His Uptown Girl. Gail Sattler

be sleeping, too. I can’t keep this up.”

      Bob felt his whole body sag. Neither of them could continue working eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Lately, the only time Bob wasn’t working was when he took off a few hours Wednesday evening to practice the songs he would be playing on Sunday with his church’s worship team. Up until recently, he refused to work Sundays, but they were so far behind, he’d started to work a few hours on Sunday, too.

      He didn’t know when control had first eluded them, but they’d reached their breaking point. Soon they were going to start making mistakes, which, where cars and people were concerned, could not happen.

      It had to stop.

      “You’re right. We both need to slow down. Let’s hire two part-timers, a mechanic and a bookkeeper, and we’ll see what happens.” The stack of work orders lined up for Saturday, was well beyond what they could accomplish, even if both he and Bart worked twenty-four hours nonstop.

      Dropping his pen suddenly as if at a thought, Bart turned to the computer. “I just remembered something. I don’t have to write out that ad. I heard that you can do it online. I can even put it on my charge card.”

      Bob stood. “You’ve probably missed the deadline for tomorrow’s paper.”

      Bart found the right Website, and started typing in his usual hunt-and-peck, two-finger mode. “Maybe I haven’t.”

      Suddenly Bob’s head swam as the magnitude of the process hit him. “I just thought of something. What about all the phone calls, and the time it’s going to take to set up and do interviews?”

      Bart’s fingers stilled. “What are you trying to say?”

      “We don’t have that kind of time. People are going to start taking their business elsewhere.”

      “Have you got a better idea?”

      Bob walked to the counter, and reached for one of the boxes containing incomplete purchase orders. He tore off the flap to the box, picked up the black felt pen, and began to write.

      HELP WANTED—APPLY WITHIN

      Part-time light-duty mechanic

      Part-time office assistant

      Hours and wages negotiable.

      He dug a roll of black electrical tape out of the drawer while Bart watched, and taped the cardboard to the window.

      “What are you doing?”

      Bob turned around. “Saturday is our busiest day, and lots of people come in. If any of them are interested, we can take care of interviewing right there. We should forget about the ad.”

      “You’re kidding, right?”

      Bob raised his hand toward the sign, which was slightly crooked. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

      “I guess you’re really not kidding,” Bart mumbled.

      Bob sighed. The business had supported both him and Bart for years, and now there was also Bart’s family. They couldn’t fail now. There was too much at stake.

      “God will provide,” Bob said softly. I’ve always believed in God’s timing, and I still do.”

      Bart resumed his typing. “You’re crazy. Certifiably crazy.”

      Bob spun around. “Don’t you believe God can send us the right people?”

      “I doubt God will have the right people simply fall from the sky. But I do know one thing. If we don’t get McTavish’s 4X4 finished, we’ll be in trouble when he comes to get it at 7:00 a.m. I’m putting this ad in the paper. I’m sure God will have the right people fax in their résumés.”

      “I still think we’ll do better with the sign in the window. We don’t have the time or the energy for millions of faxes and phone calls. Besides, there’s more to hiring than just looking at résumés.”

      “But that’s where we have to start, and the only way we’re going to get qualified people to send us those résumés is through the paper.” Bart hit Enter. “Done. The ad’s in.”

      Bob crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to look at his sign. “And the sign is up. It looks like the battle is on.”

      Bart killed the browser. “Yeah. May the best man win. Now let’s get back to work.”

      “Daddy! This dress is horrible!”

      Georgette Ecklington’s father flashed her a condescending smile. “The girl at the store told me you would look great in it.”

      Georgette gritted her teeth and pressed her lips together so hard they hurt. The “girl” in question was thirty-five years old. Because her father was one of their best customers and always paid full price, the woman happily told him anything he wanted to hear.

      Still, the woman was probably right. Georgette knew she would look “good” in yet another overly frilly, fussy, pink dress with enough lace to choke a horse. If that was the way she wanted to look.

      Which she didn’t.

      “Don’t disappoint me, Georgie-Pie.” Her father’s stern gaze belied the familiarity of the nickname.

      Georgette stifled a scream. She hadn’t been five years old for twenty years, but whenever her father wanted something, he called her the childish nickname to remind her of something she could never forget.

      She was William Ecklington’s daughter.

      And William Ecklington was in control. Always.

      He’d picked that particular moment to give her another dress she hated because the household staff were in earshot. She couldn’t disobey his orders in front of the staff or any of his peers. He would never forgive her for any act of defiance, or anything that might diminish his public image.

      Tonight, at yet another Who’s Who function, Georgette was expected to stand at her father’s side and smile nicely, showing her support of everything he did. Besides his financial empire, the next most important thing to her father was the respect of his peers. After her mother had left him, he’d refused to marry again. He never dated because he was certain that women were only after his money. So, his younger daughter became second-best.

      Georgette’s only escape from her father’s tyranny would be to do what her sister had done—to get married. But God said that marriage was forever. Georgette didn’t want to be under the thumb of a man who was a younger version of her father—a man so critical and demanding he had driven their mother away. Her influential father also sabotaged every attempt she made to find a job, completely nullifying all her attempts to become independent. Not that she needed to worry about money, he gave her a generous allowance in exchange for her work on his charity projects. But Georgette wasn’t happy.

      “Be ready at five-fifteen. Karl will be driving.” With that lofty pronouncement, her father turned and left.

      Georgette crumpled the dress in her closed fists, and raised her head to the ceiling in a silent prayer. She needed to escape, and she had only one place to go, the only place her father left her alone.

      The garage. The garage was her haven. Some women made crafts or baked when they needed something to do. Rebuilding an engine was Georgette’s respite from “society.” She detested being involved with the social climbing of her father’s shallow world.

      Working on the car, she didn’t have to be Georgette Ecklington, socialite. She could simply be, as her friends at the pit crew of the local racetrack circuit called her, George. Today it would help her prepare herself for the ordeal of another taxing night.

      She walked out of the room and handed the dress to Josephine, the housekeeper. “This needs pressing. I have some shopping to do, and then I need to be left alone until it’s time to get dressed.”

      Josephine smiled and nodded. Josephine