Page 507 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Always hot, always ready to go. I know I sound about twenty-six, but a guy needs a way to remember who he was.

Eve hates the car. Makes me drive the Ford Escape when I take Ashley to school, even though Ash would choose the Porsche every time.

I slide in, open the T-roof and turn on KQ92 as I pull out.

I tap out Haddaway’s, “What is Love,” on the steering wheel as I cruise around the lake. There are still a few runners out as the sun climbs the sky, the lake rippling under the brush of the wind. I like the energy of Uptown, the specialty delis, the mix of vintage theaters and shiny new gyms and eclectic whole food cafés. There’s something for everybody, and it never bores.

I’d die a slow death in the suburbs, and so would Eve. She loves heading up her own gritty crime scene investigation department downtown, and she might not admit it, but in her own way, she’s picked up where her dad left off.

I win a spot with a still flush meter across the street from American Vintage Watch Repair, listed on a tiny door wedged between a Mediterranean Grill and a Deluxe Smokes, e-cigarettes. Following a dim hallway, I discover an office that looks more like my grandfather’s old workshop, wooden bench,dim lighting and a thousand crazy screws, washers and tools included.

A giant magnifying glass is mounted to the surface, and at the top, what looks like surgical instruments are fitted into a tray, ready to be plucked for use. Solder equipment, canisters of oils and grease, and over a dozen watches, all antique, hang on a dowel under a hanging fluorescent lamp.

A man sits at the desk, a monocle wedged into his eye, leaning over to examine the finite gears on a pocket watch.

I clear my throat as I stand at the door.

He ignores me.

“I’m wondering?—”

He holds up his free hand, cutting off my words, and I watch in silence as he reaches out and grabs, clearly from practice, a pair of tweezers.

I hold my breath as he reaches in and plucks out the offending gear.

Then he sets the gear and the monocle on the desk. He’s Asian, dark-skinned, and looks at me as if I’ve annoyed him.

“You fix watches?”

He stares at me.

I know I sound like a moron, so I pull Booker’s watch from my pocket and simply hand it over.

He still says nothing, but takes my watch, turns it over, then back and frowns.

“I can’t fix this.” He shoves the watch back at me.

“What do you mean? You barely even looked at it.” I find myself rubbing my thumb over the inscription.

“I can’t fix.” He shoos me away with a flick of his hand. Reaches for his monocle.

I’m not quite dismissed, thanks, pal. “Why not?”

“It’s not my specialty. Besides, it’s not broken.”

“What do you mean it’s not broken? You can’t wind it, see?” I give him a little demonstration, but he shakes his head.

“Okay, fine. Do you know anyone whocanfix it?”

He puts down his monocle. Purses his lips and reaches for a business card. He writes something on the back and hands it to me.

I turn it over.

It’s an address in Stillwater, a tiny town an hour south from here. I know because Eve and I spent our honeymoon there, nearly eight years ago, camped out at a bed and breakfast that overlooked the river.

She was three months pregnant, still nauseated with morning sickness, and even the smell of the gourmet blueberry pancakes sent her running to the bathroom. Not a great start to our life together, and the next six months weren’t much better, with her bed rest and a couple of miscarriage scares. We spent the weekend watching old movies on a tiny television set, me running out for special order ice cream.

I’d love to have another go at the whole thing, starting with the fact that it took me nearly a decade to propose. What was I so afraid of?

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