Blue Smoke

finding a woman who knew her way around the kitchen, but he’d gotten to be a good hand in there himself.
    He had his own business now. He patted the wheel of the truck as he got in. Goodnight’s Custom Carpentry. And together, he and Brad had bought, rehabbed and turned over a couple of small houses.
    He could still remember talking Brad into that first investment, pitching the sagging wreck of a house as a diamond in the rough. He had to give Brad credit for vision—or utter faith.

    He had to give his grandmother credit for trusting him enough to front some of the money. Which reminded him to call her when he got home, see if she needed him to fix anything around her house.
    He and Brad had worked like dogs, rehabbing that first house. They’d turned a good profit, repaid his grandmother plus interest. And reinvested the rest.
    When he took the time to think about it, to really think back, he had a dead boy to thank for where he was today. Why that event, the death of a virtual stranger, had changed his life he couldn’t be sure. But it had motivated him to stop drifting, to get moving.
    Josh, he thought now as he drove away from the Malloy house in Owen’s Mill. Mandy had been really broken up about it. And oddly enough, the fire and the kid’s death had been some of the elements that had cemented their friendship.
    Brad and . . . what the hell was her name? The little blonde who’d been the object of his friend’s intense desire back in those days. Carrie? Cathie? Shit, it didn’t matter. That hadn’t gone anywhere.
    Right now, Brad’s object was a spicy brunette who liked to salsa dance.
    But his own blonde—the one glimpsed at a party a lifetime ago—still cropped up in his mind now and then. He could still see that face, the tumble of curls, the little mole near her mouth.
    Gone, long gone, he reminded himself. He’d never known her name, the sound of her voice, her scent. Which was probably what made that memory, that feeling all the sweeter. She was whatever he wanted her to be.
    He streamed into traffic, decided everybody in Baltimore had opted to go to the grocery store after work. All it took was dire whispers of snow, and every mother’s son and daughter jammed the aisles. Maybe he could skip it, make due with what he had.
    Or just order in a pizza.
    He had to go over his drawings for another job, and the supply list for the house he and Brad had just settled on.
    His time was better spent . . .
    He glanced idly to his left as the traffic in his lane stopped.

    At first all he saw was a woman, a really pretty woman driving a dark blue Chevy Blazer. Lots of hair, curling hair the color of light caramel, springing out from under a black watch cap. She was tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in a way that told him she was keeping time to something on the radio. His was rocking with Springsteen’s “Growin’ Up.” And from the rhythm of her fingers, he thought she had the same station going.
    Funny.
    Entertained at the thought, he angled so he could get a better look at her face.
    And there she was. Dream Girl. The cheekbones, the curve of lips, the little mole.
    His mouth dropped open, and shock had him jerking, stalling his truck. She flicked a glance in his direction, and for a moment—a kind of breathless moment—those long, tawny eyes met his.
    And once again, the music stopped.
    He thought, Holy shit!, then she frowned, turned her head away. Drove off.
    “But, but, but—” His own stutter brought him back. He cursed himself, turned on the engine. But his lane was stuck, and hers was moving right along. Horns blasted irritably as he dragged off his seat belt, shoved open his door.
    He actually had the wild idea of running after her car. Just running down the street like a mental patient. But she was too far ahead. Too far, he thought, furious with himself, for him to even read her plate.
    “There you go again,” he murmured, and simply stood, horns blaring around him, as the first flakes of snow fell.
    A nyway, it was weird.” Reena leaned on the counter in the kitchen at Sirico’s, where her mother was back, manning the stove. “I mean he was really good-looking, if you discount the fact that his mouth was hanging open wide enough to catch a swarm of flies, and his eyes were bugged out like somebody’d just rammed a stick up his butt. I mean I could feel him staring at me, you know? And when I looked over, he’s like this.”

    Reena mimed the