mike halfway. Mike stroked his head and back as they walked, then scratched behind his ears. When Mike stopped moving his hand, Singer bobbed his head up and down, wanting more.

"That's all for now, big guy," Mike said. "Let me talk to Julie."

A moment later, he reached Julie as Singer sat beside him, still going after the hand.

"Hey, Mike," Julie said, smiling. "What's going on?"

"Not much. I just wanted to let you know your Jeep is done."

"What was wrong with it?"

"The alternator."

Exactly what he'd said the problem was on Friday when she'd dropped it off, she remembered. "Did you have to replace it?"

"Yeah. Yours was dead. No big deal-the dealer had plenty in stock. I also fixed the oil leak, too, by the way. I had to replace a seal near the filter."

"There was an oil leak?"

"Didn't you notice the stains in your driveway?"

"Not really, but then I wasn't looking."

Mike smiled. "Well, like I said, that's fixed, too. Do you want me to grab your keys and bring them by?"

"No, I'll get 'em after work. I don't need 'em until later. I've got appointments all day. You know how Mondays are." She smiled. "So how'd it go at the Clipper, by the way? I'm sorry I couldn't make it."

Mike had spent the weekend playing grunge rock with a group of high school dropouts who dreamed of nothing more than meeting babes, drinking beer, and filling their days with MTV. Mike was at least a dozen years older than any of them, and when he'd showed Julie the baggy pants and ratty T-shirt he would wear for the show last week, she had nodded and said, "Oh, that's nice," which really meant, You're going to look absolutely ridiculous up there.

"Okay, I guess," he said.

"Just okay?"

He shrugged. "It wasn't my type of music anyway."

She nodded. As much as she liked him, even she didn't like his singing voice all that much. Singer, though, seemed to love it. Whenever Mike sang for friends, Singer howled along with him. It was a toss-up, according to local opinion, as to who would be the first to make it to the big time.

"So how much were the repairs?" she asked.

Mike seemed to debate the question as he scratched his chin absently. "Two haircuts should do it."

"Come on. Let me pay this time. At least for the parts. I do have money, you know."

In the past year, the Jeep, an older-model CJ7, had been in the shop three times. Mike, however, was somehow able to keep it running smoothly between visits.

"You are paying," Mike protested. "Even though my hair's getting a little thinner, it does need to be cut now and then."

"Well, two haircuts doesn't sound like a fair trade."

"It didn't take all that long to fix. And the parts weren't that much. The guy owed me a favor."

Julie raised her chin slightly. "Does Henry know you're doing this?"

Mike spread his arms, looking innocent. "Of course he knows. I'm his partner. And besides, it was his idea."

Sure it was, she thought.

"Well, thanks," she finally said. "I appreciate it."

"My pleasure." Mike paused. Wanting to talk a little longer but not knowing exactly what to say, he glanced toward Singer. Singer was watching him closely, his head tilted to the side, as if urging: Well, get on with it, Romeo. Both of us know the real reason you're talking to her. Mike swallowed.

"So how'd it go with . . . um . . ." He tried to sound as casual as he could.

"Richard?"

"Yeah. Richard."

"It was nice."

"Oh."

Mike nodded, feeling beads of perspiration forming on his brow. He wondered how it could possibly be so hot this early in the morning.

"So . . . um . . . where'd you go?" he asked.

"The Slocum House."

"Pretty fancy for a first date," he offered.

"It was either that or Pizza Hut. He let me pick."

Mike shifted from one foot to the other, waiting to see if she would add anything else. She didn't.

Not good, he thought. Richard was definitely different from Bob, the romantic number cruncher. Or Ross, the sex maniac. Or Adam from the bowels of Swansboro. With guys like that as the competition, Mike thought he stood a chance. But Richard? The Slocum House? It was nice?

"So . . . you had a good time?" he asked.

"Yeah. We had fun."

Fun? How much fun? This, he thought, was not good at all.

"I'm glad," he lied, doing his best to fake enthusiasm.

Julie reached for his arm. "Don't worry, Mike. You know I'll always love you the most, right?"

Mike pushed his hands in his pockets. "That's just because I fix your car," he said.

"Don't sell yourself short," she said. "You helped patch my roof, too."

"And repaired your washing machine."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then gave his arm a squeeze.

"What can I say, Mike? You're just a good guy."

Julie could feel Mike's eyes on her as she walked to the salon, though unlike the way she felt about some men's attention, she wasn't bothered at all. He was a good friend, she thought, then quickly changed her mind. No, Mike was a really good friend, someone she wouldn't hesitate to call in an emergency; the kind of friend who made life in Swansboro a whole lot easier simply because she knew he'd always be there for her. Friends like him were rare, and that's why she felt bad for keeping some of the more private aspects of her life-like her most recent date-off-limits.She didn't have the heart to go into detail about it, because Mike . . . well, Mike wasn't exactly Mr. Mysterious when it came to how he felt about her, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. What was she supposed to have said? Compared to my other dates, Richard was great! Sure, I'd go out with him again! She knew Mike wanted to date her; she'd known that for a couple of years now. But her feelings for Mike-aside from regarding him as her best friend-were complicated. How could they not be? Jim and Mike had been best friends growing up, Mike had been best man at their wedding, and Mike had been the one she'd turned to for comfort after Jim had died. He was more like a brother, and it wasn't as if she could flip a switch and suddenly change the way she felt.

But it was more than just that. Because Jim and Mike were so close, because Mike had been part of both their lives, even imagining a date with him always left her with a vague feeling of betrayal. If she agreed to go out with him, did that mean that deep down, she'd always wanted to? What would Jim think about it? And would she ever be able to look at Mike without thinking of Jim and those times in the past that they were all together? She didn't know. And what would happen if they did go out, but for whatever reason it didn't work out? Things would change between them, and she couldn't bear losing him as a friend. It was easier if things just stayed the way they were.

She suspected that Mike knew all of this and it was probably the reason he'd never so much as asked her out, despite the fact that it was obvious he wanted to.

Sometimes, though-like when they were on the boat last summer waterskiing with Henry and Emma-she got the feeling that he was working up the nerve to do it, and Mike was a little comical when those moods seemed to strike him. Instead of being Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-the first to laugh at jokes, even those made at his expense, the guy you'd ask to go pick up some more beer from the convenience store because everyone knew he wouldn't mind-Mike would suddenly get quiet, as if he suspected his whole problem with Julie arose from the fact that she didn't think he was being quite cool enough. Instead of laughing at what the others were saying, he'd wink or roll his eyes or study his fingernails, and when he'd grinned at her on the boat that time, it had looked as if he were trying to say, Hey, baby, how about we blow this joint and have some real fun? His older brother, Henry, was ruthless when Mike got in those moods. Spotting his brother's sudden attitude shift, Henry had asked Mike if he'd had too many beans for lunch because he didn't look all that well.