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you better pray your housework is done." Saliva frothed at the corner of his mouth. "A good wife knows her place."
    Jamie stood on her toes. Her eyes darted wildly back and forth. "You're hurting me," she mumbled through Blanchart's grasp.
    "Can you be a good wife for me? Can you?"
    Jamie nodded.
    "I can't hear you."
    "Yes," Jamie squeaked through fish lips.
    Blanchart let go. "I'm going out of town for a few days. Can I trust you while I'm gone?"
    Jamie wiped the smeared mascara on her teary face. "Of course."
    Blanchart brushed his hand against her hair. "Cancel the pool service. You can manage the pool by yourself from now on." He touched the stitches on his hand and made a fist. "And make sure you wash your car when I'm gone. It looks like shit in my garage."

 
     
     
    Chapter 7

     
    Lloyd nestled a rebuilt carburetor in his palm, admiring his handiwork like a transplant surgeon inspecting an artificial heart. He rubbed a clean rag over the aluminum body to remove any excess solvent and chose a box-end wrench from his late father's roll-away toolbox. Every tool served a specific purpose, and every tool had a place inside its designated drawer.
    He installed the carburetor on a '74 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. Despite decades of technological improvements lavished on newer models, the antique 750cc British bike had soul. And unlike similar rides, it distinguished itself as a bike that liked to be ridden hard, a trait his father often indulged.
    With the carburetor remounted, he unclipped the overnight charger from the battery terminals and turned the ignition key to the on position. The headlight glowed pale yellow inside the single, foggy lens mounted beneath the chrome handlebars.
    "You're still here," Brenda said in a raspy voice. She entered the garage in the same clothes she'd worn the night before. "How long have you been up?"
    "Since dawn," said Lloyd.
    "Why?"
    Lloyd notched the shifter in neutral. "I guess old habits die hard."
    Brenda scratched the back of her head. "That bike hasn't started in years."
    "Have a little faith," Lloyd replied.
    "I should have sold it when I had the chance."
    "But you couldn't."
    Brenda shrugged. She maintained her sodden expression. "It meant too much to your father. He spent more time with his bike than he did with me."
    Lloyd pressed the starter button on the right handlebar, a custom feature his father added to replace the original kick-start system.
    The parallel twin motor cranked through several revolutions, coughing and sputtering before the air-fuel mixture ignited inside the cylinders and sent a muffled roar from the polished chrome exhaust.
    Lloyd cracked the throttle.
    The motor revved, filling the back of the garage with blue-gray smoke.
    Brenda covered her mouth with her sleeve and pressed the garage door opener to evacuate the fumes. "How long are you going to tinker with that thing?"
    Lloyd killed the motor. "Until I'm finished."
    "Your father never rode it much."
    "That's what he wanted you to think," Lloyd said sheepishly. "He rode it all the time when you were gone to visit family."
    Brenda unscrewed her flask. Her cheeks were flush. "He always was a sneaky bastard. I suppose he would have wanted you to have it."
    Lloyd wiped down the tools and placed them in their respective drawers. He wiped his hands with a rag and pointed at the back wall where dust and cobwebs collected on the floor. "What happened to the rest of Dad's stuff?"
    "I sold it."
    "What about his car?"
    "This house doesn't run on charity." Brenda gave Lloyd an envelope with his name written in block letters on the front. "Your father wanted to mail this to you, but he never got the chance."
    Lloyd folded the envelop and stuffed it in his pocket.
    "Aren't you going to open it?" Brenda asked.
    "My hands are dirty."
    Brenda scratched her neck.
    "You feel all right?" asked Lloyd. He figured the smell of solvents wasn't helping her hangover.
    "I'm dandy. It's you I'm worried about after all these