Deck the Halls. Arlene James

from her troubles.

      Immediately after lunch, she called the garage, using the number on the card that Boyd had given her. Vince answered this time.

      “Cutler Automotive. This is Vince speaking. How can I help you?”

      She gulped inaudibly. “This is Jolie Wheeler again.”

      “Oh, hi. We’ve got the car on diagnostics now.”

      He sounded perfectly normal, as if she hadn’t insulted him, as if they were friends or something equally ridiculous. For some reason that rankled, adding a dry edge to her voice.

      “So you still don’t know what’s really wrong with it?”

      “We don’t have confirmation, no.”

      “And when will you have confirmation?”

      “Shortly.”

      “Call me as soon as you know what it’s going to cost,” she demanded.

      “All right.”

      “Before you do any work.”

      Several seconds of silence followed that, and when next he spoke, his voice was tinged with annoyance.

      “No one’s going to take advantage of you, Jolie.”

      She went on as if she hadn’t heard him.

      “Because I really can’t afford a big repair bill.” Or any repair bill for that matter.

      He sighed gustily.

      “I realize that. Look, why don’t you just come by the shop after work? I’ll show you exactly what’s wrong with your car and what it’s going to cost to fix it, and we’ll figure out how to take care of it. Okay?”

      He couldn’t have sounded more reasonable, so why did she feel like needling him?

      “And just how would you suggest I get over there without transportation? Take the bus?”

      It was an entirely plausible possibility, which made what happened next all the more inexplicable.

      “I’ll pick you up,” he said lightly. “What time to do you get off work?”

      She didn’t even balk, which in itself was appalling.

      “Six o’clock.”

      “Okay. See you then.”

      They quickly got off the phone after that. Jolie stood staring at the thing for a long moment, wondering what on earth had possessed her to agree that he should pick her up, but then she shook her head.

      Why shouldn’t he? He had her car, after all. She hoped she could wangle a ride home out of it, too. Beyond that, she just refused to think, period.

      

      Vince pulled up to the curb in front of the dry cleaners at precisely three minutes past six. The shop had obviously seen better days. Its storefront looked outdated and rather dingy, but the area was clean and safe. Because he was in a ten-minute loading zone, he kept the engine running and settled back to wait.

      He didn’t have to wait long. The door opened just moments later, and Jolie burst out onto the sidewalk. He grinned at her dropped jaw. Her ragged little car was purring like a contented kitten.

      “It’s fixed!”

      He laughed at her delight, but then her face turned thunderous. Her hands went to her hips, and he knew what she was going to say. Even as she spoke, he released his safety belt, opened the door and stood, one foot still inside the car, one hand on the steering wheel.

      “I did not authorize any work.”

      “No, you didn’t,” he interrupted, “but it had to be done.”

      “You said we’d talk about it first!”

      “Jolie, how would you get back and forth to work without your car?”

      She put a hand to her head, ruffling her bangs and then smoothing them again. Vince tried not to smile at what seemed to be a characteristic gesture, something she did without conscious thought.

      “I can’t pay for it!” she suddenly wailed, as if he didn’t know that.

      The sidewalk was not the place to talk about it, however.

      “Get in,” he told her, indicating the passenger seat. For a moment she just stared at him. “Get in,” he repeated. “My truck’s back at the shop. We can talk on the way.”

      She trudged around and got into the car with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner on the way to her execution. He chuckled despite his better judgment.

      “It’s not funny,” she grumbled as he dropped down into the seat and clipped his belt once more.

      “It’s not tragic, either.”

      “Shows what you know,” she snapped. “When was the last time you had to choose between paying the rent and other obligations?”

      “It’s been some while,” he admitted, “but I have been there.”

      “Then you understand that there’s just no way…” She gulped. “A—a few bucks a month, maybe, if I—”

      “Will you just listen for a minute?” he urged, laying his arm along the back of her seat in entreaty.

      She frowned at him, worry clouding those jade-green eyes.

      “I have an idea about how we can square this.”

      Her mouth compressed suspiciously. It was a very pretty mouth, wide and mobile and full-lipped, but he couldn’t help wondering what or who had fostered that mistrustful expression.

      “How?” she asked.

      He glanced at the front of the dry cleaners.

      “Well, if it’s not a conflict of interest for you, I need someone to do my laundry.”

      She blinked.

      “Laundry?”

      “Yeah, you know, dirty clothes and shop rags, some linens, that sort of thing.”

      The clouds were beginning to lift from her eyes, but her tone was tart as she retorted, “I know what laundry is, but why should I do yours?”

      She buckled her safety belt, and Vince put the transmission in gear, turning away so that she wouldn’t notice that he struggled with a sudden grin.

      “Garages are dirty places,” he began, nosing the car into traffic, “and I own all the uniforms that the guys wear. I thought I could do the washing myself, even bought a top-of-the-line, extra-capacity washer-and-dryer set, but it just doesn’t get done in a timely manner.”

      “And you want to pay me to do it.”

      “Something like that.”

      She flipped the end of her ponytail off her shoulder, obviously thinking.

      “I get it. You’re talking about a barter arrangement, basically.”

      He nodded and signaled with the blinker that he was moving the car over into the next lane.

      “Unless, like I said before, it’s a conflict of interest for you, given that your regular job is with a dry cleaner.”

      “Not a problem. Mr. Geopp stopped taking in laundry a few months ago after his wife died.”

      “That’s too bad, about his wife, I mean.”

      “Yeah, she was a good lady,” Jolie said lightly, but something about her tone let him know that she honestly grieved the woman’s passing.

      “Were you friends?”

      “Not really,” Jolie replied, looking away. “About the laundry…”

      He took