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Authors: Crystal Hubbard
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Krasco family for fifty-five years. It was so authentic, in fact, that Zander’s stomach had twisted a little bit upon walking through the door and inhaling the aroma of fried meat and onions cooked on an open grill. The scent reminded him so much of his years spent at Red Irv’s, and it reminded him of nothing good.
Except for Faith.
There was no doubt Olivia had been a godsend. In the years since that first meeting, Olivia Baxter had taken control and given him a life he had never imagined.
He’d made his way from Dorothy to Los Angeles a few bucks at a time, hitchhiking when he dared, walking when he didn’t. Finding work had never been any trouble, but keeping it proved problematic when he couldn’t provide a social security card or any ID other than an expired out-of-state driver’s license.
He was Alex Brannon back then, and home was a pay-by-the-hour or -week motel. He’d been earning a meager living as a part-time mechanic and day laborer when he had run into Olivia—literally.
One of the few perks of working for a custom garage in Los Angeles was delivering cars to their owners once the work on them was completed. On a clear and sunny June day, he’d been cruising along Roxbury Drive in a champagne-silver Jaguar belonging to an actress when Olivia Baxter, her face partially concealed by oversized Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, shot out of the driveway of a big Tudor house hidden behind birch trees.
Alex hit the brakes, managing to lessen the Jaguar’s impact on the front passenger door of her white Mustang convertible, spinning it in a half circle. Shock, embarrassment and fury sent him into the wide, tree-lined street, where he shouted at Olivia.
With her benevolent yet playful smile and perfectly coiffed hair, Olivia reminded him of actress Betty White, and for a moment, he’d thought he had crashed into a Golden Girl .
To her credit, Olivia had calmly exited her car and leaned against it, her steely gaze dissecting him as he had ranted about cats, women and how neither should ever be allowed behind the wheel of a car.
When she reached into her damaged car to retrieve her handbag, Alex was sure she was about to give him her license and insurance information, which pressed his panic button. The garage paid him under the table, and he was driving uninsured on an expired license. If he’d been alone he might have wept at the irony of a day that had started so beautifully finishing with him in jail—the very place most people in Dorothy had expected him to end up.
But instead of accident information, Olivia had flipped out a thick cream-white business card pinched between her impeccably manicured index and middle fingers.
“Call me,” she had said, pressing the card into his hand.
The black crescent of his thumbnail stood out starkly against the pristine white card, which read:
Olivia Baxter
Founder & President
Baxter Publicity and Promotions
In the lower corners of the card were phone, fax and cellphone numbers newly smeared with traces of automotive grime from his fingers.
“The accident was my fault,” Olivia had said with the same concern she might have shown in reporting the time. “Once your boss calms down after you tell him what happened to Robia Hart’s Jaguar, have him call me and we’ll work out the arrangements for the repair of the car.”
Alex looked up from the card. “How did you know who this car belonged to?”
“Robia Hart is one of my clients,” Olivia said, smiling serenely. “She bought that car with the paycheck from her first film. I look forward to hearing from you, Octavio.”
“Hey, lady, my name isn’t—” But Olivia had started her car, spun her wheels, and peeled out of sight.
Tucking the card into a front pocket of his borrowed jumper, Alex circled the vehicle, inspecting the damage. The front of the Jag was scratched and dented, but the Mustang had come off the worse for its encounter with the British import. The vanity license plate Alex
Except for Faith.
There was no doubt Olivia had been a godsend. In the years since that first meeting, Olivia Baxter had taken control and given him a life he had never imagined.
He’d made his way from Dorothy to Los Angeles a few bucks at a time, hitchhiking when he dared, walking when he didn’t. Finding work had never been any trouble, but keeping it proved problematic when he couldn’t provide a social security card or any ID other than an expired out-of-state driver’s license.
He was Alex Brannon back then, and home was a pay-by-the-hour or -week motel. He’d been earning a meager living as a part-time mechanic and day laborer when he had run into Olivia—literally.
One of the few perks of working for a custom garage in Los Angeles was delivering cars to their owners once the work on them was completed. On a clear and sunny June day, he’d been cruising along Roxbury Drive in a champagne-silver Jaguar belonging to an actress when Olivia Baxter, her face partially concealed by oversized Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, shot out of the driveway of a big Tudor house hidden behind birch trees.
Alex hit the brakes, managing to lessen the Jaguar’s impact on the front passenger door of her white Mustang convertible, spinning it in a half circle. Shock, embarrassment and fury sent him into the wide, tree-lined street, where he shouted at Olivia.
With her benevolent yet playful smile and perfectly coiffed hair, Olivia reminded him of actress Betty White, and for a moment, he’d thought he had crashed into a Golden Girl .
To her credit, Olivia had calmly exited her car and leaned against it, her steely gaze dissecting him as he had ranted about cats, women and how neither should ever be allowed behind the wheel of a car.
When she reached into her damaged car to retrieve her handbag, Alex was sure she was about to give him her license and insurance information, which pressed his panic button. The garage paid him under the table, and he was driving uninsured on an expired license. If he’d been alone he might have wept at the irony of a day that had started so beautifully finishing with him in jail—the very place most people in Dorothy had expected him to end up.
But instead of accident information, Olivia had flipped out a thick cream-white business card pinched between her impeccably manicured index and middle fingers.
“Call me,” she had said, pressing the card into his hand.
The black crescent of his thumbnail stood out starkly against the pristine white card, which read:
Olivia Baxter
Founder & President
Baxter Publicity and Promotions
In the lower corners of the card were phone, fax and cellphone numbers newly smeared with traces of automotive grime from his fingers.
“The accident was my fault,” Olivia had said with the same concern she might have shown in reporting the time. “Once your boss calms down after you tell him what happened to Robia Hart’s Jaguar, have him call me and we’ll work out the arrangements for the repair of the car.”
Alex looked up from the card. “How did you know who this car belonged to?”
“Robia Hart is one of my clients,” Olivia said, smiling serenely. “She bought that car with the paycheck from her first film. I look forward to hearing from you, Octavio.”
“Hey, lady, my name isn’t—” But Olivia had started her car, spun her wheels, and peeled out of sight.
Tucking the card into a front pocket of his borrowed jumper, Alex circled the vehicle, inspecting the damage. The front of the Jag was scratched and dented, but the Mustang had come off the worse for its encounter with the British import. The vanity license plate Alex
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