an unconscious habit, something that betrayed a dry sense of humor.
“A noise,” he said patiently.
“Yes.” She tried to produce it. “Rgrk-rgrk-rgrk. Like that. Sort of.”
To her relief, he didn’t laugh, just said very plainly, “I’ll take a look, and give you a call when I know what’s going on.”
“Uh, thanks, Cap. Yes, that would be great.”
There was a silence as she realized what she’d said. Cap. Everyone had called him that in high school, but she had no idea if they did anymore.
He’d noticed the nickname, too. “Make it Joe,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Cap is... Yeah. I don’t go by that now.”
“Sorry,” she said again. And for some reason remembered something she’d learned in passing—she couldn’t remember where or when—that Joe Capelli was also the name of a character in a shoot-’em-up video game.
“No big deal,” the non-computer-generated Joe said. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“My sister’s picking me up. She should be here any minute.”
“I’ll call you later, then, when I know what’s going on with the engine.”
“Thanks. Um, say hi to your dad for me. Give him my best wishes.”
“Will do.”
She got herself out of the grease-smelling workshop and into the June air, just as her sister Lee pulled onto the concrete apron at the front of the garage.
Lee was engaged to be married and five and a half months pregnant, beyond the tired and queasy first trimester and not yet into the big and uncomfortable third trimester, and she looked radiantly energetic, happy and alive. Her caramel-colored hair was thick and shiny in its casual ponytail, and her skin was glowing. “So what’s the noise?” she said, after Mary Jane had slid into the front passenger seat.
“Don’t know yet. He’ll take a look at it and call to let me know.”
“He must be getting pretty old for lying around under cars.”
“It wasn’t Mr. Capelli. It was his son. Joe.”
“Joe. Wow!” Lee said. “I thought he was in Hollywood, being a movie star.”
“You remember that? You were two years behind us in school.”
“The whole school knew about Joe Capelli’s plans. I think everyone believed in them, too.”
“Really?” Mary Jane infused a watery amount of skepticism into her voice for appearance’s sake, and yet she had believed in his plans just as much as everyone else. Had believed in them utterly, to the point where she looked for his face on TV or in movies for years afterward, and even once thought she’d spotted him on screen, playing a gangster’s henchman who died under dramatic movie gunfire without speaking a line.
“Don’t you remember him in West Side Story?” Lee said. “Every girl in the audience was practically moaning out loud.”
“Not me.”
“Well, you weren’t the moaning type. I never understood why he hadn’t gotten the lead role.”
“Because he couldn’t sing in the right range,” Mary Jane answered. “He’s a baritone, not a tenor.”
“You do remember.”
“But you’re right, I wasn’t the moaning type,” Mary Jane hastened to emphasize. “I couldn’t stand him.”
“He did think he was God’s gift to womankind, I seem to remember. Bit of a joke where he’s ended up, compared to what he planned.”
“Not a joke. And not the end, either. He’s only thirty-five.”
“Now you’re defending him.”
“Because I’m sure he must know what everyone is thinking,” Mary Jane retorted. “He was a bit of a jerk, maybe, a bit arrogant and cocky, but he doesn’t deserve that. He wasn’t a bad person, just...”
“Way too much ego. Isn’t that almost the definition of jerk? You mean he doesn’t deserve people thinking that being back in his father’s garage is a far cry from what he expected?”
“From what we all expected.”
“I know what you mean. When some people say, ‘I’m gonna be a star!’ you roll your eyes, but with him...”
“We were rolling our eyes for other reasons,” Mary Jane agreed.
“The arrogance.”
“Exactly. I never doubted he’d make it big.”
Just as she’d never doubted her own future—no grand ambitions, in her case, just the usual one—the triple play of decent marriage, beautiful and welcoming home, healthy kids. Enough of a win in the lottery of life for anyone, she’d always considered.
So far, she’d scored just one out of the three.
A few minutes later, Lee turned into the driveway that led to Spruce Bay Resort and Mary Jane thought she could hardly ask for a more beautiful place to live, surrounded by pristine white snow in winter and glorious views of mountain and forest and lake in spring, summer and fall.
And yet she would have exchanged it in a heartbeat for a two-bedroom apartment over a dingy little store if it meant she got the decent marriage and healthy kids instead.
It was embarrassing. Painfully embarrassing. Way more embarrassing than Joe Capelli working in his dad’s old-fashioned garage.
Incredibly embarrassing that she wanted something so outwardly ordinary and conventional and yet still it hadn’t happened.
Embarrassing...and painful...and horrible...that she could feel the bitterness kicking in. She had to try so hard, sometimes, not to mind that both her younger sisters were now happily in love, married or engaged, with babies on the way.
She had a secret little chart tucked away in her head, and mentally awarded herself a gold star for every day she went without feeling jealous, or saying something pointed and mean, or wallowing in regret.
And even though the mental chart had quite a few gold stars on it, she hated that it existed in the first place, and no matter how much she’d disliked...well, tried to dislike...“Cap” Capelli in high school, she understood so well what he’d meant when he’d said with that wry drawl and quirked mouth, “Life’s a funny thing.”
* * *
Mary Jane Cherry was one of those women who looked way better at thirty-five than she’d looked at eighteen, Joe decided.
In high school, she’d had frequent skin breakouts and an orthodontic plate and puppy fat,
