Saving Alyssa Read online

  Alyssa faced the back room and bellowed with a power that belied her size. “Daddy! Daddy! Mr. Jeff says come out and talk to this pretty lady about her bye-sickle because she has a big fat hurt ankle!”

  Billie cringed as a dark-haired man emerged from the back room, wiping grimy hands on a grimier rag. “Who needs an intercom system with a human speaker on the premises?” He bent to kiss her forehead. “For a li’l bitty thing, you sure do make a lot of noise.”

  “Oh, Daddy, you always say that!”

  The man smiled at Billie. “And yet she continues her quest to attempt to break the sound barrier.”

  The wide eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s a sound barrier?”

  He shot his daughter a wink. “It’s just a fancy way of saying noisy.”

  She thought about it for a minute before asking if she could watch some television.

  “The remote’s on my desk. But you know the rules….”

  She did her best to mimic her dad’s baritone. “‘The cartoon channel only, and if the volume goes over number twelve, off it goes!’”

  Billie watched as his gaze followed Alyssa into the back room. He loved her. That much was clear. But something more glimmered in those black-lashed green eyes….

  Jeff opened the bike shop’s door all the way. “Catch you in the a.m., Noah.” Eyes on Billie, he said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  The little girl’s father stepped closer. “Noah Preston,” he said, “owner, repairman, candlestick maker. I’d shake your hand, but…” He showed her the rag again, then tipped his head toward the street. “That your Cannondale in the rack?”

  Billie nodded, wondering why the sign out front said Ike’s Bikes if the man’s name was Noah.

  “Bent the frame, eh?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Saw you limping earlier, so sit tight while I bring ’er inside for a closer look.”

  She reached into her pocket. “You’ll need this to unlock it,” she said, dropping the key into his upturned palm.

  One of her twin brothers had been a marine, and even after five years out of uniform, Troy still wore his hair “high and tight.” There was something about his ramrod-straight stance and no-nonsense word choices that told her he hadn’t always been a bicycle repairman. However, if the wavy, collar-length hair was any indicator, Preston had not been a jarhead. No, he had been something else. Billie had given up her job as a flight attendant and enrolled in law enforcement courses because Chuck didn’t like being alone, sometimes for days on end. But he hadn’t liked the long hours she spent hitting the books, either, so she focused on web design, and used study time to read mysteries and thrillers. The fact that Preston managed to keep an eye on Alyssa even as he unlocked the bike and carried it inside made her think maybe he’d been a cop. Had an on-the-job injury forced early retirement?

  The bell above the door chimed as he elbowed his way back inside with her bike. “Did I hear you telling Jeff that you walked here with this thing?” He leaned it against the counter, then squatted to give it a once-over.

  “Um, yeah.” She shrugged. “But only because I couldn’t ride it from Tongue Row.”

  “Tongue Row? That’s what, six, eight blocks?” He stood, stepped behind the counter and picked up a spiral notebook. “Between that ankle and the bent frame, I’m surprised you got here at all.” He slid the notebook forward. Plopped a ballpoint on the top page. “Name and phone number,” Preston said, “so I can call you once I make a diagnosis. Please.”

  That slight hesitation before he tacked on the courtesy reminded Billie of stories her mom had told about the rude, bossy surgeons in the O.R. Another scenario flickered in her imagination. But if Preston had been a doctor in his pre-bike shop life, he could well afford a customer database. Unless he’d lost everything in a malpractice suit.

  “You have a computer, right?”

  “Who doesn’t?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How long have you lived in Ellicott City?”

  “Just under a year.” She met his steady gaze, blink for blink. He’d responded to her question, she noted, without really answering it. “And you?”

  Preston shifted from one sneakered foot to the other. “A year, huh? Then you know how often we lose power around here. I like the added security of having customers’ names written down in good old-fashioned black-and-white.”

  Another question unanswered, Billie thought, picking up the pen. She reminded herself that she’d come here to get her bike fixed, period. With any luck, she’d never need his services again.

  He glanced toward the back of the shop, where Alyssa lay on her stomach in a beanbag chair large enough to accommodate her dad’s muscular frame. He relaxed…but only slightly.

  Oh, yeah. There was definitely something off about this guy.

  She’d bet the Cannondale on it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOAH LEANED BOTH elbows on the glass-topped counter, putting him at eye level with—he read what she’d written in the notebook—Billie Landon. Her real name, or was Billie short for something?

  She slid the book back to him. “So eventually, you have to add this information to your database?”

  “Yeah. Eventually.” She had gorgeous eyes. Big. Bright. The color of rich black coffee. “But don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “Sorry for you? Why would I feel sorry for you?”

  Both her eyebrows had disappeared into thick, sleek bangs. Not brown. Not red. What was that color?

  He cleared his throat. “Because,” Noah began, “you’re probably thinking if I had half a brain, I wouldn’t duplicate my efforts.”

  The brows reappeared, in a frown. “That isn’t what I was thinking.”

  Oh, but it was. In his district attorney days, he’d interviewed enough victims and perps to recognize a distortion of the truth when he saw it.

  She shrugged. “Word around town is that you’re a magician when it comes to bike repair. No one mentioned your mind-reading talents.”

  He added quick-witted to the list. “No, not a mind reader.” But he’d looked into enough lying eyes over the years to know a fib when he heard one. “You’re right, though. My system means I have to do everything twice. But don’t worry. I only do a couple dozen jobs a week, so there’s no chance I’ll get carpel tunnel.”

  A bold smile now, which only added to his suspicions about her. Why the flip-flopping emotions?

  He took a half step closer, an interrogation tactic that sent a clear “I’m in charge” signal during his days as a district attorney. Noah didn’t know which unnerved him more, the fact that his nearness didn’t faze her, or that her nearness doubled his heartbeat. He straightened, took a step back. Crossed his arms over his chest. After three years, he should be comfortable with his single dad status. He’d cleaned up his act…too little, too late. But even if he were interested enough to pursue her, a wide gold band gleamed from the third finger of her left hand. Considering her injured foot, Noah wondered why her husband hadn’t helped her deliver the bike. Was the guy married to his work, the way he himself had once been? Or a safety nut who didn’t approve of mountain biking? Maybe there wasn’t a spouse at all, and the ring served as a deterrent to unwanted flirtation.

  “How long do you think it’ll take to repair my bike? I have a race next weekend.”

  “On that ankle? You’re kidding, right?”

  She shot him a “who do you think you are?” look, and Noah supposed he had it coming. He moved to Billie’s side of the counter again, crouched beside the Cannondale. “The fork is bent, and so’s the down tube.” Three years ago, if anyone had told him he could list bike parts, let alone repair them, he would have called them crazy. “If they won’t hold a weld, I’ll have to order new parts. Your chain is history, and I wouldn’t put any confidence in this crank set, either.”

  Billie groaned softly. “In other words, I’m really not racing next Saturday.”

  “Well…” Noah stood up and, with o
ne hand on the bike seat, said, “Not unless you believe in miracles?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She’d answered fast. Too fast. It made him wonder what—or who—had turned her into such a pessimist.

  “Do you need a deposit?” she asked.

  Noah waved the offer away. “Nah.” He picked up the notebook. “I know where you live. And I have the Cannondale as collateral.”

  Billie hopped down from the stool, wincing when she landed.

  She’d walked the bike to his shop; going home the same way would cause further damage to her ankle.

  “Tuesdays are slow,” he began, “but even if they weren’t, we’re practically neighbors. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, so why not let me drive you home?”

  Billie stiffened. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “It looks like you stuffed a bowling ball into your sock. I’d bet my bike your doc told you to stay off it, keep it elevated. And iced down.”

  “As a matter of fact, he did.” She exhaled a sigh of frustration. “So okay, I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.”

  Noah had never been good at accepting help, either, and these past three years had only heightened his mistrust of people.

  “My pickup is out back,” he said, aiming a thumb over one shoulder. “Give me a minute to load Alyssa into her car seat, and I’ll drive around front so you won’t have to traipse all the way through the shop and into the side alley.”

  By the time he turned off the TV, secured Alyssa in her child safety seat—promising to make her favorite for supper—then flipped the store’s Open sign to Closed, locked the door and double-parked in front of the shop, fifteen minutes had passed.

  “Sorry, got a little waylaid,” he said to Billie. While she slid into the front seat, he checked the locks on the Today’s Specials bikes in the rack outside the shop.

  Alyssa leaned forward as far as the seat restraint would allow. “Does your ankle hurt much?” he heard her ask.

  Billie sat stiff and straight, facing forward, even as he got into the driver’s side, as if being around his daughter was an imposition.

  “No. Not much.”

  “I twisted my ankle once, jumping on my bed. Is that what happened to you?”

  “I fell off my bike.”

  “Oh. Did your elbows get all busted up, too?”

  “Broken,” Noah corrected. He put the car into gear. “Sounds more ladylike than busted.”

  “But…I’m just a kid. Why do I have to talk like a lady?”

  “Because I said so.”

  As he turned onto Main Street, his daughter said, “My name is Alyssa. What’s yours?”

  “Billie.”

  “But…but Billy is a boy’s name.”

  “Only if you spell it B-i-l-l-y. I spell it B-i-l-l-i-e.”

  “There’s a boy in my class,” she said, “and his name is Billy— Daddy! Look!” She pointed across the street. “Isn’t that little white dog the cutest thing ever!”

  If he ever said yes to getting a dog, it sure wouldn’t be a yippy ankle-biter like that one. “Uh-huh,” he said. When he’d been forced to leave her favorite doll at the airport, Noah had soothed her tears by promising to replace it with a kitten. Mouser was nice enough, as cats go, but certainly not the in-your-face pup Alyssa had always dreamed about.

  “If I had a dog,” she said now, “it would be big, with a happy face. Like the one you had when you were a little boy, ’member, Daddy?”

  “I sure do.” How could he forget the gentle giant that had been more sibling than pet?

  Alyssa giggled. “Tell Billie his name.”

  “Cash.” He didn’t know why, but he felt obliged to explain. “My dad named him Cash Money, because he’d been abused before we adopted him, and cost a fortune at the vet’s.”

  Noah glanced over at her, and for a moment there she looked mildly interested. Then she pointed left, and he realized the route had captured her attention, not the story.

  “You just passed my street,” she said.

  Now it was Noah’s turn to groan, because it meant driving up to Hamilton Street to make a U-turn in the post office parking lot. Halfway there, traffic on Main Street slowed, then came to a grinding halt. While drivers around him raised their hands and muttered, Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. Trapped at a dead stop between parked cars and the constant flow of traffic heading east, he and Alyssa—and Billie, too—might as well have bull’s-eyes painted on their foreheads.

  He held his breath. Checked the side mirrors. Glanced over his shoulder, looking for what, he didn’t know. Facing front again, he peered into the rearview mirror.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy? You look…scared.”

  “Nah. Just frustrated. You know how I get in traffic.”

  He watched the concern drain from his daughter’s face, and just that fast, she was back on track.

  “Oh, yes. Daddy hates traffic jams,” she said to Billie. “Sometimes he even gets so mad about it that he says bad words!”

  Billie chuckled quietly, then pursed her lips and looked out the passenger window. Noah shook his head. What a weird time to miss Jillian. On second thought, it wasn’t weird at all. His wife had been so easygoing and easy to love. He didn’t need an Einstein IQ to figure out why the few women who had inspired a second glance since her death had done so: they’d been gorgeous, smart and outgoing— just like Jillian. He blamed loneliness for his knee-jerk, momentary attraction to Billie back at the shop.

  “Did your mom think you were going to be a boy?” Alyssa asked. “Is that why she named you Billie with an i-e?”

  A second, then two passed before she answered. “My granddad’s name is Bill.”

  Alyssa clapped her hands. “Oh, I get it! Your mom wanted to name you after him, but when a baby girl popped out, it was too late to pick a new name!”

  “It’s not my real name. It’s just what everybody calls me.”

  If she didn’t want to share the name printed on her birth certificate, that was okay with him.

  Traffic eased up, and so did Noah’s tension. They drove in silence for several blocks, until Alyssa noticed the Firehouse Museum. The next couple minutes were filled with what she remembered about its interior, where old firefighters’ uniforms and helmets, tools and dozens of model-sized fire engines had been displayed behind red velvet ropes or inside glass-shelved cases.

  “Have you been there, Billie?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe we could go together.”

  Noah glanced over at Billie, whose eyes were wide with surprise…and indecision.

  “The museum is open on Saturday. Can we go then, Daddy, and show Billie all the neat stuff inside?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Alyssa thought that over while Billie shot him a half smile that said “thanks.” For sparing her from having to say no? Or for stalling the visit until she could walk around better?

  “Oh! Daddy?”

  Noah glanced at his daughter in the rearview mirror again.

  “Do you mean we should wait until Billie’s ankle is okay?”

  He nodded. “That would be a good idea.”

  Alyssa leaned forward in her seat. “How long before it’s better, Billie?”

  The woman turned slightly, and only long enough to say over her shoulder, “A week, maybe two.”

  “Don’t worry.” Alyssa smiled. “I’ll think of something else. Something fun you can do sitting down.”

  For as long as Noah could remember, Alyssa had been a natural-born caretaker. He watched as her forefinger tapped her chin. He counted backward, waiting for her to come up with an idea for an outing that would allow Billie to participate while seated.

  Ten, nine, eight—

  “Do we still have that coupon from T-Bonz? The one that says ‘Live Music on Saturdays’?”

  Alyssa wanted a mom, like the other kids in her class. Noah got that. What he didn’t get was why she saw mother potential in just
about every female who crossed her path.

  “The music doesn’t start until eight o’clock,” he told her, “and you’re way too young to be up that late.”

  “It’s just as well,” Billie said. “I have a website to design for a client by Monday.” She gestured. “There’s my stree—”

  Noah made the right turn onto Old Columbia Pike, eliminating the need for her to point it out. “I fiddled around with a website for the bike shop.” He slowed the pickup, waiting for her to tell him which house was hers. “Put a day’s work into a page, and gave up when I lost the whole thing with one keystroke.”

  Billie nodded. “Mistakes like that make up half of my business.” She paused. “That’s my place up ahead, right beside the jewelry shop. It says Hi Ho Silver on the sign. You can’t miss it.”

  Noah braked and assessed the conditions of the road. Sharp curve. No shoulder. Two narrow lanes, and a sidewalk barely wider than the hallway between his kitchen and dining room. Even after all this time in Ellicott City, he disliked the inconvenience of having to drive through narrow alleyways to access his parking pad. Tongue Row—the road that passed a mere five feet from Billie’s front door—left no room for slowing down, let alone parking long enough for her to exit safely. “Maybe I should drive around back, drop you off—”

  “Thanks,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt, “but there’s no need to go to all that trouble. I won’t get hit.”

  “But will we?” he asked, with a glance in the rearview mirror.

  Billie peered over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. If anyone rams you from behind, I’ll be your witness.” She got out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride. You have my number, so feel free to call whenever you’ve fixed the bike. Or…or you’re interested in talking about a website.”

  She closed the door, and as he merged into traffic, Noah could see her in the side mirror, stooping to lift the doormat and retrieve her key. “Is she nuts?” he muttered. “Who does that anymore?” Evidently, she wasn’t as suspicious of people as he first thought.