Deck the Halls. Arlene James

I’m glad you got a nice visit out of this,” she said sarcastically.

      Vince Cutler arched his brows, but his smile stayed firmly in place. “Jacob and I attend the same church, but because of his schedule we don’t often get to the same service, so I’m glad to have seen him. Now, what’s the problem with your car?”

      She threw up her hands, disliking the fact that he’d made her feel glad, jealous and petty all in the space of a few minutes.

      “How would I know? The hateful thing quit, that’s all.”

      “Uh-huh.” He stepped up to the bumper and looked over the engine. Gingerly, he wiped a forefinger across one surface and rubbed it against his thumb. “No oily emission.”

      “Is that good?” she asked anxiously, her concern about her transportation momentarily overcoming all else.

      “It’s not bad.”

      Whatever that meant.

      She flattened her lips and tried to see what he saw as he leaned forward and fingered first one part and then another, poking and prodding at hoses and wires and other unnameable organs. Finally he turned to lean a hip against the fender.

      “So what happened, exactly, before it quit running?”

      She pushed a hand through her bangs, tugged at her ponytail and sucked in a deep breath, trying to remember exactly. Finally she began to talk about how the car had been coughing and sputtering by fits and starts lately and how the dash lights had blinked off from time to time.

      He listened with obvious attention, then asked, “Any backfiring?”

      She considered. “No, I don’t think so.”

      “Okay.” Pushing away from the car, he moved toward the driver’s door. “Keys in the ignition?”

      “Yes.”

      He opened the door and folded himself into the seat behind the wheel. The starter clicked for several seconds then stopped.

      Vince spent a few moments looking at the gauges on the dashboard, then he got out and walked back to the wrecker, returning quickly with a small tool box and a thick, quilted cloth, which he spread on the fender before placing the tool box atop it. He opened the box and extracted a strange gizmo that resembled a calculator with wires attached, which he carried back into the car with him.

      Jolie walked around to the passenger window and looked in while he wedged himself under the dash and began pulling down wires. He separated several little plastic clips and attached leads from the gizmo to them, then he studied the tiny screen before turning the ignition key on and off several times in rapid succession.

      “What is that thing?” Jolie asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

      “I call it my truth-teller.”

      “Oh, they sell truth at mechanic’s school, do they?”

      “They sure do,” he drawled, ignoring her sarcastic tone.

      “That’s not what I heard.”

      “You heard wrong, then.”

      He removed the leads, reconnected the clips and tucked everything back up under the dash. Then he rose and carried his equipment around to the front of the car again. Jolie joined him there, more curious than ever. He didn’t keep her waiting.

      “You’ve got a sensor going out, and I’d guess that the alternator needs to be rebuilt, too.”

      Dismay slammed through her. She covered it by rolling her eyes. “And what’s that going to cost?”

      He shrugged. “Can’t say without checking a parts list.”

      “More than a hundred?”

      “Oh, yeah. Plus, you’ve got half a dozen hoses ready to spring leaks and at least one cracked battery mount that I can see. That’ll have to be replaced before your next inspection. And if I were you, I’d have the timing chain checked.”

      She caught her breath, stomach roiling. How would she ever pay for all that? she wondered sickly.

      “I’ve reset the sensor,” he went on, “so it should behave for a little while, and I’ll give you a jump to get you started, but you really ought to bring the car in soon as you can because this will happen again. Just a matter of time.”

      Jolie bit her lip. Maybe he was just shilling for the garage. Maybe this would be all it took. Whatever, she had zero intention of taking the car in for repairs until she had no other option. She folded her arms again as he went back to the wrecker and returned with what looked like a battery on wheels.

      “How much is today going to cost?” she wanted to know, not that she had much choice at the moment.

      “This? Nada.”

      Jolie blinked. “Nothing?”

      “I can charge you if you want,” he said, mouth quirking at the corners.

      She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      He smiled knowingly, dimples wrinkling his lean cheeks. “Okay, then.”

      With that he got busy hooking up everything. Finally he got in and started her car. The engine fired right off and settled into its usual, uneven rumble. Jolie almost dropped with relief.

      “Thank goodness.”

      He started disconnecting and packing away gear.

      As he dropped the hood, she lost a short battle with herself and asked, “You won’t get in trouble with your boss, will you? For not charging me, I mean.”

      Vince wiped his hands purposefully on a red cloth that he’d pulled from his hip pocket, holding her gaze.

      “No problems there.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “Jolie, I am the boss.”

      She felt a tiny shock, but she’d practiced nonchalance so long that it came easily to her.

      “Well, if you say so.”

      He folded the cloth and stuffed it back into his pocket with short, swift movements, saying, “Fact is, I own and operate three garages.”

      She blinked, impressed, but of course that would never do.

      “All by yourself?” she quipped blandly.

      He chuckled. “Not exactly. I have twenty-two employees, not counting the outsourcing, of course.”

      “Outsourcing,” she echoed dully.

      “Um-hm, bookkeeping, billing, that sort of thing.”

      “Ah.”

      And here she’d figured him for a regular joe. Just goes to show you, she thought, eying his dusky-blue uniform with reluctant new interest.

      “If you call the shop tomorrow,” he told her casually, “I can work you in.” She lifted her eyebrows skeptically, and he went on, prodding ever so gently. “You really ought to have that work done.”

      Now she knew it was a scam. Soften up the mark with a little freebie, make her think you’re as honest as the day is long, then get her in the shop and soak her good. Resetting that sensor was probably all the car had ever needed.

      “We’ll see.”

      “Okay,” he said lightly. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

      “Oh, really?” She tilted her head, studying him for signs of dishonesty. Had he somehow sabotaged her car so that she’d have to bring it to his shop?

      He glanced away pointedly, his sculpted mouth thinning. “You know, not everyone in the automotive-repair business is a crook. In fact, despite our reputation for rip-offs, most mechanics are honest and highly trained.”