Finding Fisher Page 6

  “You really want me to go with you?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to go.”

  ***

  “Where does this guy live?” I ask when we seem to have driven completely out of civilization. I haven’t seen anything but fields of sunflowers, and the occasional cow, for miles.

  Fisher laughs. “Not too much further.”

  When we turn off the so-called highway, which is nothing more than a two-lane country road, and end up on a bumpy dirt trail I hold my breath and hope for the best. I half expect to hear banjos start playing in the background.

  Blake’s place is an old farm house that’s definitely past its prime. In fact the entire right side of the dilapidated building looks like it’s caving in.

  “Does he actually live there?” I ask, then realize it probably sounds rude.

  “He’s lived there his whole life. I heard he was born there because the hospital wasn’t even built yet.”

  We hop out of Fisher’s truck and I follow him up to the front entrance. Before he has a chance to knock an old man, who looks just as decrepit as his house, waddles out the door.

  “Come on,” he grumbles as he makes his way down the small set of stairs and around the back of the house.

  I nearly gasp when I see a mint condition 1968 Mercedes 280 SL sitting in a carport out back. Definitely not what I expected to see.

  “I need your advice,” Blake stops and looks up at Fisher who is towering over him.

  The old man is maybe five feet tall at best. And even though his body looks like it could give out at any moment he still has a full head of thick, gray hair and bushy gray eyebrows to match.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Fisher removes his leather jacket and hands it to me. I have to laugh when I see he’s wearing a T-shirt with the exact same ugly design as the sweatshirt I’m wearing.

  “Did you get your t-shirt free too?” I point to the ugly horsehead.

  He gives me the stink eye. “You can throw my jacket into the back of my truck, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.”

  Blake looks up at me as if he’s noticing me for the first time. “You finally went and got yourself a girlfriend, Fish.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Blake furrows his bushy brows. “Don’t let a girl this fine get away. What’s that expression the youngsters are using? If you like her you should put a ring on her?”

  I instinctively reach for my engagement ring. Could this conversation be more awkward? When I look over at Fisher his face has actually turned a bit red. He looks as embarrassed as I feel.

  “Let’s see what’s going on with the engine?” Fisher suggests.

  And when Blake opens the hood I breathe a small sigh of relief that we seem to have successfully changed the subject.

  As the two men poke around under the hood I glance around the property. There are several rickety barns that were probably used for farming at one time, but are now in greater disrepair than the house. The farmhouse is surrounded by rolling meadows and I can hear the faint sound of a babbling brook somewhere in the distance.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Fisher.

  He gives me a quick wave in response.

  I follow the sound of the water until I find a small stream in a wooded area. I sit down on a large rock and close my eyes.

  I just listen to the water for a few moments. Not only have I never been in the woods. I’ve never just listened to water before.

  It’s more peaceful than I ever imagined it would be.

  When I open my eyes and see Fisher standing next to me and feel his hand on my shoulder I realize I must have dozed off.

  “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” he asks.

  I hop up. “Do we have to go?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Do you have another client?”

  He nods.

  “We can go.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you.”

  “I’m sure. I don’t want to hurt your business.”

  He laughs. “Are you kidding? I think Blake is going to pay me extra because he thinks you’re my girlfriend.”

  “About that.” I raise my eyebrows. “I know it was a little awkward. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to say or not say…”

  “You can say whatever you’re comfortable saying. Or you don’t need to say anything at all. You’re just helping me out. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  When we head back to Fisher’s truck Blake is standing beside it. He’s got a large barrel of apples on the ground next to him.

  “What’s with the apples?” I whisper to Fisher.

  “That’s half of my pay,” he whispers back. “And it’s usually a much smaller barrel. He must really like you.”

  Blake hands Fisher a small wad of crumpled up dollar bills. “Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m always glad to give you a hand. You know you can call me any time.”

  “Grab the apples.” Blake makes a point of giving me a big, toothless grin. “Great for pies.”

  I wonder if he thinks I’m actually going to bake something. I’ve never baked a thing in my life. Baking requires flour and dough and getting one’s hands dirty. Not a thing I’m interested in pursuing.

  But I do smile back just to be nice.

  “You’ve definitely got a beauty there.” Blake elbows Fisher.

  “See you soon.” He pats the old man on the shoulder.

  “I’ll be at Franklin’s memorial service.”

  Fisher nods. “Thanks.”

  As soon as Fisher has the apples loaded into the back of the truck we hop into the cab.

  “What was wrong with his car?” I ask as we head back down the dirt road.

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then why did we come all the way out here? It doesn’t even look like he paid you enough for gas money.”

  “Twelve dollars. More than enough for gas. And don’t forget that bushel of apples. I’ll be making pies for weeks.”

  “Seriously. Why did you come all the way out here?”

  “Blake’s only son died three years ago. Lung cancer. He was in his sixties. He lost his wife a few years before that to breast cancer. He’s got no other family. They’re all dead. So I go out to see him once every week or so to help him with his car. There’s nothing wrong with it. But I think the only time he actually starts the thing is when I’m there, so at least we’re running the engine. He’s just lonely.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  He shrugs. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “So do you really bake apple pies?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding? I love to bake. And you’re going to help me.”

  “No I’m not…”

  “And before you even ask. It will require you to get your hands dirty. Suck it up, Buttercup.”

  I stew in the passenger seat for the next nine minutes. Not only am I probably going to get greasy at some point today. I’ll also have to deal with flour and dough. I know I need to stay until Franklin’s memorial service, but I do enjoy thinking about packing my stuff as fast as I can and taking the next flight back to California.

  “Our next stop is an actual job. This time you’ll get your hands dirty. Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be I suppose.”

  “Good.”

  We pull into a small community of houses around an idyllic pond. It looks like something out of a storybook. It even has several lily pads and I imagine a little later in the day when the sun is higher in the sky there may even be a few frogs sitting on those lily pads.

  “Here we are,” Fisher says as he stops his truck next to a more modern split-level house. This neighborhood is definitely a few steps up from where Fisher lives and looks solidly middle class.

  It becomes clear why we parked on the side of the road and not in the driveway when I see that the driveway is filled with
Jeeps in various stages of disrepair.

  “Randy, my man. How’s it going?”

  A guy who looks a few years older than Fisher, maybe his late twenties, pats Fisher on the back when he approaches. “How are you holding up?”

  Fisher gives a shrug. That seems to be his standard response when he doesn’t know what to say.

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone. It’s so unreal.”

  “I know.”

  It’s still so hard for me to grasp that this was Franklin’s life before he came to Stanford. It’s like he completely erased his identity and made himself an entirely different person when he was in California.

  But he was still this other person when he was in New Jersey. A Franklin I didn’t know. But someone I’m slowly learning about with Fisher’s help.

  “Well, Fish, I’m glad you’re here because I desperately need your help. I’ve got to get these three running for a big race on Sunday.” He points to the first three jeeps in the long driveway. There are two more behind them that look like they’re in even worse shape.

  When Randy catches sight of me he does a double take. Then he points to me with his thumb. “Who’s the blonde hottie?”

  “That’s Chloe.”

  He gives me the once over. “Please tell me you have a sister.”

  I glare at him. “I’m an only child.”

  His big green eyes narrow when he reads the logo on the sweatshirt I’m wearing. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think you were made in New Jersey.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  If the guy was small and wiry I’d call him a weasel, but he’s quite the opposite. He’s massive, easily six foot tall and at least two hundred and fifty pounds.

  “What happened to that girl you were dating?” Fisher asks. “Ellie? Was that her name?”

  Randy shakes his head. “Too much drama. I can’t deal with drama. And she didn’t like going to the races. What kind of girl doesn’t want to watch her man race?” He turns to me. “You’d go to watch Fish race, wouldn’t you, Dollface?”

  When I glace in Fisher’s direction his eyes are wide like he has no idea what’s about to come out of my mouth.

  I could really plow into this guy, but I decide to play it cool. “Of course I’d go to see Fish race.” I make a point of glaring at Fisher. “What kind of a girl would I be if I didn’t go to see my man race?”

  It’s obvious that Randy didn’t catch any of the sarcasm oozing from my voice because he’s grinning from ear-to-ear. “You’ve got a good one here. Too bad she doesn’t have a sister.”

  “Let’s get to work,” Fisher prods. “I brought Chloe along to give us a hand.”

  And that’s exactly what I do. For the next three hours and forty-two minutes I shuffle various tools and engine parts between the two men as they work on the three Jeeps.

  I’m so busy that I don’t even realize until we’re done for the day that I’m a filthy mess. I’ve never been so dirty in my entire life. Every inch of the sweatshirt Fisher gave me is covered in grease. And my hands are so greasy they’re almost completely black.

  “I feel disgusting,” I admit to Fisher as he hands me a towel from the back of his truck.

  “We can stop by my house to take showers before we head to my mom’s place.”

  I’m not sure how useful the towel is. I feel like I’m just spreading the grease around rather than taking it off.

  When Randy hands Fisher a check I can’t keep my eyes from wandering to see how much it’s for.

  Five hundred dollars. That’s more than the $125 dollars an hour that the paralegals in my parents’ law firm bill out and they all have university degrees.

  When we get back to Fisher’s house I let out a small yelp when he lifts me into his arms and carries me into the house.

  “What did you do that for?” I ask.

  “I know how you feel about that front porch.”

  “I’m actually getting used to it.”

  He grins. “I don’t want you to sue me if the thing caves in and you hurt yourself.”

  I laugh. “I’m not a lawyer yet.”

  “You will be soon enough.”

  “It takes three years. Three long and arduous years from what I understand.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it. You were a trooper helping out with the Jeeps.”

  “Your friend Randy is kind of a jerk.”

  “I never said he was my friend. He’s a client.”

  “You sure acted chummy with him.”

  “I’m friendly with all of my clients. That’s part of doing business. But that doesn’t mean they’re my friends. There’s a big difference.”

  I think about all of the clients my parents have to deal with. Most of them big name actors or hot shot directors. A lot of them are jerks too, but you’d never know it by the way my parents treat them. But it’s all business. Maybe some things aren’t really that much different.

  “Do you care if I take a shower first?”

  He puts up a finger. “Just a sec.” Then he disappears into the kitchen and returns with a small container of grease remover. “You’re going to need this.”

  Fisher is right. The grease remover does the trick and I actually feel clean again by the time I get out of the shower. I try not to take too much time because I know we’ve got to get to his mother’s place and I don’t want her to be late for work.

  When I hear a soft knock on the door I really put my bathroom prep into high gear.

  “Chloe?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have something for you to wear. For Haymakers. I thought we’d go for dinner after my mom’s shift. We can stay for the entertainment tonight and you can listen to your first country band.”

  Even though I’m still wrapped in a bath towel I’m only showing some leg and arm so I open the door.

  Fisher’s eyes grow wide when he sees me. “Sorry.” He hands me a T-shirt. “Here.”

  “I Heart Haymakers.” I read the print on the front of the shirt. There’s a giant red heart in the middle of the shirt. “Any chance this is another freebie?”

  “You already know me so well.”

  “Does that mean I need to start calling you Fish, like everyone else in this town?”

  “Not unless you plan on staying a while.”

  “Not if it was the last place on Earth.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I already regret them. Fisher looks like he’s been struck. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know what you meant,” he says quickly. “I thought if you wore the T-shirt you’d blend in.”

  “Thanks.” Before I have a chance to say anything else he closes the bathroom door.

  The shirt is big so I tie it in a side knot and pair it with black leggings and some Very Prive pumps. Still causal with a touch of class.

  “Wow,” Fisher exclaims when I walk out of the bedroom. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

  When he pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans I realize he’s getting hard. I try to look anywhere but at his crotch, but he’s making it difficult.

  Fisher can’t seem to take his eyes off of me. He keeps looking me up and down. Maybe the leggings and pumps weren’t such a good idea after all.

  “I’d better get in the shower. I don’t want my mom to be late for work.”

  Before I have a chance to respond he hurries into the bathroom and quickly shuts the door behind him.

  Three

  “We can’t forget the apples,” Fisher says as we hop out of his truck. “We’ve got some pies to bake.”

  I laugh, until I see he’s not joking.

  “Let me guess,” he says as he grabs the bushel and removes it from the back of the truck. “Your parents had people who baked their pies for them.”

  “Well, one person. Our cook.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve never baked a pie before.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  “Jackson knows how to bake a
pie. He’s three years old.”

  “My parents’ goal for me has always been that I eventually make enough money so I could also hire people to bake pies for me. No need to teach me things I’ll never use.”

  “Pies are love,” he says as he takes the apples into the house.

  As I follow him I try to figure out what he means by that statement.

  Sherry is all smiles when she sees Fisher, but as soon as her eyes land on me her smile quickly fades. The way she’s glaring at me you’d think I just robbed a bank.

  I realize she believes I’m responsible for her son’s death. And I know she’ll never like me. But she only has to tolerate me a few more days.

  “So you stayed at Fisher’s place?” She glares at me like I’m some kind of harlot.

  “In the guest bedroom,” I assure her. I would never tell her that Fisher fell asleep in there with me. I don’t think she’d believe that nothing happened between us.

  “Jackson is taking a nap, but you should probably wake him up soon or he’ll never get to sleep tonight. I’ve got to close, but I still should be home before six.”

  Sherry looks me up and down. “I assume the two of you are going out tonight.”

  “We’re going to Haymakers for dinner. But I’ll feed Jackson before we go. And there will be pies. Blake gave me a lot of apples.”

  “You look nice.” When Sherry touches Fisher’s arm she’s blinking back tears. I know I should probably have more sympathy for her. She just lost her son. But she’s been so mean to me, it makes it difficult.

  She’s right about Fisher. He looks good. He’s wearing black jeans that look brand new and a black button-down shirt. He’d almost fit in in California if it wasn’t for the black work boots.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Sherry says as she heads out the door.

  “Would you rather wake Jackson up or start peeling apples?”

  I carefully consider the two options, but I’m not sure which sounds worse. “Wake up Jackson,” I choose finally.

  “You know where his bedroom is.”

  When I quietly open his door I realize he’s already awake. He’s lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask as I sit down on his bed.

  He looks over at me. “You’re beautiful.”