A Father's Name(7)

“Yeah, well, you live what you learn. You’re the queen of hard work. Lou said that you didn’t take a lunch break again and he suspects you were working after hours last night. I’m supposed to see to it that you pack it in and call it a day, even if it’s early. And Grandpa said to come over to his house. He cooked.”

Tucker realized her father’s dinner invitation was a peace offering even as she groaned. “Oh, Bart, I’m so sorry. I’m a bad, bad mother. I mean, subjecting you to your grandfather’s cooking is nothing short of torture.”

“Hey, it’s okay. He went to Wegman’s and bought some macaroni salad and there’s tossed salad to go with the steak he’s grilling.”

“Phew.” She wiped her brow with exaggerated relief. “Oh, why didn’t you say so? That’s edible and qualifies me for at least fair-to-middling mom.”

Bart kissed her cheek. “I think you’re higher than that. Not much maybe, but higher than middling,” he joked. “Come on, let’s go get you fed.”

Tucker got up off the floor and studied the bike. It had an RC car on it. Not her first choice for painting, but Mr. Paradisi had three great loves: his motorcycle, his RC car club and his family. He said the pecking order changed daily. “What do you think?”

“I think the Paradisis will be thrilled. You made an RC car look cool. And I love how you worked the gas cap into the remote control picture.”

“Yeah, I thought that was inspired, too. “

They walked out to the front garage and Lou slapped Bart’s back. “Figured you’d talk her out of her hidey-hole. Now, on to supper, boy.”

Tucker loved seeing the guys interact with her son. Bart might not have had a father in the picture growing up, but he had her father, and the guys at the shop. It seemed to be enough for him.

He grinned at the older man. “Sure thing, Lou.”

“Hey, how’s the new guy?” Tucker asked.

“He did a great job today. Knows his way around cars, that’s for sure.”

Tucker couldn’t help but wonder why a guy who knew his way around cars felt the need to have someone else service his vehicles all these years. Even things as simple as new spark plugs or oil changes. It didn’t make sense. She glanced at her son. “Let me check in with him, then we can go. Want to meet him?”

“Sure.”

She found Tyler Martinez underneath a 1953 Volkswagen Beetle. She’d always referred to him as Mr. Martinez when he was a customer, but now that he was an employee, that sounded odd, so she called, “Tyler?”

His creeper zipped out from under the car and Tyler smiled for a minute, then his expression froze when he spotted her. “Yes?”



“I wanted to introduce you to my son. Spencer Tucker, otherwise known as Bart, this is Tyler Martinez, the garage’s newest employee.”

“You can call me Spencer,” Bart told him. “Everyone in the real world does…it’s only here in Mom’s mystic workplace that my childhood nickname still haunts me.”

“That’s because you are not a Spencer,” Tucker assured him. She enjoyed falling into their old argument. “I mean, I thought you were when you were born. I looked down and thought, Spencer. But I was wrong. You’re a Bart, through and through.”

“And that, Mr. Martinez, is why you might as well call me Bart, too. Because Mom will pretend not to know who you’re talking about if you call me Spencer. Just like she doesn’t know who you’re talking to if you call her Angelina.” He singsonged her name and laughed as she scowled.

“And that’s the problem with giving babies names at birth. They’re not fully developed. They’re tiny little blobs of humanity. A good name—a true name—tends to become apparent within the first few years. I’m Tucker, he’s Bart. Do you have a nickname?”

“No. Tyler is fine.”

Tucker noted that Tyler wasn’t enjoying her banter with Bart. His face was frozen into an expression of polite interest, but it was apparent he was anything but.

Not for the first time, she felt foolish in front of him. “Well, we’re heading out. See you in the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tucker,” she assured him. “Not ma’am.”

“Or Angelina,” Bart said, still kidding around.

“No.” She tossed her son a motherly glare of warning. “It’s simply Tucker.”