“Why tell me?”
Vivienne answered.
“Because yesterday you could have charged me anything.”
“You didn’t know who I was.”
“I was alone.”
“Afraid.”
“You had every advantage.”
“And you didn’t use one.”
Caleb looked uncomfortable.
Helena watched him.
“My daughter believes that matters.”
“It does,” she added.
“But that isn’t why I brought six vehicles to your neighborhood at sunrise.”
Caleb glanced at street.
“Thank you for clarifying.”
Sofia covered a laugh.
Helena’s mouth almost moved.
“I want you to inspect six randomly selected vehicles.”
“No Calloway records first.”
“No information except mileage.”
“You tell me what you see.”
Caleb stared.
“I don’t have a shop.”
“We have one.”
“At the resort maintenance depot.”
“I have jobs today.”
“We pay you.”
“That isn’t problem.”
“What is?”
Caleb looked toward neighbors.
Russ Calloway’s house sat three blocks away.
News would reach him before breakfast.
Caleb had spent years avoiding open war.
Not because afraid of Russ.
Because small towns remembered conflict longer than facts.
Helena read the hesitation.
“This is not charity.”
“I didn’t say.”
“You thought.”
Vivienne smiled slightly.
Caleb glanced at her.
Helena continued.
“I am hiring expertise.”
“You may say no.”
“Nothing changes about yesterday.”
That mattered.
Caleb looked toward Sofia.
She whispered:
“Electric bill.”
He stared.
Sofia shrugged.
Helena pretended not to hear.
Caleb sighed.
“Six vehicles.”
“Six.”
“Paid hourly.”
“Name your rate.”
He hesitated.
“Seventy-five.”
Helena’s eyebrows rose.
“Too high?”
“No.”
“Too low.”
Caleb frowned.
“My company pays independent diagnostic specialists one hundred fifty.”
“I’m not—”
“If you charge less because your truck is ugly, that is not my problem.”
Sofia laughed out loud.
Caleb stared at Helena.
Then smiled despite himself.
“One hundred.”
“One twenty-five.”
“Why are you negotiating upward?”
“Because if you undercharge me, accounting will assume I did it.”
Vivienne covered her smile.
Caleb looked at all three women.
“I am outnumbered.”
Sofia nodded.
“You usually are.”
He accepted.
By eight-thirty, everybody in Millbrook Falls knew.
By nine, Russ Calloway called.
Caleb looked at phone.
Did not answer.
It rang again.
Then again.
Finally he picked up.
“Caleb.”
Russ did not bother greeting.
“What the hell are Vale cars doing at your house?”
“Good morning.”
“Don’t.”
“You trying to take my contract?”
“No.”
“Then why is Helena Vale on your porch?”