Page 4 of The Mechanic's Secret Santa

“Nothing.”

“A boyfriend might be a good distraction for you.” Mrs. Wilkerson eyes me up and down—it’s not the first time. “Especially this one.”

“Maybe,” Meg mumbles, her expression distant. As though Mrs. Wilkerson’s comment has triggered something. I can’t quite get a read on whether it’s good or bad, but she definitely looks as though she’s contemplating something weightier than dinner and a movie.

“How’s Earl?” I ask Mrs. Wilkerson about her 1992 Buick Regal, remembering she hasn’t been by the shop this week.

“He’s making a funny sound whenever I turn left,” she says. “Maybe I should bring him in?”

“I’m happy to check it out.”

While Mrs. Wilkerson and I finish up our conversation, Meg stays silent. She offers forced smiles and a couple of nods, but there’s a distant look in those green eyes. Her thoughts are elsewhere. I’d kill to know what’s going on in that head of hers.

I wait until we’re alone again to ask.

“Mrs. Wilkerson was my third grade teacher. My mom’s too,” she says, as though that explains everything.

“Retired now?”

“Oh, yeah. For well over a decade.” Meg lets out a heavy exhale and flickers her gaze to mine. She parts her lips to speak, but shakes her head instead.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You’ve been thinking pretty hard about something. You can’t hold out on me now.”

“It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t have let her get to me.”

“Try me. Iloveridiculous.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Meg shakes her head. “Okay, you asked for it.”

“It can’t bethatbad.”

“My mom’s coming to town tomorrow,” she blurts, as though she was holding the thought in like a breath under water.

“That’s a bad thing?” I guess.

“It’s a disaster.”

“You don’t get along with your mom?”

“No, I love her. She’s great.” Meg fiddles with the gift bag that dangles from her wrist, drawing my attention to her fingers. The tips are turning a light shade of red. It’s not the coldest day Alpine Valley has experienced this winter, but with prolonged exposure, frostbite could be a concern.

I slip off my gloves and offer them to her.

She stares at them for three seconds before shoving both hands in her coat pockets. “My mom thinks I live at the bakery.”

“You don’t?” I’m only half teasing. I drive by enough to notice how often Meg can be spotted through the storefront windows.

“I really need her to believe I have a lifeoutsidethe bakery.” The desperation in her voice keeps me from prying. I stay silent, anticipating some kind of favor I can’t quite pin. Or maybe she’s just after advice. Though I’d be the last person she’d come to for that considering how quickly she ran out of the bakery when I showed up earlier.

“Meg?” I finally prompt when she seems no closer to letting the truth out.

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