The Christmas Clock and A Song For My Mother - Kat Martin Page 0,4
went to church by herself. Each week she asked Floyd to go with her but there was always something more important he had to do.
They used to go together each week but over the years, Floyd accompanied her less and less. Today, she left him working, boring a hole in the front of one of the little wooden birdhouses he built out in his shop behind the house. Floyd sold them down at Barnett's Feed and Seed, the local mercantile, and a couple of other places in town, more to feel useful in his retirement than for the extra income he earned.
Dressed in her favorite pink linen suit, Doris waited at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the apartment she had rented to Sylvia Winters and a few minutes later, the girl came hurrying down the steps. She was smaller than Doris, about five feet four, and pretty, with short, honey-brown hair that curled softly around her face and light green eyes.
“I hope I'm not late.”
“I'm a little early. Are you ready?”
“I sure am.”
They got into Doris's station wagon and drove over to the Presbyterian Church. It was humid, the sun heating the air and dampness seeping into Doris's clothes. A small crowd gathered near the door, forming a circle around the minister, the Reverend Thomas Gains, who stood on the steps of the white wooden building with its tall white steeple. Lottie parked the car and she and Sylvia walked over to join the group.
“Good morning, Doris,” Reverend Gains welcomed her. “I see you've brought a friend.”
“I'm Sylvia Winters. I just moved back to town.” Sylvia held out a slim hand and the reverend shook it.
“It's nice to meet you. I hope we'll see you often.”
He turned back to Doris. “How is Floyd?” The minister always asked this question and it always embarrassed her.
“He's fine. Had a bit of a headache this morning. I'll give him your regards.”
“Please do.”
She thought of Floyd at work in his dusty shop and cast a glance at Sylvia as they made their way inside the church.
Mondays were always busy. Joe Dixon wiped his hands on an old grease rag and tossed it up on the shelf. All three bays at Murdock's Auto Repair were full of cars and there were several more waiting outside. Murdock's was the best garage for miles around and people lined up for service.
Joe smiled at the thought. Being a mechanic was a dirty, greasy, noisy job and he loved every minute of it. Since he'd been a sophomore in high school, he had dabbled with cars. In his senior year, he had run across an old ’66 Chevy Super Sport headed for the junkyard, bought it for a song, and overhauled it with his dad’s help, turning it into the big red muscle car it was back in its day.
He’d worked two jobs that summer to pay for the parts he needed, most of which came from the junk yard meant to be the car’s final resting spot.
That success had pointed him toward a career in auto mechanics. He had known even then he wanted to own his own shop and now, at twenty-nine, he was finally on the way to making it happen. In the four years since his return to Dreyerville, he had become half owner of Murdock’s garage. He would own the whole business by the time Bumper Murdock was ready to retire.
The phone rang and Joe walked over and picked up the receiver. It was Mrs. Murphy, one of his customers.
“Joe, I can’t get my car started,” she said. “I think the battery is dead. I’m supposed to be at choir practice in half an hour. What should I do?”
“I’ve got to finish checking the oil for a guy in the waiting room, then I’ll come on over. I’ll give you a ride to church and then take care of your car.”
A sigh of relief whispered over the phone. “Thanks, Joe.”
He smiled. “See you in a couple of minutes.” Hurrying toward the sporty little yellow convertible that belonged to Jim Higgins, one of the male nurses at the hospital, he checked the oil and added a quart.
“How much do I owe you?” Jim asked.
“Just the price of the oil.”
“Great. Thanks, Joe.”
“Glad to help.”
Thinking of Mrs. Murphy as he strode toward his truck, he glanced around the shop. If things had been different, he would already have owned the business. He wouldn't have wasted three years of his life in the state penitentiary.