His garage was neat, which impressed me. Garages tend to be catchalls, getting choked with everything except the cars they were meant to house. Not Wyatt's. To my right was a tool bench, with one of those big, red, multidrawered tool chests like mechanics have parked off to one side. An array of hammers, saws, and other guy stuff hung neatly on the pegboard wall. I stared at them, wondering if he knew what to do with all of them. Men and their toys. Huh.
"I have a hammer, too," I told him.
"I bet you do."
I hate being condescended to. You could tell he thought my hammer was nowhere in the ballpark with his collection. "It's pink."
He froze in the act of getting out of the car, staring at me with an appalled expression. "That's perverted. That's just not right."
"Oh, please. There's no law that says a tool has to be ugly."
"Tools aren't ugly. They're strong and functional. They look like they mean business. They aren't pink."
"Mine is, and it's just as good as yours. It isn't as big, but it does the job. I bet you're against women joining the police force, too, aren't you?"
"Of course not. What does that have to do with a friggin' pink hammer?"
"Women are mostly prettier than men and mostly not as big, but that doesn't mean they can't get the job done, does it?"
"We're talking hammers here, not people!" He got out of the car and slammed the door, then stalked around to my side.
I opened the door and raised my voice so he could hear me. "I think your aversion to a tool that's attractive as well as functional-mmmph." I glared at him over the hand he'd clapped over my mouth.
"Give it a rest. We'll argue about hammers when you don't look like you're about to fall over." He raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for me to agree, and he kept his hand over my mouth while he waited.
Disgruntled, I nodded, and he removed his hand, then released my seat belt and gently lifted me out of the car. He hadn't thought this through, because if he had, he would have unlocked the door leading into the house before he picked me up, but he handled it with only a little juggling. I couldn't help him because my right arm was trapped between my body and his, and my left arm was useless. Tomorrow I would be able to use it a little, but I knew from experience that right after a trauma the damaged muscle just refuses to work.
He got me inside, turning on light switches with his elbow, and deposited me in a chair in a breakfast nook. "Don't try to get up for any reason. I'll get the bags out of the car, then carry you wherever you want to go."
He disappeared down the short hallway that led into the garage, and I wondered if the doctor had told him something about my condition that hadn't been passed along to me, because I was perfectly capable of walking. Yes, I had gone all woozy in the car, but that was because I'd hit my arm. Other than feeling a little shaky-and my arm hurting like blue blazes-I was okay. The shaky feeling would be gone tomorrow, because this was how I always felt when I gave blood. It wasn't even bad shaky, just a little shaky. So what was up with the "Don't try to get up for any reason?"
Hah! The phone.
I looked around and saw an actual corded phone hanging on the wall, with a really long cord that would reach anywhere in the kitchen. Please. Why not just get a cordless? The units are so much more attractive.
I already had the number dialed and it was ringing by the time Wyatt, carrying both bags, reappeared at the other end of the little hallway. I gave him a "you didn't fool me" smirk, and he rolled his eyes.
"Daddy," I said when Dad answered the phone. I call him Daddy when I mean business, sort of like using someone's full name. "Just what did you say to Wyatt that he thinks is the secret to handling me? How could you?" I was in full indignant wail by the time I finished.
Dad burst out laughing. "It's okay, baby." He calls all of us baby because, well, we did used to be his babies. He never calls Mom that, though. Uh-uh. He knows better. "It's nothing that'll undermine you; it was just something he needed to know right now."
"Like what?"
"He'll tell you."
"Probably not. He's stubborn that way."
"No, he'll tell you this. I promise."
"You'll beat him up for me if he doesn't?" That was an old Dad-joke, that he'd beat up any man who made any of his girls unhappy. That's why I didn't tell him about Jason kissing Jenni, because I figured in that case he would really do it.
"No, but I'll beat him up if he hurts you."
Reassured, I said good-bye and turned to find Wyatt leaning against the cabinets with his arms crossed, regarding me with amusement. "He didn't tell you, did he?"
"He said you would, and that he'd beat you up if you didn't." So I stretched the truth a little. Wyatt hadn't been able to hear what Dad had actually said.
"It wasn't anything bad." Straightening, he went to the refrigerator. "How about some breakfast? That's the fastest thing I can do. Eggs, bacon, toast."
"That sounds great. What can I do to help?"
"With that arm, not much. Sit down and stay out of the way. That'll be a big help."
I sat, and looked around the breakfast nook and kitchen while he got out what he needed and started the bacon cooking in the microwave. To my surprise, the kitchen looked kind of old. The appliances were top-notch and fairly new and there was an island with a cooktop occupied the center, but the room itself had that solid, established feel to it.
"How old is this house?"
"Turn of the century. The last century. So it's a little over a hundred years old. It was a farmhouse, and it's been remodeled a couple of times. When I bought it, I did a major remodeling, tore down some interior walls, opened it up for a more modern look, added a couple of bathrooms. There are three bathrooms upstairs, a half bath down here. It's a nice-size house, a little over three thousand square feet. I'll show you around tomorrow."