Be My Valentine by Debbie Macomber Page B

sacks.
    â€œIt’s been three days,” Jill said. “Shouldn’t you have heard from Steve by now?”
    â€œIf he doesn’t phone you, then you should call him,” Jason insisted. “Girls do that sort of thing all the time now, no matter what Grandma says.”
    â€œI…” Dianne looked for an escape. Of course there wasn’t one.
    â€œHere’s his card,” Jason said, taking it from the corner of the bulletin board. “Call him.”
    Dianne stared at the raised red lettering. Port Blossom Towing, it said, with the phone number in large numbers below. In the corner, in smaller, less-pronounced lettering, was Steve’s name, followed by one simple word: owner.
    Dianne’s heart plummeted and she closed her eyes. He’d really meant it when he said he had never intentionally misled her. He assumed she knew, and with good reason. The business card he’d given her spelled it out. Only she hadn’t noticed…
    â€œMom.” Jason’s voice fragmented her introspection.
    She opened her eyes to see her son and daughter staring up at her, their eyes, so like her own, intent and worried.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Jill wanted to know.
    â€œW.A.R.”
    â€œAerobics?” Jason said. “What for?”
    â€œI need it,” Dianne answered. And she did. She’d learned long ago that when something was weighing on her, heavy-duty exercise helped considerably. It cleared her mind. She didn’t enjoy it, exactly; pain rarely thrilled her. But the aerobics classes at the community center had seen her through more than one emotional trauma. If she hurried, she could be there for the last session of the afternoon.
    â€œKids, put those groceries away for me, will you?” she said, heading for the stairs, yanking the sweater over her head as she raced. The buttons on her blouse were too time-consuming, so she peeled that over her head the moment she entered the bedroom, closing the door with her foot.
    In five minutes flat, she’d changed into her leotard, kissed the kids and was out the door. She had a small attack of guilt when she pulled out of the driveway and glanced back to see both her children standing on the porch looking dejected.
    The warm-up exercises had already begun when Dianne joined the class. For the next hour she leapt, kicked, bent and stretched, doing her best to keep up with everyone else. By the end of the session, she was exhausted—and no closer to deciding whether or not to phone Steve.
    With a towel draped around her neck, she walked out to her car. Her cardiovascular system might’ve been fine, but nothing else about her was. She searched through her purse for her keys and then checked her coat pocket.
    Nothing.
    Dread filled her. Framing the sides of her face with her hands, she peered inside the car. There, innocently poking out of the ignition, were her keys.

Ten
    â€œJ ason,” Dianne said, closing her eyes in thanks that it was her son who’d answered the phone and not Jill. Her daughter would have plied her with questions and more advice than “Dear Abby.”
    â€œHi, Mom. I thought you were at aerobics.”
    â€œI am, and I may be here a whole lot longer if you can’t help me out.” Without a pause, she continued, “I need you to go upstairs, look in my underwear drawer and bring me the extra set of car keys.”
    â€œThey’re in your underwear drawer?”
    â€œYes.” It was the desperate plan of a desperate woman. She didn’t dare contact the auto club this time for fear they’d send Port Blossom Towing to the rescue in the form of one Steve Creighton.
    â€œYou don’t expect me to paw through your, uh, stuff, do you?”
    â€œJason, listen to me, I’ve locked my keys in the car, and I don’t have any other choice.”
    â€œYou locked your keys in the car? Again? What’s with you lately,