All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,43
wide roller door leading into a workshop occupying the left side of the property and a small office area filling the right. A plastic sign above a glass-fronted door identified it as Reception. He entered and breathed in the smell of engine grease and metal. A counter bisected the room. On this side were a couple of beaten-up chairs and a table with some much-thumbed car magazines, while the other side boasted a desk with a young girl tapping at a computer.
“Hi. Can I help you?” she asked as he approached the counter.
“I hope so. I need someone to take a look at my car. It’ll probably need to be towed over, but it’s local. Mel Porter is a friend and she recommended you guys.”
“Oh, Mel. Cool,” the girl said. “I’ll get Mike so you can tell him what the problem is.” She stood and disappeared through the door to the workshop. She was back in thirty seconds with a tall, muscular, dark-haired man hard on her heels.
Flynn would have recognized Mike Porter as Mel’s father in a crowd of thousands. Clear gray eyes sitting above a nose similar to Mel’s regarded him neutrally. The shape of his face, the way he held himself—the family resemblance was startling, despite the thick horseshoe mustache that bracketed his mouth.
“Mike Porter. How can I help you?” He offered Flynn his hand.
“Flynn Randall. I’m having some trouble with my ’65 Aston Martin. Your daughter, Mel, said you might be able to help me out.”
Mike frowned slightly. “Randall. You’re not the bloke who bought Summerlea, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“Mel mentioned you the other day. So, what’s going on with your Aston?”
Mel had been talking about him, had she?
Interesting.
“I think it’s probably the brushes in the starter motor. I’ve had trouble with them before. The engine is turning over but not starting.”
“Starter motor trouble for sure,” Mike confirmed. “Where is it? Stacy mentioned something about you needing a tow?”
“It’s over at Summerlea. Is there a local tow-truck service I can use?”
Mike made a dismissive gesture. “Since it’s local and it’s only the starter motor, there’s no need to tow. Leave the keys with me and I’ll swing by and take a look at it this afternoon. If it’s the starter motor, I can unbolt it and bring it here to work on it. If it isn’t… Well, we’ll cross that bridge.”
“Great.” Flynn slid the key to the Aston free from the ring and handed it over.
“Mel said you’ve got a bit of a green thumb.”
“That’s right.”
Mike shook his head. “Gotta say, I don’t get it. If I had my way the whole yard at home would be concrete. No mowing, no weeds.”
“I suppose you’d paint that concrete green, too, huh?” Flynn asked.
Mike’s mouth twitched at the corners. “I hadn’t given it that much thought, but I probably would.”
“You know there’s that artificial grass you can get now, right? Stays green all year round. It’s a whole level up from green concrete.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.” Mike glanced over his shoulder toward the workshop. “Leave your details with Stacy, I’ll be in touch.”
“Just so you know, I may not be able to pick the car up again this week. So if it does need a tow in, you might be stuck with it over the weekend.”
“We can deliver the car to you in Melbourne if you like. We do that for a few of our customers.”
“Yeah? That would be a load off, I don’t mind admitting.”
“Consider it done. Thanks for the business, Flynn.” Mike gave him a nod before heading back into the workshop.
Flynn passed his business card to Stacy, grabbed a Village Motors card from the stack on the counter and exited to the street.
At least he knew where Mel had gotten her dry sense of humor. He crossed the pavement to his father’s car, thinking about the fact that Mel had mentioned him to her family. It was deeply pathetic, but he wished he could have asked what else Mel had said about him, apart from the fact that he’d bought Summerlea and was into gardening.
How old are you exactly?
It was a good question. The thing was, Mel made him feel young and stupid again.
He was still trying to work out whether this was a good thing or not when his phone rang, sucking him into yet another work issue, and, as usual, everything else in his life got pushed into the background.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FLYNN WAS SNOWED UNDER for the next few days, working to beat the