5

Odors of motor oil, leather, welding fumes, and the acrid tang of stale coffee enveloped Trevor as he strode through the back door of Easy Rider. He inhaled deeply, nostalgia already tugging at his heart. This shop had been his second home for more than ten years, ever since he’d ridden into town on his refurbished, antique Indian motorcycle and confronted the owner with his skills and dreams. His mouth twitched upward as memories rushed in.

Carlos Montana’s long, black ponytail, graphic tattoos on his olive skin, and powerful physique had impressed his scrawny eighteen-year-old self, but as Trevor had grown in stature and skill, they’d become friends. Good friends, until recently. His smile faded.

“Hey, T-man, how’s your mom?” The Latin-accented bass came from the far end of the workshop.

Speak of the devil. Not a devil, though, not anymore. He’d changed—one reason Trevor had jumped at the chance to interview for a job in Toronto. Trevor moved closer, shielding his eyes until the flare of the welder flicked off and Carlos lifted his visor. “Not sure. They’re doing some more tests today.” He leaned against a cluttered work bench. “I may need to take more time off.”

His boss’s dark brown gaze pinned him. “Just time off, or are you giving your notice?”

“I’ve got a week to decide about the move. But Dad needs help at the farm.”

“OK, let me finish up here, and we’ll talk.” The visor snapped down.

The bell over the front door jingled, followed by two more alerts. Trevor paused in the doorway to the small showroom. Ryan chatted with an attractive young woman, while a well-dressed older gent perused the display of helmets. Another guy, probably in his forties, seemed to be admiring Trevor’s latest creation.

Trevor angled toward the older man. “May I help you?”

“No, thanks. Just looking and checking prices. My grandson wants a new helmet for his birthday, but it’s not until July.”

Trevor asked a few questions and pointed out two of their most popular helmets in the preferred style. The man thanked him and headed toward the exit, so Trevor greeted the man at his customized 1982 Honda CX500. The guy was practically drooling as he ran a finger along the angular, indented gas tank and elongated seat. Trevor suppressed a grin as he greeted the man.

“Looking for a custom bike?”

“This one’s a beaut. Who did the work?”

“I did. The bike was a mess when I bought it, perfect for a custom job. Kept the tank simple but angular, lowered the handlebars, and lengthened the seat. Now it’s a great little café racer. Looking for something like this?”

“I wish I could afford it, but that’s not why I’m here.” Then the man pulled out a business card. “Greg Lewis, reporter for the Star Phoenix. I’m doing a story on custom motorcycles and their builders. Got a tip I could find a real talent here. Looks like you’re it.”

Trevor accepted the reporter’s card and stuck it in his back pocket. “Trevor Hiebert. What can I do for you?”

Greg Lewis stepped closer, invading Trevor’s space. “I plan to feature four or five guys who customize bikes—how you got started, that sort of thing. Each interview will showcase one of your creations, and readers will vote on their favorite. Great publicity for you and this shop.”

Trevor moved back as the noose of stress tightened. Why now, when he might be leaving? What good would it do? “I don’t know. Things are hectic right now…”

“Just think about it. You’ve got my card. Call me by Wednesday, and we’ll make it work for you.”

Trevor backed off another half step, his mind whirling. If he stayed, this could boost business for him and the shop. But the job in Toronto… His hand lifted as though to shield himself. “I’ll let you know.” He turned and fled to the office where Carlos waited. Trevor dropped into a dark green, vinyl-covered chair and released a sigh that ended as a moan.

Carlos raised his black coffee mug, along with an expressive eyebrow. “Want some? I made a fresh pot.”

“Yeah, sure.” Trevor, filled a mug and took a sip. “Good and strong.” He sank back into the chair, frowning. “Did you know about the reporter?”

Carlos’s smooth expression betrayed nothing. “Lewis? He called while you were away. Said he was writing a story about local customizers. Why?”

“He was just here. Offered to feature my work in a newspaper contest.” His jaw clenched. He rubbed the back of his neck, but the knots stayed tight. “I don’t need this right now. I can’t handle any more pressure.”

Carlos took a long swig of coffee without breaking eye contact. He set his mug on the desk and leaned forward. “You don’t have to handle it alone.”

Trevor leaned back, his chin jutted. “What do you mean?” He hoped this wouldn’t launch another spiel about God. Ever since Carlos had “found Jesus” six months ago, he hadn’t missed any opportunity to share his newfound joy. He grimaced.

“You know Who I mean, but I’m not gonna preach.” Carlos stroked his black goatee. “I gotta admit, I’d hoped some good publicity might entice you to stay. Stoke those creative juices and ease your restlessness.”

Trevor gulped, startled. He’d tried to keep it hidden.

One side of Carlos’s mouth lifted, and he shook his head. “I’ve known you a long time, T-man. And while I’d prefer you to stay, you’re no good for either of us if you feel stuck. That’s why I mentioned you to Vince Starr.”

“What?” His jaw dropped, and he forced it shut. It didn’t make sense. Why would Carlos recommend him to the guy in Toronto? Nobody gave away his best employee. Or was something else going on here?

The phone rang, jarring Trevor’s taut nerves.

Carlos glanced at the call display and held up his index finger. “Need to get this.”

“No problem.” Trevor stood and walked to the showroom door without a backward glance. But he could feel his boss’s gaze boring into his back.

~*~

An hour later, Trevor slammed his sketch book shut. The gas tank design he’d drawn wouldn’t work. This custom job might be his last one in Saskatoon, but at the rate he was going, it would take several months to finish. He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned his head on his hands. If he could just get the specs right, Carlos could fabricate the parts and assemble the bike. But then it would be a Montana bike, not a T. Hiebert creation. An annoying twinge of jealousy hit. Trevor’s shoulders slumped forward. Why did life have to be so hard?

And why had his boss mentioned him to Vince Starr? He’d thought it was a lucky fluke when the ad for a bike customizer popped up on his website. Had Carlos planned the whole thing? Was he trying to get rid of him? But if Carlos wanted him to leave, why had he encouraged the reporter? He rubbed his tight neck muscles, stood, and stomped into the back room. “Carlos!”

His boss looked up from his paperwork, eyebrows raised as high as Trevor’s decibel level. “Yeah?”

Trevor slammed the door shut behind him and stood with clenched fists. The twitch of his pulse throbbed a warning. “We need to talk.”

“All right.” Carlos leaned back in his swivel chair and swung his boots onto the paper-covered desk. “What can I do for you?”

Carlos’s agreeable tone raised Trevor’s irritation a couple notches. He plunked into the green chair and glared at his boss.

“Are you trying to get rid of me, keep me here, or what?” With effort he kept his voice low. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Carlos shook his head. “No, no, my friend. I’m not playing games with you. You have ambitions and the talent to achieve them, but my shop is small. Maybe too small for you. So when I heard you were interested in a job in Toronto, I did some checking. Found out Vince Starr needed a good man, and I recommended you. I don’t know much about him, but his business is big enough to give you the exposure you want. Now the ball’s in your court.” He shrugged. “Your decision.”

Trevor frowned as he tried to make sense of this twist. “Why would you do that?”

“Creativity requires a certain amount of contentment. If you feel restless or stuck, your work will suffer.” Carlos smiled, and his gold tooth twinkled. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Then why encourage the reporter?”

“To give you the publicity you deserve. Whether you stay or go, good press can make a difference.”

The final dredges of outrage drained away, leaving Trevor numb. “I don’t get it. Seems counterproductive for you.”

“You’re my right-hand man, and I don’t want to lose you.” Carlos turned his hands palm up, fingers splayed. “But if you stay here and regret it, we’ll both suffer. You have to figure out what’s most important to you.” He paused and stroked his goatee. “And if I can help you achieve your life purpose? Bonus.”

Life purpose? Who was this guy, and what had he done with his old boss? The one who preferred sexy pinups on his now-barren office walls. The guy who relished dirty jokes, the raunchier the better. The boss who’d always said this shop was his whole life, and hard work and hard play were all that mattered.

“What happened to you?” He squirmed, and the vinyl chair protested. “Yeah, I know, it’s all about Jesus, but I don’t get it. That whole God thing doesn’t make sense to me.”

One side of Carlos’s mouth lifted. “You sure you want to hear?”

~*~

Butterflies fluttered in Hayley’s stomach as Lydia drove her to Nila’s house. No, not butterflies. Felt more like the bird that had flown into her apartment last summer. Its panicked, zigzag flight matched the sensation inside her. This was a mistake. She turned to Lydia. “I don’t think…”

Curiosity overruled fear as the car slowed and pulled into a driveway of a charming blue bungalow.

“Here we are.” Lydia patted Hayley’s hand. “Enjoy your visit. I’m sure you girls have a lot of catching up to do. Give me a call when you’re ready to be picked up. You have my cell number, right?”

Hayley nodded without speaking. The inviting front porch with its two cushioned, bent-twig chairs beckoned. A wreath of dried flowers decorated the front door. It looked homey, a safe place. She swallowed her anxiety. After a deep, shaky breath, Hayley unfastened her seat belt and opened the car door. “I’ll call you. Thanks.”

Lydia put the car in reverse and smiled. “Have fun. See you later.”

Hayley reached to press the doorbell, but before she touched it, the door opened wide, framing a petite, smiling woman with short, brown hair. Nila, the friend she’d ignored for too long.

“Hayley, you’re here! Please, come in. Welcome to our home.” Nila’s face glowed. “I’m so glad you came.”

Hayley waved goodbye to Lydia, and then followed Nila inside.

“May I take your jacket?” Nila reached for a hanger from the coat closet. Her movement stretched her light blue sweater over her midsection, revealing a distinctive bulge.

Hayley forgot to breathe. Her knees buckled, and the room dimmed.

“Hayley?” Nila’s voice penetrated the mist, and the smaller woman’s arm around her waist kept her from falling.

Hayley forced her eyes open and pulled in a deep, shuddery breath. “S-sorry.”

With Nila supporting her, Hayley staggered to the dark brown couch and sank into its comfort.

She couldn’t look at her friend. She shouldn’t have come. Her eyes filled.

A light touch on her arm penetrated the gloom. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?” Nila knelt at her feet.

“No, I don’t need a doctor.” She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to run down her face. “And no, I’m not all right.” Hayley wiped her face on her sleeve and opened her eyes.

Nila’s eyes mirrored Hayley’s distress. “Talk to me. What’s wrong? Are you in pain? What can I do?”

She gritted her teeth and shook her head. What would Dr. Freemont say? You are strong. The past is gone; the future is God’s. Open yourself to friendship, new relationships. She slung her mental arm over her therapist’s assurances as though onto a life preserver. After several moments Hayley’s breath evened out, and her heartbeat settled. She accepted the tissue Nila offered and dried her face. “Just be my friend.”

Confusion showed on Nila’s face as she pushed herself to her feet. “I am your friend.” She paused, hand on hip. “And you know I understand heartaches.”

Their friendship had been forged in trauma that had resulted in injuries to both of them and the death of Nila’s ex-boyfriend. Hayley wondered at Nila’s obvious health and joy. There was no trace of the desperation that had forced her to kill her ex in self defense. How had she come so far?

Nila interrupted her musing. “At least let me get you something to drink. Would you prefer hot or cold?”

“Um…cold, I guess. Water’s fine, thanks.”

“Coming right up.” Nila paused. “Would you like to see the house? You’ve never been here, have you?”

A tentative smile warmed Hayley’s face. “No, I haven’t, and I’d love a tour. How long have you lived here?” She started to rise but was stopped by Nila’s hand on her shoulder.

“Just wait here while I get our drinks. You still look pale.” She tilted her head. “You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? Good thing I made cookies yesterday.”

By the time Nila returned with a tray bearing tall glasses of ice water and a plate of oatmeal cookies, Hayley had won the battle with her emotions by concentrating on her breathing. She accepted the offered snack with a smile and bit into a cookie. Her smile widened. “These are good. Thank you.”

Nila put the tray onto the coffee table and sank into the overstuffed plaid chair opposite Hayley. “You’re welcome. They’re Will’s favorite.”

The dreamy look in Nila’s eyes when she mentioned her husband stirred a pang of longing in Hayley. She pushed it away. “He’s a lucky man.”

Nila grinned, her smile lighting her whole face. “No, I’m the one who’s lucky.” She shook her head. “Not lucky…blessed. God is so good.” She caressed the gentle swell of her belly.

Regret surged, and Hayley stifled a moan. You are strong. Think about something else. She fixed her attention on the chrome and glass floor lamp beside Nila. It contrasted beautifully with the scraped oak hardwood floor. “Tell me about your home. I’ve been admiring your living room. Did you and Will do the updates?”

Nila smiled and set her glass on the half-wall beside her. “This was my first full reno as an apprentice carpenter, so it’s extra special. The house belonged to Daniel—you remember Will’s stepfather? When he married Will’s mom, Melody, Will moved in here.” She shifted, pulling her legs up onto the chair. “The plan had been for Daniel’s sister, Hannah, and her husband to live here when they retired from the mission field, but they decided to move to France, instead. Where her husband’s family lives.” She shrugged. “And the climate’s a lot milder, of course. Better for Hannah’s arthritis. So Daniel offered us a super deal, and we jumped at it.” She glanced at Hayley’s empty glass. “Would you like more water or another cookie?”

“No thanks. I’m ready for your tour, though.”

Hayley enjoyed Nila’s nostalgic anecdotes as they inspected the kitchen, dining room and basement. She admired the wedding ring quilt Melody had stitched for them and the colors Nila had chosen. Hayley leaned in the doorway of the master bedroom, as an unfamiliar but welcome sense of peace enveloped her.

“This is lovely. Your whole house is beautiful, and it suits you.”

“Thank you, but I saved the best for last.” She pulled her into the last room, next to the master bedroom, and gestured grandly. “The nursery.”

Hayley froze. The small bedroom had yellow walls, fluffy rag rugs on the hardwood floor, a glider chair in the corner, and a dark wood crib and change table. Pain lacerated her heart, and her face crumpled. She sank to the floor as shame and sorrow poured out of her.

Nila knelt beside her and rubbed her back. “Let it out, Hayley. Whatever it is, let it go. You’re not alone. God is here, and so am I.” Her words flowed like liquid honey, sweet and soothing.

When Hayley’s sobs eased into shuddering gasps, Nila helped her up and half-carried her back to the couch.

Hayley hunched forward, her head in her hands, regret shaking her whole body. The couch depressed beside her as Nila sat and resumed her soothing back massage. Hayley pulled away. “Don’t comfort me. I don’t deserve it.” The gloom of guilt pressed in hard. “I don’t deserve your friendship. I don’t even deserve to live.”

Nila’s hand stilled. “Why would you say that?”

The burden of guilt Hayley had carried for fourteen months ballooned and pressed against every pore until she couldn’t hold it in any longer. Hayley lifted anguished eyes and sobbed. “I-I killed my baby.”