"It's sort of a rattling," Ethel says. "You know, I had a Honda for years and it never gave me any problems, but then I got in an accident last year and I had to buy an old Toyota because the Honda dealership closed down—"
She launches into a story about her late husband, who didn't get along with the owner of the Toyota dealership, and how she can see why, because her new car isn't half as reliable as her old one. I can feel John growing irritated beside me. And okay, yes, this story is going on a bit long, but she's a nice old woman. There's no need for him to frown at her like that.
"I'll take a look," he says pessimistically, when she finally peters off. "Are your keys in the car?"
"No, I've got them here." Ethel rummages through her purse.
"Will it take very long? I've got bridge at three."
"Depends what's wrong," John says, then heads off without offering any more information. I scowl at his back.
"Would you like me to call you a taxi so you can wait at home?" I ask Ethel.
"Oh, no, dear. I'll just wait here, if that's all right?" She eyes the tiny space. It's basically just my desk and four ugly plastic chairs.
"I don't want to be a bother."
I smile at her, feeling a spark of warmth in the center of my chest. "It isn't a bother at all."
CHAPTER TWO
Since we're being honest with each other, I'll tell you another little secret: I don't really have any close friends. It's pretty embarrassing to admit it, but there you go.
I don't mean that I don't have friends. I do have friends. I have three friends from university I still chat to regularly, and a decent amount of high school and childhood acquaintances that I occasionally touch base with. But none of them are close friends. You know the kind I mean. Those magical adult friendships you see in shows and movies, the ones who go to brunch together and share all their secrets and would help each other bury the body if they killed someone.
None of my university friends live within a thousand kilometers of me, so there's no chance of brunch dates, and if I killed someone, the police probably would've caught me by the time they showed up. Or the family of the person I killed would have murdered me for vengeance.
Okay, I've taken this to a bit of a dark place.
Sorry about that.
The thing is, if you think about the ways adults make close friends, it's usually through work or through their kids. Or maybe through some shared interest, like a book club or sport or something, but there just aren't a lot of opportunities for socialization in Waldon. So when I get customers like Ethel who have to hang around while they wait for a service, I really do enjoy it. Especially when they're older, which most people in Waldon are. Older people love to have a chat. Most people think it's boring to listen to them, but that's probably because they don't ask the right questions. You wouldn't believe what you can learn if you ask the right questions! Like Ethel, for example. She just told me she was born in 1948, and that she still remembers watching the moon landing with her husband and children in their first home. She made onion dip and they had Chicken à la King for dinner (no, I don't know what it is either).
I do some quick math and calculate that she was twenty-one when the moon landing happened. At twenty-one, she had a husband and children and a home. When I was twenty-one, I'd just broken up with my first serious boyfriend and spent a month drinking wine in bed and binging Netflix.
Yikes.
Ethel is there for nearly an hour, and I think she enjoys the time as much as I do. She looks disappointed when John returns, and downright devastated when he says, "You'll have to come back tomorrow. Suspension's worn out."
Ethel stares at him blankly. John never bothers explaining things to customers, he just assumes they know as much about cars as he does.
"Can you fix it?" she asks.
John nods without looking at her, absently wiping his greasy hands on an even greasier rag. "Not today. Come back tomorrow."
I almost roll my eyes. Honestly, can't he say it a bit more apologetically? Poor Ethel's brow crinkles right up and I just know she's worrying about missing her bridge club. I'm actually thinking of offering to drive her there myself when she sighs and says, "Oh, well. I suppose I'll have to go with Shirley or Dotty."
"Would you like to use our phone to call them?" I ask. "We've got a phone book."
Ethel laughs. "I don't need a phone book. Their numbers haven't changed in forty years!"
My smile is a bit hollow as I hand her the cordless phone. Even Ethel has close friends. If she murders someone at bridge club, Shirley and Dotty will help her bury the body and then drive her back home to share some Chicken à la King.
