Shifting Gears Read online

  She reached the sidewalk alongside the street, turned right, and walked up the front path of Mrs. Hart’s neighboring house. This time, she didn’t pause on the front stoop to enjoy the sun. She had a nine o’clock pie date with the woman who’d lived next door to Annabelle’s mother for the past thirty years, and she didn’t want to be late. Especially since this was the first day she’d left the house since she’d returned as a resident of Shady Oaks subdivision.

  Nothing like pushing thirty and coming back home with your tail between your legs to live with your mother.

  God damn it, Donnie! Get out of my head!

  There was no place for that here, at Mrs. Hart’s house. Annabelle had never known a woman more serene, kind, and absolutely fearless than Nancy Hart. She was a paragon.

  But then, all of the Harts were exemplary in their own way. Almost a year before, Lee, at barely sixteen years old, had become the youngest driver to win a stock car race in all the association’s history. Kerri, Annabelle’s sometime-playmate when they’d been kids, was one of the best-known drivers in the sport, and a woman that so many females looked up to. And Grady …

  Oh, Grady.

  Well, back when they were both teenagers, he’d been everything Annabelle had ever wanted. Except for the part where he’d never noticed her.

  And she’d never thought to go after him. Momma had a rigid, old-fashioned idea of how women should behave—she’d actually said the other day that if Annabelle had only been softer and more submissive, she never would have gotten left for another woman.

  Annabelle had resisted the urge to retort that acting that way hadn’t seemed to make her mother very happy. Without Dad around, Momma didn’t seem to have any purpose other than making her own daughter miserable.

  But it offended Momma that Annabelle had failed at marriage. And Annabelle couldn’t afford to offend her mother—quite literally. She couldn’t afford anything, when it came down to it. Donnie had blown through all their savings, taken out a lien on the house and on the garage by forging Annabelle’s signature, and left her with a fifty-thousand-dollar debt when he’d run off with that waitress.

  There was nothing like going to court to file bankruptcy one day and going again the next day to end one’s marriage. Annabelle had had to borrow money from her mother just to get divorced.

  She had a lawyer working on her case, trying to prove the fraud, but she’d already been cautioned that it could take several years before everything was cleared. Meanwhile, her credit was shot and she still had to make payments on the debt that wasn’t even hers to begin with.

  How long would she have to live like this? As a guest in her childhood home, feeling like a loser, angry that she still wasn’t independent after all these years and even angrier that she felt like it was all her fault.

  She needed a job desperately, but she hated her original career of teaching and wasn’t looking forward to going back to it. At this point, though, there weren’t many other choices. She’d worked under the radar at the garage back in Texas—all the work orders had been signed under Donnie’s name, all the payments made out to him, and she didn’t know enough people around here anymore to convince them to take a chance on a woman mechanic with no references. She didn’t have time to prove herself enough to find a job she truly loved. Not when money trumped everything else.

  She shifted the pie to her other hand and reached out to ring the bell.

  Behind the door, she heard footsteps, and she quickly plastered a friendly smile on her face. She didn’t want to lay any troubles at Mrs. Hart’s doorstep, even though she was practically exploding with the need for someone to confide in.

  Mrs. Hart opened the door and made a sound of excitement.

  “Well, Annabelle Murray, all grown up. I’ve missed you!” Mrs. Hart managed to gather Annabelle into her arms while deftly avoiding the pie and not mussing either of their makeup.

  How had such a graceful woman like Nancy Hart raised Kerri, one of the most tomboyish girls in the state? Possibly even the country? Maybe it was impossible to avoid, with a race car driver for a husband. Mr. Hart had been well-known in his day. In fact, it was in Mr. Hart’s garage that Annabelle had learned so much about cars.

  Even though she’d never actually worked on a car there. Never asked if she could try, despite wanting to so badly that she’d dreamt about it at night. Even when Mr. Hart had asked her if she wanted to help out, she still hadn’t had the courage to say yes.

  Growing up, Annabelle had often been chastised whenever she did something foolish like climb a tree, or hurl a ball over the fence, or try to sneak out of the house wearing a pair of ripped jeans.

  Ladies don’t call attention to themselves like that.

  Like how? she’d once asked.

  In any way. They don’t call attention to themselves at all.

  That had been especially hard to hear when she’d become a teenager and started noticing Grady in a way that made her want to call his attention to her. He was the first guy she’d fantasized about, alone in her room. She’d had a lot of ideas about what would happen if she’d ever gotten his attention.

  “How was the trip back home?” Nancy asked, breaking into Annabelle’s reverie.

  Great. Here she was, thinking dirty thoughts about Grady Hart in front of his mother. Awkward.

  She made herself focus. “It was nice. It’s lovely to be back. And you look wonderful.”

  Annabelle presented the pie she’d made, with its evenly-baked crust and delicate flower cutouts. During her years of teaching home economics to surly middle-schoolers, before she’d taken over the garage from Donnie, she’d vented her frustration over her limited life through precision-made baked goods.

  Mrs. Hart gasped with delight. “Oh, Annabelle, this is incredible. You have such a deft hand with pastry. How did you get this pattern on top?”

  The kind of thing that got her compliments and envious looks from other women … but no man had ever looked over at her and said, Damn, honey, that pie is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. You pie vixen, you.

  She wrinkled her nose a little. No man had ever said that probably because it didn’t sound sexy at all.

  Then again, what did she know? It wasn’t like she had a ton of experience in that area. For all that she’d worked in a garage for years, the guys employed there had kept a certain distance between them and her. She’d overheard some of their jokes, yes, but they’d saved the raunchiest ones for their smoke breaks out back. Meanwhile, Donnie hadn’t exactly fueled many fantasies in her. In fact, he’d been too drunk half the time to even get it up.

  Don’t be crass, Annabelle.

  She couldn’t help but smile. She liked being crass, at least in her mind. But she was supposed to be on her best behavior. At least for now. No sense rocking the boat when the boat was already one rough wave away from capsizing and drowning her completely.

  “Did you do it by hand?” Mrs. Hart was looking at her expectantly.

  Oh, dear. What had she asked? Oh, right. They were talking about pie crust.

  Sigh.

  “Um, no. I used an engraved rolling pin.”

  Listen to yourself.

  Was it just her imagination, or did even Mrs. Hart look bored? For goodness’ sake. Really? For the life of her, Annabelle couldn’t imagine this was what a man really wanted—even the polite homemaker next door was bored with pies.

  And yet, no matter that she’d saved his business and kept him in beer and whiskey, she had to admit that Donnie had loved her better when she’d been a pie-baking teacher making shitty money—the years of coveralls and grease-stained fingers had cost her a marriage, no matter how miserable that marriage had been.

  Annabelle suppressed a sigh and followed her hostess into the kitchen, where the older woman went about fixing a pot of tea and serving slices of pie onto two plates.

  “Oh, Mrs. Hart, please, that’s too much for me. I’m trying to watch my weight and—”

  “You’re too sk
inny by half, Annabelle.” Mrs. Hart turned and gave her a stern stare. “And call me Nancy, please. You’re not the little girl next door anymore.”

  Annabelle nodded, watching as Nancy set the plates on the table, followed by a teapot and two cups. She thought about Nancy’s words.

  You’re not the little girl next door anymore.

  No. At least, not on the outside. But on the inside, she felt like she’d been pushed back into her twelve-year-old self. Stuck at home with her mother, feeling small and miserable and trapped, but incapable of breaking away. And without a miraculous windfall of cash, life would go on like this for God only knew how much longer.

  Why was money so often the root of all problems? She’d only taken over Donnie’s garage in the first place because they’d needed money so badly. She’d just been doing what she had to do.

  But you liked it, too.

  Yes. Of course she had. Finally, a chance to use all that knowledge she’d built up, to put it into practice. Too be someone significant.

  She’d loved it. Reveled in it.

  Once she’d gotten over the growing pains, that was.

  Even though she’d picked up a lot just from hanging around the Hart’s garage as a teen, actually doing the work had been hell at first. And running the business side of the shop, on top of that, was its own challenge. The whole experience had pushed her well out of her comfort zone.

  But after the first year of so many mistakes and quietly-shed tears in the bathroom, she’d been someone. She’d built up that place and made it into something truly successful.

  Right before Donnie had torn it all down.

  I was the one who made that shop you play around in every day. I was the one who moved you out of Charlotte like you’d always wanted. You’d be nothing without me, Annabelle.

  He’d said those things to her. And she’d believed them. After all, the first two were true, and that had made the last statement all too easy to believe. Even though she’d reminded herself that she could build an entire car from scratch in her sleep, that she was capable of doing more than she’d ever dreamed, that she could stand on her own two feet and be independent …

  Well, those first two things were true.

  Ironic, really. No matter how unknowingly at the time, she had jumped into marriage with Donnie in order to escape her too-restrictive upbringing, only to end up back where she started.

  Maybe he was right, after all. Maybe she would be nothing without him.

  But she had realized recently that she hadn’t been anything with him, either.

  Not that anyone else seemed to think that was important. Her mother was still urging her, none too subtly, toward reconciling with Donnie. Momma’s preference for daughters who dressed like ladies and did as they were told was why Annabelle was suffering through looking like Miss North Carolina. She was willing to suffer through it for a little while if it meant a roof over her head.

  Nancy sat down next to her and began to pour some tea into Annabelle’s cup. “I hope you don’t mind if I say this, but I have to admit, it was a surprise when your mother said you and Donnie were divorcing. But I will confide in you that I think you made the right decision.”

  She did?

  Annabelle blinked at her.

  Nancy kept talking. “Oh, I know how people talk, and I’m sure you’ve gotten your fair share of resistance. But it takes courage for a woman to do something like that. I’m proud of you.”

  She set the teapot down and slid the sugar bowl and the small milk pitcher toward Annabelle, who was having a hard time speaking past the sudden tightness in her throat. Courage? Someone was saying that she had courage? Annabelle had just been thinking about how terrified she was of leaving her mother’s house and facing the world on her own with no friends, no money, no job …

  But Nancy seemed to think she was brave. And that being brave was a good thing.

  How was Annabelle going to respond, when she was having a hard time breathing through this sudden, overwhelming feeling?

  Fortunately, Nancy seemed to sense what was going on, because she straightened and changed the subject, saying in a less solicitous tone, “Your mother mentioned that you were a teacher in Texas.”

  At least it wasn’t a total lie. Annabelle had been a teacher for the first couple of years, anyway, after she’d gotten her teaching degree. Until having to pull double duty at the shop and at school while Donnie drank away their income proved too much for her, and she’d quit teaching to save the business.

  But apparently, her mother was not only upset over how Annabelle had lost Donnie—she hadn’t wanted anyone to know that Annabelle had been running a garage, either. Especially not one that got pulled out from under her in the end, anyway.

  Annabelle stiffened. She’d worked hard to save that place. Why couldn’t her mother allow her even that small victory? The anger she’d been suppressing for the past ten days at home started to bubble over, making her protest, “I wasn’t just a teacher. I worked in Donnie’s garage, too. I helped…”

  She trailed off at the curious look on Nancy’s face. God, she must be coming off like a child desperate for approval, bragging about all the things she’d done. She shook her head slightly and gave a small smile. “But that’s not important. I did work as a teacher, yes.”

  Nancy studied her for a moment, as though waiting for Annabelle to say more, but finally asked, “Will you go back to it here in Charlotte? The school year starts pretty soon, but we’re always looking for good teachers.” She took a sip of her tea, her eyes never straying from Annabelle’s face.

  That direct look made Annabelle think of Grady. Funny, how he’d gotten his mother’s eyes—inquisitive, and just on the green side of hazel—but otherwise he looked so little like Nancy. By the time he was seventeen, he’d been a little taller than his late father, with broad shoulders and a big smile. She remembered him being into sports, and his body had been lean and muscled back then … but it was his eyes that were burned into her brain.

  She hadn’t seen him in years, but she remembered those eyes.

  She shrugged. “I suppose so. It seems like the appropriate thing to do, especially if I can start right away. I hate imposing on my mother.”

  And the sooner I start making money, the sooner I can leave.

  Nancy gave her a small smile. “The appropriate thing to do?” Then, to Annabelle’s surprise, Nancy put a hand on her arm and leaned close. “But what do you want to do?”

  Oh.

  When was the last time anyone had asked her that?

  Never, if she was being honest. No one had ever asked her what she wanted to do. Her parents had raised her to be soft and submissive, and she’d run away from that life by marrying Donnie, who hadn’t given a damn what her desires were, either. Even in Texas, when she’d been running the show, no one had asked her what she wanted.

  With the garage, she’d loved being there no matter what the circumstances around it, and she’d thought that was enough. But now all the assets were gone—and then some—and she’d been so busy she’d not had any time during her marriage to make any friends.

  She had nothing back there that she wanted.

  Mrs. Hart was watching her, and she blinked as she came out of her thoughts, the feeling of possibility lingering in her bones and, without thinking, the words simply slipped out.

  “I want to be someone significant.”

  Chapter 2

  Grady pulled his truck into the driveway of his mother’s house and idled there for a moment, staring at his childhood home. He didn’t usually come out here during the week, but driving home from the garage last night, he’d gotten the idea that Mom might be the perfect person to ask about the team manager position.

  Not that he was going to ask her to take the job. More like, she knew everyone in town, and if anyone could point him in the right direction, it was Mom. She knew what the job involved. She’d actually been the manager for a couple of years, way back when Dad had first starte
d Hart Racing, though most people didn’t remember that.

  He turned off the engine and got out, heading up the short walk to the front door, where he gave a courtesy knock, then turned the handle. Mom never locked it. He kept chiding her for it, but she never listened. Once, he’d come over while she’d been napping. Vulnerable. He’d stayed and waited for her to wake up, then asked, What if I’d been some kind of violent criminal?

  She’d just looked at him in that way that only mothers can and said, Then I’d be very disappointed in you.

  He pushed the door open and walked inside. “Mom! It’s Grady! Are you decent?” he called out.

  But instead of his mother’s voice echoing back at him, he heard a duet of feminine giggles coming from the kitchen. Great. She had company. Probably one of her friends from her weekly Bunco night. He walked toward the kitchen in slow motion, trying to figure out what to do. He wouldn’t be able to talk to her about the job while she was entertaining a guest. He didn’t want to share anything private about Hart Racing with someone else.

  Too bad. Now he’d probably have to sit here for the next hour, listening to some older woman drone on about how he should find a nice girl to marry and settle—

  Holy shit.

  He stopped in his tracks as he walked through the archway into the kitchen, his body going haywire at the sight of the woman sitting next to his mother at the table. Flame-red hair brushed sleek and straight down her back, light blue eyes that were both serious and mischievous at once, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, lending a sweetness to her sexy, heart-shaped face.

  Annabelle.

  Annabelle Murray was back. The girl next door, whom he’d thought about morning, noon, and night before she’d married a guy she’d met in college and moved to Texas seven years ago. Hell. He’d even thought about her almost daily even after she’d left, and mourned his lost opportunity. He’d always wanted to ask her out, but she’d always been so reserved and shy-seeming that he wasn’t sure how to approach her. She wasn’t like Kerri’s other friends—all you had to do was shout at them or get them moving in a group and let momentum carry everyone along. But Annabelle …