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Georgette stifled a scream. She hadn’t been five years old for twenty years, but whenever her father wanted something, he called her the childish nickname to remind her of something she could never forget.
She was William Ecklington’s daughter.
And William Ecklington was in control. Always.
He’d picked that particular moment to give her another dress she hated because the household staff were in earshot. She couldn’t disobey his orders in front of the staff or any of his peers. He would never forgive her for any act of defiance, or anything that might diminish his public image.
Tonight, at yet another Who’s Who function, Georgette was expected to stand at her father’s side and smile nicely, showing her support of everything he did. Besides his financial empire, the next most important thing to her father was the respect of his peers. After her mother had left him, he’d refused to marry again. He never dated because he was certain that women were only after his money. So, his younger daughter became second-best.
Georgette’s only escape from her father’s tyranny would be to do what her sister had done—to get married. But God said that marriage was forever. Georgette didn’t want to be under the thumb of a man who was a younger version of her father—a man so critical and demanding he had driven their mother away. Her influential father also sabotaged every attempt she made to find a job, completely nullifying all her attempts to become independent. Not that she needed to worry about money, he gave her a generous allowance in exchange for her work on his charity projects. But Georgette wasn’t happy.
“Be ready at five-fifteen. Karl will be driving.” With that lofty pronouncement, her father turned and left.
Georgette crumpled the dress in her closed fists, and raised her head to the ceiling in a silent prayer. She needed to escape, and she had only one place to go, the only place her father left her alone.
The garage. The garage was her haven. Some women made crafts or baked when they needed something to do. Rebuilding an engine was Georgette’s respite from “society.” She detested being involved with the social climbing of her father’s shallow world.
Working on the car, she didn’t have to be Georgette Ecklington, socialite. She could simply be, as her friends at the pit crew of the local racetrack circuit called her, George. Today it would help her prepare herself for the ordeal of another taxing night.
She walked out of the room and handed the dress to Josephine, the housekeeper. “This needs pressing. I have some shopping to do, and then I need to be left alone until it’s time to get dressed.”
Josephine smiled and nodded. Josephine often covered for Georgette when her father was looking for her.
Soon Georgette was on her way to an out-of-the-way, but spectacular, auto shop she’d discovered, where the owners frequently found salvaged items from auto wreckers for her. She needed parts for her current project—restoring an old pickup truck she’d bought from one of the families in her church. The man had lost his job and the family needed money. They wouldn’t accept charity, so instead, Georgette had bought the family’s derelict pickup truck for many times more than it was worth, a sum that would keep their mortgage at bay for at least six months. She was now working to restore the truck. Perhaps someday the thing would even run again.
As she pulled into the shop, Georgette formulated her priorities. In three hours she had to be showered and ready, so she needed to make good use of her time.
Her thoughts cut off abruptly when she approached the store and saw a cardboard sign in the window.
HELP WANTED.
Georgette’s breath caught. She quickened her pace, able to read the smaller print when she stood beside the door.
Light-duty mechanic.
She could do that. Fixing and rebuilding engines might just be a hobby, but she did it well. The pros at the race track confirmed it again and again. She’d never tackled a project she couldn’t complete. And unlike the other times her father had ruined her job chances with a phone call, her references could be her friends at the race track. Her father didn’t even know about this place, not that he’d deign to go to an auto shop any way. Georgette said a short prayer that they wouldn’t ask for more, and pushed the door open.
The phone was ringing, and two customers waited impatiently ahead of her. Bob was behind the counter, taking notes as a woman listed the problems with her car. The voice of Bart, the other proprietor, echoed from the shop, over the noise of the hydraulic hoist, as he called for another customer to come out. Help certainly was wanted at Bob And Bart’s Auto Repair.
While she waited for her turn, Georgette watched Bob a little more closely. Even though she’d been there before, she’d paid more attention to the spectacular finds he’d made for her than what either of the men looked like.
He carried himself with confidence as he dealt with his customers. Considering his job, he was relatively tidy in appearance, although his dark hair could use a cut. His olive-green eyes and Roman nose made her suspect an Italian heritage, though, the poster on the wall advertising a discount at Bob’s brother’s Italian restaurant, was a pretty solid hint, too.
As she stepped ahead in the line, she continued to study Bob.
He was a good-looking man. When he smiled, the hint of crow’s feet at the corners of those amazing eyes put him at thirtyish.
After a short conversation, the man ahead of her followed Bob to the opening between the lobby and the shop. Bob called out to Bart, left the man where he was, then returned to his place behind the counter. “Can I help you?” Bob asked as he reached for a blank work order. As he turned to her, his frown turned to a small smile. “Right. I left a message on your cell phone. Your parts are in. I’ll go get them. What’s your name again?”
Georgette’s stomach quivered. “Ecklington. George Ecklington.”
His smile widened. “Of course. George. How could I forget? I’ll be right back.”
“No! Bob! Wait!” Georgette called as he took his first step away.
When he turned back to her, she cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m here for my parts, but I see you’re hiring. I’d like to apply for the job.”
His smile widened even more. He pulled an application from beneath the counter and slid it toward her. “I didn’t have time to make our own applications, so I borrowed a few from my brother. It says Antonio’s Ristorante at the top, but just cross it out, and write Bookkeeper in the corner so I’ll put it in the right pile.”
Georgette tried not to let her annoyance show. She didn’t want the bookkeeper’s job. Usually she could understand when people in her father’s circle treated her like a frail little tulip, but to Bob, she was a customer—a customer who frequently bought parts, and installed them. Herself. She didn’t like his assumption, but she’d had to prove herself at the raceway, too.
However, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t do the bookkeeping. Having been confined to her father’s charities, she’d picked up the skill, including receivables, purchasing and handling the disbursements. She could imagine her father’s blood boiling at the thought of his daughter doing work that paid by the hour. But not a dime of the allowance he’d given her was truly hers.
This job and its salary, independent of her father, or of anyone who had any association with her father, would be.
Georgette looked up at Bob, trying to show more confidence than she felt. “Actually, I’d like to apply for both jobs.”
“Pardon me?”
“I can do bookkeeping, but I’m also a light-duty mechanic. Your sign said the hours were negotiable. Could two part-time jobs add up to one full-time job?”
Bob’s smile dropped. “I’m sorry, but we need a real mechanic, not just someone to change oil and check spark plugs.”
“But I am a real mechanic. I usually do rebuilds, but there’s no reason I couldn’t work on current models.”
“Well, maybe you could, but I don’t think—”
As she pictured herself actually working there, the things she knew she could do bubbled in her mind. “When people come in and they don’t know what’s wrong, if you just hired a bookkeeper, you’d have to stop what you were doing and listen to them. If you hired me, I would get a pretty good idea of what was wrong right off the bat, even if I wasn’t the one to do the actual work.”
Bob raised one finger in the air. “But—”
Her words tumbled over his protest. “Then you’d have the option of being able to use me in the shop or the office, wherever I was more needed at the time. Or I could—”
Bob put up his hands. “That really wasn’t what we had in mind.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying a woman couldn’t do this job?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying at all…”
“I might be a woman, but I’m a good mechanic, and that’s what you’re hiring. I would do a good job for you. For both positions. I could even start Monday.”
“Monday? Really…?” Bob’s voice trailed off. He closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bart and I never discussed this possibility. We have to think about it. Why don’t you fill out the application, and when you’re done I’ll call him in here so we can talk about it?”
Georgette tried to calm her racing heart. It was a possibility. Thoughts of her father’s vehement disapproval slammed into her, but she pushed them aside. If Bob offered her the job, she would come up with a way to deal with her father. She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more than this job.
The chime sounded behind her as another customer walked in. Georgette slid to the end of the counter to fill out the application, using her race track friends as references, though she had to list her father’s holding company as current employer.
When she finished writing, she waited for Bob to complete the work order for his current customer whom she could hear describing the problem he was having with his car.
After the man left, Georgette spoke up. “It’s the coil,” she said. “Sounds faulty.”
“You think so? I was just thinking the same thing.”
Before she could respond, Bart walked into the lobby, wiping his hands on the back of his coveralls. “You here for the office job?” he asked.
Bob glanced at Bart, then back to Georgette. “You may not believe this, but she’s here for both jobs.” He handed Bart her application along with the newest work order. “Pull this one into bay four. If it’s the coil that’s causing the problem, we just might have found ourselves a new mechanic. And bookkeeper. Bart, this is George.”
One of Bart’s eyebrows raised. “George?”
She stiffened. “It’s short for Georgette. My friends call me George.”
He scanned the application, and gave a slight nod when he saw her racetrack references. “This is good. I know Jason from the track. I’ll talk to him. But I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. Do you go to Faith Community Fellowship?”
Georgette shook her head. “No. I attend a church nearer to my house. I don’t live nearby. But I buy most of my parts here.”
“Must be it.” Bart walked back to bay four with Bob.
Her heart pounded as she watched them check her assessment, nodding as they discussed the faulty coil.
When they returned to the lobby, she couldn’t hold back any more. “Was I right?”
“Looks like it. As soon as Bart puts a new coil in and test drives it, he’s going to watch the front desk so you and I can go into the office and discuss the details. You said Monday is good?”
“Monday is great.” She marveled at her calm tone. “But I want to do my first official duty right now.”
One eyebrow quirked.
Without waiting for him to respond, Georgette turned, walked to the cardboard sign in the window, and flipped it into the garbage can.
She had a job. A real job. And she’d done it without her father.
Chapter Two
The early-morning spring breeze drifted into the shop, doing its best to combat the smells of gas, oil and lubricants.
Bob had just reached down to check the power-steering belt of the car he was working on when an expensive sports car with tinted windows stopped in front of the bay next to him and began to back in.
Bob straightened, wiped his hands on the rag from his pocket, and watched the door to the car open.
A sleek, spike-heeled shoe poked out, followed by a slender, shapely leg. A swish of soft fabric brought the flow of a skirt, followed by the rest of the beautiful blond driver.
“Hi, Bob. I brought my tools. Where should I put them?”
Bob’s heart pounded. He stared openly at his new mechanic. If she hadn’t spoken, he wouldn’t have recognized her, she was always so casually dressed the other times she’d come into the shop with her blond hair tied up in a ponytail, probably an attempt to make herself appear taller. Today, George wore makeup and a hairstyle fit for a magazine cover. Her outfit was nicer than most women he knew wore for special occasions. It was probably more expensive as well.
He didn’t want or need a fashion model. He needed someone who could change a head gasket.
Bob wondered if he’d made his decision to hire her too impulsively. He tried to think of how to tell her that maybe he would have to reconsider, when George reached into the car, pulled out a duffel bag, and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back. I have to change into something more suitable before I start working.”
Before he could think of a response, she dashed off, the click of her high heels echoing against the concrete as she ran.
Bob checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes before her agreed start time. If he told her he’d changed his mind before she actually started, that might not count as actually firing her. It would probably be less painful that way.
She reappeared in minutes in comfortably worn jeans, a T-shirt proclaiming the tour of a popular Christian musician, and appropriate steel-toed safety boots. Turning as she spoke, she tossed the duffel into the back seat of her car. “I didn’t know if you had coveralls that would fit me, so I brought my own. I hope that’s okay.”
“Uh…yeah…”
Bob shook his head to clear it. At least he would see what she could do. “Ready?”
“Soon as I unpack my tools. They’re in the trunk.”
Bob turned to stare at her car, which was probably worth at least triple the sticker price of his. “Nice,” he said, positive she’d been driving something else when she’d applied for the job. He couldn’t see why someone who could afford such a car would apply at his simple shop, she was obviously used to living on more money than he could pay.
“This car does tend to turn heads. It’s my father’s.”
Bob’s father had never owned such a car. And if he had, Bob knew he would never get to borrow it.
She pushed the remote button on her keychain. The trunk popped open to display a neat array of good-quality tools packed neatly in two boxes.
“I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I brought just the basics.”
Bart chose that moment to appear. He immediately walked to the car and picked up George’s power wrench testing the heft with visible appreciation.
“Do you have a tool caddy for me?”
“We’ve got four bays,” Bob answered. “Since you’re the one who’s going to be answering the phone most of the time, you take Bay One, which is closest to the lobby. Put your tools in the shelving unit on the wall over there.”
In only minutes they had George’s tools packed away in the appropriate place.
Bart stood beside Bob as George moved her car away. “I hope we’re not taking this ‘trusting God’ thing a little too far.”
“I don’t know. All day yesterday at church, I kept thinking that God was sending us someone who really needed the job, but obviously she doesn’t. I wonder if this is some kind of test.”
Bart shook his head. “Let’s not ask for more trouble. If nothing else, she’ll look good when customers come in. Too bad she took her hair down and wiped off her makeup. Yowsa.”
Bob stiffened. “I won’t resort to the trick of hiring only pretty girls, like some of the places that deliver parts. I hired her because she immediately identified that coil problem.”
“Okay, she knows something about mechanics. But can she balance a spreadsheet? Did you notice that she only had those track references? It probably would have been a good idea to check out her former employer, but that would have made things difficult for her if they hadn’t known she was interviewing. Anyway, now it’s too late.”
“There’s only one way to find out what she’s like. Let’s get her started.”
Bart shook his head. “I don’t have time to show her anything. They’re coming to get that red sedan in an hour, and I’m not sure I’ll be finished. You hired her, so you train her.”
Bart walked off before Bob could respond.
Bob entered the lobby at the same time as George.
“Where do I start?” she asked.
