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Better than Fiction

By April W Gardner, Michelle Massaro

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Corona, CA, Present Day
Meghan laced her fingers in front of her face and listened to the ceiling fan whir. Looking past the dancing dust particles, she stared through the window behind her computer screen, vaguely aware of the hum of little-girl voices and the thump-thump-thump of the clothes dryer down the hall. Biting the inside of her cheek, she nested her chin atop her hands and closed her eyes.
The scene rolled behind her closed lids, like a movie. The camera of her mind panned across the 1916 Stutz Bearcat―the shiny red paint, the long steering column, the red wheel spokes. She focused on the hero until she saw the flecks of green in his eyes and the smudge of grease on his shirt. Watched him check the street sign as he walked down the sidewalk, searching for something. Desperate.
Determination shot through her own veins . . .
Okay, good. She felt it. Time to make her readers feel it too. She opened her eyes and positioned her fingers . . .
Walked. Strutted. Plodded―
“Mommy!” The little voice came from behind. “Faith pinched me and called me a jerk.”
Stomped. Russell stomped down the street . . .
Ooh, wait! Meghan backspaced one more time.
Slapped the pavement . . .
“Mom, are you listening? Tell her to stop being mean to me.”
“Yeah, sweetie, give me a minute. I have to finish this line.” Meghan tossed the words over her shoulder, keeping her eyes on the monitor. The perfect phrasing eluded her, like a needle in a . . . forget the cliché. She’d get the rough sketch down first, then go back and dress it up. Her eighty-word-per-minute fingers flew across the keyboard.
Russell Keegan’s loafers slapped the pavement. The only sound on that empty street. The town was dead by six p.m.
“Nobody ever listens to me! You don’t even care!” Zoey’s voice broke, and a whimper-and-sniff drifted to Meghan’s ears.
“I do too care. Be patient.” She raised her voice. “Faith, quit picking on your sister.”
From the end of the hall, Faith wailed. “But that’s not f-a-i-r! She’s the one being mean to me. She took my fuzzy pencil that she knows I didn’t want her to touch, and she didn’t even ask.”
Though tempted to charge to the bedroom and bust some heads, Meghan remained in her seat. She swiveled her chair and tightened her lips into a thin line. “You two better knock it off before I lose my patience! I’m trying to focus here.”
“You always say that.”
“I always mean it.” Meghan tried to read the line she’d been working on a moment ago, before she lost her place in the haystack. The dryer buzzed. She blocked it out.
“I’m hungry.”
“It’s only four thirty.” Meghan kept typing.
Dead like his chances of winning the Corona Road Race . . . unless he could find a mechanic.
As if burdened by the falling economy, a mortgage, and two car payments, Zoey dragged herself over to her mother’s side. “I’m b-o-o-o-r-e-d.” The whine curled like barbed tendrils around Meghan’s eardrums.
Her shoulders and neck tightened, and a twitch threatened her left eyelid. She pinched the bridge of her nose. This child was going to be the death of her. Or at least the death of her novel.
Drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, Meghan looked her youngest daughter in the eye. “If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll let you turn on the TV and watch two episodes of Veggie Tales. Then I’ll start dinner, okay?”
Zoey’s blue eyes brightened as she bobbed her little blonde head. “Okay, I promise.”
With her five-year-old settled into the beanbag in the family room, giggling at Larry the Cucumber, Meghan plopped back into her office-in-the-dining-room chair, cracked her knuckles, and somehow found her way back into Racing Hearts.

Corona, CA, 1916
Sixteen months of rigid training, undone with a single vicious act.
Russell Keegan’s loafers slapped the sidewalk and echoed through the deserted street. Corona was the same as every other small town in America―dead by six in the evening. Dead, like his dream of winning the Corona Road Race . . . unless this last mechanic proved helpful.
As he approached the garage, the smell of oil cozied up to his senses and triggered his Pop’s baritone: You’re a racer, Son. It’s in your blood. The memory of his father’s hand weighed on Russell’s shoulder as well as his mind, igniting his stride.
A large sign hung lopsided above the building, the words Danny’s Automotive discernible in the light cast by the dim street lamp across the intersection. Danny’s? Had he been sent to the wrong establishment?
Through the open double-bay door came a faint glow. At least one employee was still at work, but with Russell’s luck, it wouldn’t be Fred. Russell’s luck had pegged him with a car and a mechanic out of commission. Since bad things seemed to run in groups of threes, he was due another heartbreak.
He picked his way through the dark interior toward the flicker of a gas lantern precariously perched on the thick wheel well of a newer model Dodge. “Fire hazard,” he muttered, grasping the lamp by the handle and arching it around him. “Hello? Anybody here?”
His muted lamplight washed over a mountain of stacked tires and a row of bicycles, all in various states of disassembly. A wagon wheel with a broken spoke and a tangle of cobwebs hung from a hook in the rafters.
The scream of hinges swung Russell’s gaze to the back of the shop where a figure materialized in the shadows. “Hi, there. Can I help you?”
The warm, feminine voice jammed his thoughts. “Er, help me? Doubt it, but I’m told there’s a Fred who might.” Holding the lantern out before him, he moved toward her. “The sign says Danny’s. Am I at the wrong place?”
She harrumphed. “Be useful and bring that over here.” A chill frosted her words.
What had he said?
No matter. He obeyed.
His circle of light revealed a tiny woman wearing filthy, oversized coveralls. A large cap covered her head down to her ears, concealing beneath its shadow all but her smudged chin and pursed lips. She looked like a child playing dress-up in her father’s clothes.
He grinned. “A little early for Halloween, isn’t it?”
“I’m busy. Either tell me what you want, or leave me to my work.”
Ouch. He had a lot of ground to make up after that remark. “Nice cap, though. It suits you.” Stupid, stupid. Around the ladies, his intelligence dropped by several degrees. Apparently, it happened around semi-ladies, as well.
“Set the lantern there on your way out.” She jabbed her thumb toward a cluttered counter then snatched a clipboard from a tall stack of tires.
He ground his molars to retain a biting remark. “Just got in yesterday. The name’s Russell Keegan.” He paused for the inevitable exclamation his name often produced, but she didn’t so much as twitch. He told himself it didn’t matter that this slip of an oil-stained girl didn’t know who he was.
“My Stutz was torn up pretty bad. I was sent this way by a couple of gentlemen over at Thomas Drug.”
She tossed the clipboard back on the tires and disappeared behind the raised hood of the Dodge.
“Look, I know you’re busy with . . . whatever you’re doing here, but I could use some help.” He rounded the corner of the massive automobile.
Hands propped on her hips, she stared at the car’s engine as though she’d dropped a hairpin into its black interior and was debating where to begin her search.
Russell took the opportunity to glance around for evidence anyone else was there, but the shadows revealed no other doors. His gaze swung to the ceiling. No bulb.
“You know, you should have electricity installed.”
Her reply came in the form of a soft grunt as she stretched across the engine block and shoved her arm into a dark crevice.
“Whoa! What are you doing? You wanna get stuck in there?” He grabbed her around the waist, going through a sea of stiff fabric before finding a grip and giving a good tug.
“Get off me, you over-inflated dunce!”
The steel in her voice made him drop her like a hand-crank on a backfiring engine.
As she fought for balance, the cap tumbled from her head, uncovering a mass of corkscrew curls that collided in a knot of pins and spun copper. When he managed to pull his sight from the auburn glow, it landed on her narrowed eyes.
“Didn’t I ask you to leave?” She plunged her arm back into the crevice.
Russell didn’t budge.
Cheek pressed against the engine, she bit her lip, seeming to strain to reach something. “Was one of those gentlemen at Thomas Drug broad around the midriff and wearing a ratty engineer’s cap? Playing checkers with another, who dribbled tobacco juice like a leaky Chevy?” She spoke in an easy tone, seeming to have forgotten her injured feelings.
Hope rose within him. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Typical, is all. Got it.” With a firm yank, she withdrew her arm―along with the corpse of a stiff, scorched rat. She held it up to the light by its tail, her nose wrinkling. A snap of her wrist sent it onto a pile of rubbish in the corner. “Don’t guess he’ll be making that mistake again.” She brushed her hands together.
Russell laughed in spite of himself. What kind of woman dressed like a man and fearlessly fished rats out of engines?
She cracked a tiny smile, jiggled a hose, then spun and rummaged through a toolbox. What did she figure on doing?
“Well, I need the help. The guys at the drugstore said this shop is the best there is within a hundred-mile radius.”
Her hand stilled on a pair of pliers. “Generous of them to say.”
“They also say business is reserved for special customers.”
She jutted a hip, a smile tipping one corner of her mouth, and for three skips of his heart, she looked pretty. “And Fred should do business with you, because you’re special?”
Suddenly, all Russell saw was the grit stuck to the underside of her nose.
Before he could scramble for a retort, she smoothed her expression, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned her posterior against the Dodge. “A Stutz you say?”
“That’s right.”
“The Bearcat stranded over on Victoria? It has a few flats and a busted monocle.”
The street name would have sufficed. She needn’t have reminded him of his baby’s blemishes. “Yeah, that’s her.”
“So what happened to your mechanic? Did he bail on you?”
He wished that were all. “He’s laid up. Same thugs that got to the Cat busted Chester up, too.”
He expected compassion to soften her features. Instead, a fire sparked in her eyes. “Why, the low-down, rotten―” She jabbed a finger toward his chest. “If anyone asks you where the cheaters are in this town, you point them toward the guys who did this to your Chester.”
Eyes widening, he made a mental note to never cross this woman.
She plucked her cap from atop the carburetor and crammed her curls under it. “All right, I’ll have a look at it. But just a look, and I’ll charge you for it. Ten bucks, and not a red cent less.” She was already moving toward the door. “We’ll take Lizzie.”
He followed in her wake, confusion curling his lip. “What about Fred?”
“Oh, sorry.” She spun, her hand extended. “I’m Fred. I’d say ‘nice to make your acquaintance,’ but I’d be telling a half-truth. Your Stutz, on the other hand, I’d be more than pleased to meet.”
He chuckled, ignoring her hand. “You’re joshin’ me.”
“I don’t josh.” The set of her jaw confirmed it.
“You’re Fred?” Mechanically, he followed her out of the shop, then let her bump him aside so she could close the doors.
“Winifred Fisher, the best mechanic within a hundred-mile radius. Or so you say.” She marched across the lot toward a 1908 Model T. “Let’s go. I haven’t got all night.”

Present Day
A hissing splash pulled Meghan from the scene. The potatoes! She dashed into the kitchen, turned down the flame, and blew across the irritated foam. The spuds more than passed the fork-test, so she drained the mushy clumps and plopped a half stick of butter into the pot.
“I hate pork chops.”
Meghan looked up to see Faith wandering into the Spanish-tiled kitchen. The nine-year-old’s face scrunched up as though she’d taken her crimping iron to it.
“Can I have macaroni and cheese instead?”
“Nope. And you can put away that sneer, I’m not buyin’ it. You’d think I was making you eat the scrapings from the bottom of your shoe.”
“Eww. Mom, that’s gross.”
“Yes, it would be. But pork chops are fine and dandy, and they’ll be done soon.”
“Dandy? Come back to the twenty-first century, Mom.”
“Pull the beaters out of the drawer and stick them on the mixer for me, would you? Then you and Zoey can wash up for dinner.”
Meghan’s cell phone sang a scale. She fished it out of her pocket with one hand while revving the electric mixer with the other. A text from Brooke.
How much did u write 2day? R we on 4 tomorrow?
Meghan smiled, powered down the beater, then thumbed in her reply.
Tons! Yes for tomorrow. 8:30 a.m. Making dinner, g2g.
Just then, the knob turned and Steve’s frame filled the doorway between the kitchen and garage, sandy-colored hair sticking to his forehead. At six-foot-one, he dwarfed Meghan’s five-foot-three, which was the way she’d always liked it. No evil could touch her when she was in his arms. But when was the last time he’d wrapped them around her?
His weary brown eyes paused on hers. “Hey.” He tossed his keys on the overstock-granite counter and opened the fridge, cracked open a soda, and guzzled it.
Meghan replaced the pot lid and turned toward her husband. “How was your day?”
He shook his head. “I tell ya, the Johnson project is killing me. I’m working with a bunch of morons.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m so sorry, hon. Anything I can do to help?”
“No, don’t worry about. How was your day?”
“Stressful. Long. But . . . ” Meghan sidled up to her husband and reached her arms up around his neck with a smile. She pretended not to notice the way he stiffened as she pulled herself onto tiptoes for a kiss. “I started that project I told you about. A novel. Set right here in Corona. Wrote the whole first chapter. The premise is good. I think I have a real shot at making this happen.” She beamed at him, searching his eyes for a reflection of her own exhilaration.
“Oh, good.” He puffed out his cheeks in a tired exhale, the stubble on his unshaven face standing on end. After a perfunctory peck on her lips, he slipped out of her arms. “I’m gonna go change. Dinner smells great.”
Meghan’s chest fell but she smiled as she dropped her hands to her sides. “Okay.”
Casting off her disappointment, she finished whipping the potatoes, stuck the peas in the microwave, and pulled the chops from the oven. She shoved off the gnawing awareness that she and Steve weren’t in sync. Hadn’t been for a long time.
She returned to the counter to dish up the food and pour milk for her daughters. Nearby stood a bowl of lemons from one of the few remaining city groves, and Meghan sliced one for her water. Ten minutes later, the family sat around the dining table.
Green Corel plates rattled, and Meghan cast an icy glare at the girls for kicking each other and making pests of themselves. “Watch it.” She worked too hard to make family dinner a bonding time. Weariness ate at her bones, and her patience met a swift end. “I didn’t raise you to be little hellions.”
“What’s a hellion?” Zoey pulled her legs up under her.
Faith’s caramel brown eyes narrowed. “What you are and I’m not.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m not one of those things!”
“You don’t even know what we’re talking about, baby.”
“That’s enough!” Steve roared, and smacked the table.
Both girls fell silent and turned to their food, chins tucked toward their chests.
Meghan’s eyes stung. The girls deserved a reprimand, but she wished they didn’t have to hear their father raise his voice like that. And it was becoming too frequent a thing these days.
She set the saltshaker down in front of him. “You’re home kinda late tonight, aren’t you?”
Steve’s eyes shifted to the left, fork paused in midair. “Not really.” He cleared his throat. “Work’s been a bear.” He stuffed pork chops into his mouth and scooped up some peas.
Meghan shot him a sideways glance as a tingling sensation slid from her chest to her gut. She assessed him a moment, then shoved away her unease and savored a small bite of potatoes. Comfort food at its finest. Sounds of chewing and scraping pierced the quiet. “Faith, why don’t you tell Dad about your day?” Meghan nodded to her daughter.
“I beat Abigail in spelling at school”―Faith straightened in her chair―“And now I get to represent our class in the big spelling bee two weeks from Friday. Can you come, Dad?”
Meghan followed Faith’s gaze to her father. He looked from one to the other. “Friday? Sorry, don’t think I can. I gotta work. But Mom’ll tell me all about it.”
Faith’s face fell. “Oh… Okay.” She pushed food around on her plate.
Meghan’s chest tightened. She leaned toward Steve. “You can’t get someone to cover the factory floor for a couple hours?” She glanced at Faith, at the disappointment in her daughter’s eyes.
“I wish I could. We’re behind schedule as it is. I told you this project is killing me.”
“Yeah, I know. I just wish . . . ” She eased back against her chair. “Well, that’s okay.” Meghan forced the bubbling resentment back under the surface. It had no place here; Steve was nothing like her dad. She offered a reassuring smile to Faith.
“Daddy, ask ’bout my day!” Zoey grinned with cheeks full of “smashed” potatoes.
“All right, tell me about your day, princess. But first, swallow your food.” Steve cut into his pork chops, pulling his brows together as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Meghan appraised him. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Go ahead, Zoey.” He flashed a stiff grin.
Zoey began a detailed account of everything she’d done since waking up that morning―from getting dressed, to conducting her duties as Light Monitor, to being the last one picked up from kindergarten.
At that, Steve raised a knowing eyebrow at Meghan.
Meghan forced a smile. “I was writing. And I wasn’t that late. Maybe five minutes. I just lost track of time.” She took a sip of lemon water. “Remember when I almost made us miss our flight to Hawaii, and we had to sprint through the terminal to catch our plane?” She giggled.
“I remember.” Steve’s half-smile melted into that faraway expression Meghan still couldn’t read, though she’d had plenty of practice these last months.
Her giggling dissipated, but the memory lingered. It had been a magnificent honeymoon―hiking, snorkeling, even biking down Maui’s Haleakala Mountain. Of course, that was a long time ago. Back when the adventure called life was a blank page waiting to be written. She sniffed against the sting in her nose.
Steve dropped his napkin onto his plate. “The pork chops were good, Meg.”
“Thanks.” She smiled, happy her cooking still got a thumbs-up.
With dinner finished, Faith and Zoey disappeared into their room, and Meghan cleared the table while her husband moved to the couch. He slumped onto it with a grunt, then stretched his long legs across the whole of it.
Meghan trailed in a moment later and settled into the nearby recliner. She ran a finger over her bottom lip and watched Steve read something on his smart phone, retreating into his own little world, wherever that may be. She was right here. No show-stopper, a little cellulite and a few split ends, but somewhere inside she was still the woman he’d pledged his heart to.
Wasn’t she?
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “So, the Johnson project is turning into a train wreck, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
“And Tony’s no help?”
“Tony doesn’t work for us anymore.”
“Really? When did that happen?”
He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t really want to get into work stuff right now.”
“Oh. Sure, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Wanna hear about my story?”
Once upon a time, after dinner was their time to have a cup of tea and sit together, sharing about their respective days. She’d love to get back to that. “I’m calling it Racing Hearts, and it’s really captured my imagination. I’m so excited.”
“That’s great, Meg.” He flicked a grin at her and reached for the remote. The TV blinked to life with a sports channel.
Meghan pulled in a wobbly breath and took her cue. “So . . . ” She ran her palms down her thighs and stood. “I guess I’ll work on that for a while, if you’re busy.”
“Yeah that’s fine.” He didn’t even look up.
Meghan paused, waiting for him to glance her way. Connect with her for even one tick of the clock. But his gaze never left the screen. She turned and made her way to her computer, scolding herself for the ache in her chest.
But as she fired up her laptop amidst the racket of a basketball game, the ache only deepened. The sounds―and the silence―from the living room almost strangled her awakening muse.
She wanted to get up, to go back and talk with him, tell him how empty she felt, how lonely . . . but she shook her head. She wouldn’t make an issue of it. She’d just tune out the TV and focus on the task at hand: making her way back to 1916.

1916
Thoughts collided inside Russell’s head, leaving him able to do little more than stare as Winifred Fisher struck a match and bent to light the Tin Lizzie’s gas headlamps. He’d never heard of a woman mechanic, much less come face-to-face with one. There had to be some mistake.
Lamps lit, she hopped behind the wheel and spotted him standing where she’d left him. “Do you want me to look at it or not?”
He tramped over and planted one foot on the Ford’s runner. “And just what do you think you’re gonna do?” No woman―regardless of how good the locals claimed her to be―would get her hands on his Cat.
Her fingers froze around the choke. “Are we going? I could use the ten, but I haven’t got all night for you to decide whether your ego can handle a woman criticizing your engine.”
A flash of anger curdled the blood in his veins. “Ego? Y-you― This has nothing to do with ego. Listen here, Fred, I’m man enough to handle just about anything―”
In one smooth move, she popped the choke and stomped the starter pedal. The engine roared to life, cutting his words short.
“Prove it and get in.”
His fingers dug into the top of the closed door. How had this day gone so awry? He hadn’t asked for much―just a reliable mechanic. A reliable male mechanic. But the one willing even to look at his injured baby was a woman with a runaway mouth who wouldn’t know her place if a street sign were plastered above it.
“Fine! But I’m driving.” He hoisted himself over the running board and sent her scrambling across the leather bench.
“Of all the ill-bred―”
“Hey, if you wanna run with the boys, you’ll have to play by our rules.” He adjusted the spark advance to the correct RPMs to smooth out the slight sputter. “Rule number one? The guy with the most brawn always makes the rules. That would be me. Second rule? No whining about the rules. Scoot over. You’re hogging.” He elbowed her in the arm, but she elbowed him right back. Hard.
With a crooked grin, he set the throttle to high and swerved out of the lot, taking a jolting dip into a rut in the dirt road. Fred’s squeak and frantic scratching at anything for a grip brought Russell wicked satisfaction. He’d deal with some guilt later, but right then, he would have given any number of things to tear down the Corona Speedway with Little Miss Smudge clinging, white-knuckled, to the leather bucket seat of his Bearcat.
She whipped the cap off her head and walloped him with it. “Are you crazy? You’ll warp the spokes!”
On the street now, he throttled down, maneuvered around a pile of horse manure, then turned to her, all wide-eyed innocence. “What’s wrong, Miss Fisher? Afraid of a job tougher than extracting rats?”
She clamped her mouth and faced forward. He might have grown up without a mother, but he wasn’t so clueless about women that he believed Winifred to be through with him.
Five minutes later, he pulled into the Hotel Del Rey’s lot and parked in front of his racer. The Ford’s headlamps bathed the Bearcat in light and, as it did every time, the sight of her constricted Russell’s throat. There, next to her gleaming fender, stood a vision of Pop, his fingers stroking the flawless paint job, his wool cap flopping to the same side as the lopsided grin on his face. Whatcha think, Russ? Will she do?
A soft cry spun his head to the passenger’s seat. One hand touching her mouth, Winifred sat statuesque, her gaze riveted to his Cat. “She’s a real beauty.” The awe in her voice took his breath away.
In actuality, the Cat had never looked worse. Three slit tires had her sitting at a pathetic tilt. The monocle windscreen, shattered and twisted on its stand, bowed over the steering column as if too ashamed to lift its head. Glass peppered the two seats. In some semblance of mercy, the vandals hadn’t touched the body. Their work under the hood, however, was enough to make every mechanic in Corona shake his head and point to the door.
Russell couldn’t stomach looking at the Stutz, but Winifred left the Ford and approached with slow, almost reverent steps.
He leaned forward, propping his arms on the smooth wood of the steering wheel. As she walked the circumference, studying every angle of his car, he studied her.
Washed in light, patches of clean skin glowed pale through the grime on her face and neck. A single curl hung forgotten against the side of her gaping mouth. Having made a complete circle, she came around the back of the Cat and took measured strides along its side. Her fingers hovered above the wheel and followed the curve in a worshipful caress.
If he didn’t know her to be an unfeminine creature, he might think she were trying to seduce him.
Unbidden, the feel of her fingers ran a similar trail along his bare shoulders. He swallowed hard and squirmed in his seat. Something was wrong with him if a figureless woman in filthy coveralls set his mind on such an unchristian path. With a grunt, he shook off the images, jammed the handbrake into place, and jumped from the vehicle.

Present Day
Steve’s game had ended long ago and Meghan was still tapping away on the laptop. Smiling, she closed her computer and nestled into her propped pillows with a dreamy sigh.
There was something about historical romance. A different time, a different way of life, but the same spark between a man and a woman.
And this story was becoming deliciously electric.
A sharp snorting broke her from her reverie. Her gaze traveled to her husband―snoring loud enough to send the city into evacuation―and to the unattractive loll of his gaping mouth.
After setting aside her laptop, Meghan turned and propped her head on her left hand. She studied the small creases of Steve’s forehead, the strong angle of his nose, the outline of his lips―even if they were hanging slack and flapping with every rattling breath. To be fair, she’d been caught snoring on occasion as well. And he’d seen her looking less than stellar countless times over the years. In fact, she’d gotten pretty lax with her own appearance until a couple months ago, and Steve had never said a word. Of course, he hadn’t looked at her the way he used to in a long time, either.
She reached out and ran a finger along his arm. Would he stir and pull her close? Make her blood race?
He smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth a couple times, then turned to face the other way.
Dejected, Meghan rolled onto her back and stared at the popcorn ceiling.
Looked like all the sparks tonight were reserved for Winifred and Russell.

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