That was how I described us.
And for three years, I had convinced myself it was enough.
Then the telephone rang.
I wiped my hands on a rag and checked the number.
Unknown caller.
Chicago area code.
Usually, I allowed unfamiliar calls to reach voicemail before my second cup of coffee.
But that morning I answered.
“Warren Auto Repair. Caleb speaking.”
A woman's voice came through.
“Hi. I'm sorry to bother you so early. Is this the mechanic on Ridgeway?”
Something about her voice made me pause.
It was soft.
A little nervous.
Almost familiar.
“That's me.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
I heard traffic in the background.
“My car broke down about three blocks from your garage. It's a blue Camaro, and I have a presentation downtown in less than two hours. I don't know what's wrong with it.”
“Where are you parked?”
She gave me the cross street.
I knew it.
A narrow stretch of road near a row of small office buildings.
“Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yes. I'm pulled over near the curb.”
“Good. Stay out of traffic. I'll be there in five minutes.”
She sounded surprised.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Thank you so much.”
I hung up, grabbed my jacket, and told my assistant mechanic, Marcus, where I was going.
Marcus Bell was forty-two, broad-shouldered, sharp-witted, and completely incapable of allowing an opportunity for teasing to pass unnoticed.
He had worked beside me for seven years and knew more about electrical faults than anyone I had ever met.
He looked up from a workbench.
“Another roadside rescue?”
“Camaro. Three blocks away.”
“Charge her for the callout.”
I smiled.
“I'll see what's wrong first.”
Marcus shook his head.
“That's what you said about the woman with the dead battery last week.”
“She was eighty-three.”
“And had a perfectly good credit card.”
“She also brought us cookies.”
Marcus pointed at me.
“Cookies don't pay insurance.”
I laughed.
He grinned.
Then his expression softened.
“How's Lily?”
“Better. Fever's coming down.”
“Your sister still watching her?”
“Until lunch. Then I'm taking over.”
Marcus nodded.
“Good.”
I grabbed my keys.
He called after me.
“And Caleb?”
I turned.
“If it's another rich person who thinks tightening a battery terminal is worth two hundred dollars, at least let them pay you fifty.”
I waved him off.
He laughed.