“Yeah, but it’s clear that man has his mind set on the long term, and if Duane Winston turns out to be a reason for you to stay in Green Valley instead of following through with your absurd plans, then I’ll happily put up with him courting my daughter.”

I gave my daddy a sad smile and my heart fell just a tad. He didn’t bring up my plans to leave often, but when he did, he always used words like absurd, reckless, preposterous, misguided, and foolish—stopping just short of calling me stupid. I didn’t like disappointing my parents, so I never brought them up.

“Hello, sir.”

I twisted back toward the aisle, finding Duane standing just inside our pew with his hand outstretched to my father. The other three Winstons were loitering in the pew to my right. I realized they were all waiting to pay their respects.

After greeting my father, Duane turned his attention to me. He didn’t offer his hand. Instead he stuffed both into his pockets, nodding once in my direction and saying, “Jessica,” in that way he did, with a slight whisper, and giving me the entirety of his intense focus.

“Hi, Duane.” I tried to be circumspect and mindful—after all we were still in church—but it didn’t work. My simple greeting sounded beyond delighted even to my ears, verging on enthusiastic. Music only I could hear switched on; this time is it was Just the Way You Are, by Bruno Mars—except the shes were replaced with hes.

Goodness, I was pathetic.

Because of the distracting music in my head and the intensity of Duane’s attention, I missed most of the other conversation, and the friendly chit-chat between my daddy and the rest of the Winston boys. I was only able to recover when Duane shifted his attention back to my father.

“I imagine you and Jess have plans for the day?” I heard my daddy ask.

We didn’t. We hadn’t made any plans.

Therefore, I was surprised when Duane nodded. “Yes, sir. We do.”

“What are you kids up to?” he asked, using his Sheriff’s voice.

“We’re heading to the shop and I’m planning to teach Jessica how to change a tire.”

I’m sure my face betrayed my astonishment. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beau try to hide his smirk, and I was glad my back was mostly to my father so he couldn’t see my expression.

“Good idea, son. While you’re at it, teach her how to check the fluids, change the oil and such. Then she can teach me and Jackson.”

“Be happy to, sir.” Duane gave my daddy a short, respectful nod then returned his eyes to mine; once again I was struck by how he was looking at me.

He was looking at me like he had plans.

***

“Brown sugar? Why would he put brown sugar in the radiator?”

“Because someone told him it would stop the leak.”

“Did it?”

“No. Brown sugar doesn’t work. But eggs do.”

I’d left church with Duane. All the Winstons had driven their own cars. Now I was facing him, one leg tucked under me, my elbow resting on the bench seat of his Road Runner and my face propped in my palm. I stared at his profile, trying not to notice how he’d rolled his shirtsleeves to his forearms. The man had beautiful forearms.

“Eggs? People put eggs in their radiator?”

“Yep. I’ve done it before to stop a leak, in a pinch. Some places in these mountains it’s easier to find a hen house then it is to find electrical tape.”

“Why do eggs work and not brown sugar?”

“I reckon because they’re heavier when cooked, sink in hot water. Brown sugar gums up but it floats.”

I stared at Duane for a long moment, thinking about his reasoning. “Huh… That’s crazy.”

He shrugged as we pulled into the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. “I’ve seen crazier. People with no money, desperate to have a working car are worse than patients with no health insurance or access to a doctor. They’ll try anything.”

“Tell me something else.”

“Like what?” He didn’t park out front, instead opting to wind the car around to the back of the building—which I thought was odd for exactly three seconds. Then I remembered it was Sunday. I surmised he didn’t want anyone knowing we were here and therefore checking to see if the shop was open for business.

“Something about cars and wackadoodle customers. Tell me something else weird or funny.”

Duane cut the engine, and glanced at me. “Let’s see… Sometimes people will complain about the cost of service, but we can’t do anything about how much parts cost. So Cletus came up with the idea of adding fake line items, to spread the cost around.”

“Like what?”

“Like muffler bearings.”

“Muffler bearings?” I asked just as Duane exited. I was already out with the door shut by the time he made it to my side, despite his hustling.

“Yeah. It’s strange.” Duane took my hand, frowning at the car door behind me like he was irritated with it for letting me out. “People won’t question an itemized bill as long as each individual charge is small. I came up with a few fictitious charges after arguing with this one guy about the cost of a new transmission.”

“What are some of yours?”

“Well, let’s see…” Duane’s eyes went up and to the right as we walked toward the back of the shop. “Blinker fluid.”

I giggled. “Blinker fluid? You told people they needed blinker fluid?”

He nodded, a reluctant smile tugging his mouth to the side. “Or spark plugs for a diesel engine, power antenna fluid, that kind of stuff.”

I shook my head, laughing harder. “I can’t believe no one has caught on.”

“I don’t think they want to catch on. They feel like they’re getting a good price on the main work, and no one really wants to know how their car works. People just want it to work, they want it fixed." He released my hand in order to open the locked door and flipped on the overhead lights as we entered. The space was just as cold as the outside and smelled like a medley of oil and actual car fluids.

“I can see that. I mean, if you told me my car needed muffler bearings I wouldn’t know enough to contradict you.”

“We don’t do it to everyone, just people who are perpetual complainers, or we get a sense ahead of time who might be trouble. Watch your step.” His voice echoed in the cavernous shop and he squeezed my hand, lifting it as he indicated to a muffler on the cement floor directly in our path.

I followed his lead, careful to watch where I stepped, and spoke as I thought. “It’s interesting to me, how some people need to be pacified and don’t even know it—about themselves, I mean.”

“Lots of people are like that. Almost everybody, to one degree or another.”

“Yeah, maybe. I can see that. I’d like to think I will always want the truth from everybody, no matter what, no matter how uncomfortable or hurtful. But I’m sure there are some situations where remaining ignorant is likely best.”

“I agree, to an extent.” We skirted the garage to a side door, then navigated two landings of stairs to a big room. It appeared to be a combination office, break room, and apartment. A big desk and computer sat along one wall facing the window; a small cot, counter, fridge, and sink were along the other. File cabinets lined the third, and a single round Formica table with three chairs sat in the center.

“To an extent?” I asked.

“Yeah, to an extent.”

He left me at the door and crossed to one of the file cabinets. I wandered in after him, glancing around as he fished in a drawer for a few seconds. “Be more specific. What do you mean to an extent?”

He then withdrew something wrapped in a plastic bag and poked a hole to rip it open. “Well, take you for example.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. You’re almost too honest.”

I considered him and his statement for a beat, not sure if it was compliment, or an insult, or a complisult; when I couldn’t make up my mind I asked, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”