would surely treasure.
Never once in her entire life had she ever imagined that anyone could admire or envy anything about her.
Chapter Two
Jolie picked up the two small rectangles of heavy paper from the counter top and studied them again, each in turn. One was the fifty-percent-off coupon that Vince Cutler had explained to her. The other promised a free tow. She wondered again what the catch might be, but she wasn’t likely to find out until she had need of the services offered. And the need was very likely to arise.
Her old jalopy was a garage bill waiting to happen. The thing had been coughing and gasping like an emphysema patient lately. She’d literally held her breath all the way to work this morning.
If the dry cleaners where she was employed had been situated just a little closer to the new apartment, she’d have walked it every day just to save wear and tear on the old donkey cart, but five miles coming and going on a daily basis was a bit more than she could manage, especially with the evening temperatures hovering in the thirties. Just to be on the safe side, Jolie tucked the coupons into her wallet—never know when they might come in handy—before going back to the ironing with which she augmented her meager income.
Since the death of his wife, Mr. Geopp, owner and operator of the small, independent dry cleaners where she’d worked for the past six years, had chosen to outsource the delicate work rather than invest in the new machines that could handle it properly, and he’d stopped taking in alterations and regular laundry altogether.
One day, Jolie mused, Geopp would retire, and then what would she do? Her heart wasn’t exactly in dry cleaning, but she didn’t seem to possess a single exploitable talent. It was a familiar worry that she routinely shoved aside.
With the tip of one finger, she checked the temperature of the pressing plate, judged it sufficiently cooled not to damage the delicate silk blouse positioned on the padded board and carefully began removing the wrinkles from the fabric. Her mind wandered back to the coupons.
If she took in her car for an estimate, would she see Vince Cutler again?
She glanced ruefully at the flowers he had given her. They were a pretty pathetic sight now. The buds had opened and half the petals had fallen, but she couldn’t bring herself to toss them just yet. Not that she was harboring any secret romantic fantasies about Vincent Cutler. She wasn’t in the market, no matter how good-looking he was, and he was plenty good-looking. Why, the only thing that saved the man from being downright beautiful was the little hump on the bridge of his nose.
She couldn’t help wondering how his nose had been broken, then she scolded herself for even thinking about him. Vince Cutler was nothing to her, and she intended to keep it that way. Secondhand experience had taught Jolie that romantic entanglements were more trouble than they were worth.
Her mom had been big on romance, and all that had gotten her was three kids by three different men, none of whom they could even remember. Still, every time some yahoo had crooked his finger at Velma Wheeler she’d followed him off on whatever wild escapade he’d proposed, often leaving her children to fend for themselves until she returned.
Sometimes they were out of food and living in the dark with the utilities shut off when she’d finally remember that she had a family. One day she simply hadn’t returned at all, and eventually Child Welfare had stepped in to cart Jolie and her siblings off to foster care.
For years Jolie had harbored the secret fantasy that her mother would come back a changed woman, determined to reunite their scattered family, all the while knowing that Velma would have had to learn to care for them a great deal more in her absence than she ever had while present. Then one day Jolie had been told that her mother had died in a drunk-driving accident and been buried in a pauper’s grave somewhere in Nevada. A simple typographical error had resulted in the misspelling of her name and an incorrect filing of records. Her mother had been gone four years by that time.
With Velma as their lesson, Jolie and her sister Connie had sworn that they would not go from man to man. Then Connie had somehow settled on that jerk Kennard and doggedly refused to give up on him. Jolie understood that Connie had feared being a serial loser just like their mom, but only after Kennard had gone to prison for the rest of his life, taking a pregnant Connie along with him, did she turn away from him. Of course, Connie had claimed that she hadn’t even known that an armed robbery was being committed that day, let alone a murder, despite the fact that she had been sitting in front of the bank in a running car.
Jolie had been inclined to believe Connie at the time. Now she just didn’t know.
Maybe if Connie had made a better choice than Kennard…but then, Jolie reminded herself, she wouldn’t have had Russell. It was worth any hardship to have a little boy like that. Wasn’t it?
Jolie shook her head. Thinking that way could get a girl in trouble. Better just to go it alone.
Jolie had learned that lesson the hard way after the authorities had split up her and her siblings when sending them into foster care. At first she and Connie had been placed together, but that hadn’t lasted for very long.
Oh, they’d maintained contact. The department was good about that sort of thing. But the years had taken their toll. Jolie had been nine, Marcus only a year older and Connie just seven when their mom had disappeared.
Two decades later, Jolie was again alone.
With Russell to fill her days and nights and heart, it had seemed that she had family again, but only for a little while. Now all she had was a pile of other people’s clothing to iron and a single room with a private bath to call her own—so long as she could pay the rent.
That thought sent her back to the job at hand, and for a time she lost herself in the careful placement and smoothing of one garment after another. Funny how you could take pride in something so small and insignificant as smoothing wrinkled cloth, but a girl had to get her satisfaction where she could.
“Come on, baby, just a little farther.”
Jolie patted the cracked black dash encouragingly, but the little car sputtered and wheezed with alarming defiance. Then it gave a final paroxysm of shudders and simply stopped, right in the middle of rush-hour traffic.
“Blast!”
Someone behind her did just that with a car horn.
“All right, already!” she yelled, strong-arming the steering wheel as far to the right as she could. The car came to a rolling halt against the curb.
Tires screeched behind her. Another horn honked, and then an engine gunned. A pickup truck flew by with just inches to spare. Jolie flinched, put the transmission in Neutral and cranked the starter, begging for a break. The engine turned over, coughed and died again. The second time, the engine barely rumbled, and on the third it didn’t do that much. By the fifth or sixth try, the starter clicked to let her know that it was getting the message but that the engine was ignoring its entreaties entirely. Jolie gave up, knowing that the next step was to get out and raise the hood.
She didn’t dare try to exit the car on the driver’s side. Instead, she turned on her hazard lights, put the standard transmission in first gear, set the parking brake and released her safety belt to climb across the narrow center console and the passenger seat to the other door. Stepping out on the grassy verge between the curb and the sidewalk, she tossed her ponytail off one shoulder
