Her Great Expectations by Joan Kilby

truck.”
    “Excellent,” Jack said, nodding. “Steve’s brought over his lathe and I have a circular saw, so we should have woodworking covered. Bob, what’s your specialty?”
    Bob shrugged beefy shoulders colorfully decorated with dragons and pouncing eagles. “Dunno.”
    “Do you have any hobbies?”
    “Making beer.”
    Over the chuckles of the other men, Jack said, “I’m not sure the PTO will let us raffle off alcohol, even to help the kids.”
    Bob smoothed the soul patch beneath his bottom lip with a calloused thumb. “I learned how to make fighter kites in prison.”
    “Nothing dangerous,” Jack said.
    “No worries,” Bob said cheerfully. “I’ll leave the metal knives and ground glass off the kite string.”
    “O-kay, you can give that a go.” Jack turned to Paul. “What about you—any hobbies?”
    “Polo—” He broke off as Bob sniggered. “Do you have a problem?”
    “Polo? Pah-don me.” Bob put on an exaggerated English accent. “I didn’t know we had royalty in the shed.”
    “Cool it,” Jack said sharply and threw Bob a warning glance. “Do you know anything about bikes?” he asked Paul.
    “I cycle around the bay from Brighton to Mount Eliza every Sunday morning.” The ex-executive’s face brightened as he spoke.
    “You’re one of those wankers in Italian Lycra who ride in a pack and clog up the highway on your ten-thousand-dollar bikes,” Bob muttered.
    “We’re not all wankers, as you so crudely put it. Some of us are serious riders.” Paul turned to Jack. “Why do you ask about bikes?”
    In the background Bob mincingly mimed “serious riders” to Ralph, who frowned back at him. Paul noticed. A muscle in his jaw ticked and he reached into his pocket. Jack heard a metallic clink and then he saw that the guy had two small steel balls in his palm, rolling them.
    Ignoring Bob, Jack explained, “A couple of used kids’ bikes have been donated, but they need refurbishing. Do you think you can do that?”
    “Yes,” Paul said. Clink, clink.
    “Let’s get started,” Jack said before Bob could make any more comments. “Steve and Ralph, take the long section of the workbench. Bob, we’ll clear a space at the far end, next to my electronics. Paul, why not spread out the bicycle parts on the floor over by the ultralight? I’ll lend you a pair of overalls. I’ll get them and be back in a minute. You boys play nice while I’m gone.”
    Jack crunched down the driveway and up the path to his house, Bogie at his heels. “Thank God I only agreed to do this temporarily,” he muttered to the golden retriever. “We’ll make a few toys, raise some money and then I’ll resume normal programming. Sound good? It does to me.”
    Bogie nudged his hand with a cool moist nose. Jack took that as a sign he agreed and stroked the soft golden fur. Dogs were pretty darn smart.
    “Do you always talk to your dog?” a woman asked, laughing.
    “Sienna?” He looked over his shoulder.
    There was no one there.
    This was weird. She’d invaded his peace with her plans and her projects, spurring him into action. Now he was hearing her voice when she wasn’t there. He’d hate to think what a shrink would make of that.
    He hadn’t been able to help flirting with her the other day while out running. She looked good in her T-shirt and jogging pants. Approachable. Sexy.
    But he couldn’t fall for a woman who regarded work as some kind of religion, a woman who would never be happy with him for who he was.
    Walking faster, as if he could escape his thoughts, he let himself into the house and went through the kitchen, along the hall and into his bedroom, Bogie dogging his footsteps.
    Jack slid open the closet door and rummaged through the back of the shelves among the piles of folded sweatshirts and blue jeans until he found a pair of old overalls. As he pulled them out, he knocked over a shoe box hidden among the clothes. Postcards spilled out.
    His heart twisted. He thought he’d gotten