Driving Miss Darcy

by Gigi Blume

  She half-laughed, not in a good way.

  I went on. “Some people just need a high five. In the face. With a chair.”

  That at least earned me an eye roll.

  “I’m a simpleton. I’m the mayor of Simpleton. And I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t ready to speak. There was still a lot of anger in the air. But she breathed a heavy sigh, staring at the ground thoughtfully. Most likely agreeing with me.

  I found another milk crate and set myself down next to her. It was confession time. Ever since I moved to New York I painted myself up as a clown. It was a facade mostly to fool myself. A way to bury the ever-present stress of a starving artist. A way to avoid the disheartening fear of failure. That maybe if I ignored the rejections, I might be able to make it one day. And make my parents proud.

  My thoughts turned to the gig in LA. I knew it was a risk—packing all my worldly possessions in a suitcase to chase a Hollywood gossip story. That’s not what I was about. I had dreams of selling a spec script. Not selling my soul to a click farm. But my friend assured me the whole thing was super low profile. No press. And I was desperate for the cash.

  I laced my fingers together and rested my elbows on my knees. Contrite as could be. “It was stupid of me to stand up to the robbers like that.”

  “Ya think?”

  Sharp. Sarcastic. Biting. I’d take that over the silent treatment.

  “That was everything I owned. The stuff they took. It’s funny how feral you can get when you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  She turned her head to me a tiny bit. “What do you mean, everything you owned?”

  I flipped up my palms. “It’s just how it sounds. My roommate got a cat. Hated dogs. His apartment. His rules. My loss. So I packed up, emptied my bank account, and got on a plane.” I made an airplane gesture with my hand to illustrate.

  Georgia considered my words for a moment before saying, “You mean those bags...that was all your stuff in the world?”

  I nodded. “I mean, I left some things behind at my parent’s house. A beat-up guitar I play poorly. My old baseball cards. A bowling ball.”

  She was silent for some time, I supposed trying to wrap her brain around my plight. My circumstances must have sounded extreme. So far removed from her world. But I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I just wanted her to understand.

  “So that’s why I put up a fight. I didn’t think about you or anyone else in that diner. So I’m sorry. Also the robbers ate my pancakes, so...”

  A smile cracked on her features. “And you go crazy when you’re hungry?”

  “Something like that.”

  She cast her eyes down, passing the jar of gooseberry jam back and forth between her hands.

  “I’m sorry I called you a moron.”

  “Nope. I deserved that. I’m sorry I insulted your...richness.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “See, I liked a girl in college who came from money. A daddy’s girl. But she was pure evil. I guess those old feelings came flooding back. It’s no excuse but I’m sorry just the same.”

  “What makes you think I’m rich?”

  I ticked my fingers. “College student. First class seat. American Express black card. Loads of cash. It’s a wild guess.”

  “Graduate student. And I’m not a daddy’s girl.” She ran her thumb across the label on the jam jar with a hint of lonesome recollection. “I’m an orphan.”

  Then she quickly added, “Orphan, someone who has lost their parents. Not often frequently.”

  I blinked at her. “You know that joke only works with an English accent.”

  And just like that, she cracked up. My heart felt a thousand pounds lighter and for that tiny suspended moment in time, the world felt right. Everything was going to work out just fine.

  Until the manager poked his head outside to announce the police had arrived. Then everything shifted.

  We went inside and waited our turn to make a statement. I heard one of the officers flippantly declare, “This sort of thing happens in these parts every year at Christmas time.”

  Every. Year.

  One would think somebody would get wise after all this time and hire a security guard. But the officers took statement after statement with bored expressions.

  Then they got to me. Wrote down my full name. Wyatt Boyd Silva. The cops chuckled when the restaurant manager told them of my stupidity. So I informed them the robbers had paintball guns and grinned with a healthy dose of satisfaction.

  Boo-yah.

  Then they moved on to Georgia. Wrote down her full name. And my heart sank.

  Georgia Marie Darcy.

  Darcy. It wasn’t a common surname. It was akin to the likes of Presley or Disney or Barrymore. It was an elite name. A famous name.

  I tried to reason with my clouded brain that maybe her name was more common than I’d thought. But the clues were there all along. And when the officers grilled her about it, my suspicions were confirmed.

  “Yes,” she said with trepidation. “He’s my brother. Please don’t leak this to the press.”

  She uttered the word ‘press’ with definitive ire, like it was poison on her lips. She hated the press.

  But I was the press. A slime ball in her eyes. The guy with the inside scoop on the biggest secret in Hollywood. Will Darcy’s hush-hush wedding.

  My exclusive story.

  My throat swelled. My palms clammed up. I was feverish all over with dread.

  Just my luck.

  The girl I started to have feelings for was Will Darcy’s little sister.

  CHAPTER TWELVE - GEORGIA

  Wyatt was uncharacteristically quiet as we finally left the restaurant. Sure, he’d just been robbed of virtually everything he owned, but a tiny bit of luck did shine down upon him, so I figured he’d be a little more chipper. Turned out, in all the hubaloo, and in an effort to get outta there before the cops showed up, the robbers overlooked Wyatt’s camera which was tucked under a counter, plugged into the power socket. Hooray for small miracles.

  We made our way back to the highway much later than we’d originally planned. Reeses trotted along at our feet wagging his tail, happy as a clam. Completely oblivious. To him it was just another day in the life of the most adorable Jack Russell terrier in the world.

  “I guess we missed the bus,” I said.

  Wyatt continued in silence.

  “Do you suppose another one will come along?”

  He only responded with a grunt. I hadn’t bothered to ask anyone about busses back in the diner—seeing as how they all wished they could slip arsenic in our to-go cups. The only reason we got free sodas to go was because they were handing them out to everybody. We weren’t special. In fact, everyone just wanted us to leave already.

  We reached the spot where the bus had dropped us off earlier. I didn’t have a watch, but I was pretty sure two hours had passed quite a while ago. The sun was low in the sky and the afternoon winter chill descended upon us with a blanket of gloom. That bus was long gone.

  Neither one of us spoke for some time, standing there on the side of the road feeling stupid. I said a silent prayer hoping things would turn around for us. At this point, I’d happily go back to spend another night in that vintage Mustang. Anywhere but here.

  Wyatt’s silent treatment wasn’t directed at me. He didn’t seem angry. Just...retrospective. We’d had a moment in the back alley of the restaurant. A heart to heart if you will. It took a lot of courage for him to admit to a stranger those things he said to me. Then again, we didn’t feel like strangers anymore. I thought we’d crossed some proverbial bridge. There was a connection there. He was as jolly as a North Pole elf. But when the police officers were taking our statements, I caught the moment when a shadow crossed Wyatt’s features. It was when the officer discovered who my famous brother was. I turned to find Wyatt’s eyes locked on me, glum and crestfallen by my lie of omission.

  His face reminded me of those mimes in Manhattan who swipe smiles into frowns w
ith a wave of a hand. I wanted to wave my hand in front Wyatt’s face to turn that frown upside down.

  In my defense, the subject of last names never came up in the strange circumstances we found ourselves in. At least that’s what I told myself. In truth, I was tired of users. People who pretended to be my friend but only wanted to get at my famous brother.

  Besides. What was I supposed to say to Wyatt while we were thrust in this weird situation anyway? Oh by the way, my brother is a movie star. Moving on.

  As I watched Wyatt retreat farther into his thoughts, I told myself there must be some other explanation. Maybe he was trying hard not to burp or something.

  He kicked his shoe against the edge of the asphalt, soooo enthralled by the uneven pavement.

  Ah! Bumpy. So cool.

  The highway went on for miles in each direction with nothing in sight. Just lots of flat flatness. And snow.

  Then something caught my eye. About a hundred feet away, the road was littered with debris. Things I couldn’t quite make out were scattered here and there. Somebody was a litterbug. I tilted my head and took a few steps.

  “Wait a minute.” I took a few more steps. “Wyatt, check this out.”

  He came over followed by Reeses and before we knew it we were sprinting towards the debris. Except as we got closer, we discovered that stuff was more than just trash. There were empty wallets and purses, a ripped up denim jacket, a discarded cigarette package, a lipstick, and lots of miscellaneous wrappers and papers.

  “As if robbery wasn’t enough, let’s make it interesting by trashing the highway,” I deadpanned.

  Wyatt went around picking up the items with his one hand. I joined in to help him.

  “You wanna bring this stuff back?” I suggested, even though I didn’t want to.

  “No. Let’s just consolidate it and pile it on the side of the road out of the way of passing cars.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  It took longer to pick stuff up one-handed, but neither one of us wanted to set down our sodas for some reason. Then I found a phone. Cracked screen, scuffs all over.

  “Is this yours?” I held it up for Wyatt to see.

  His face lit up. “Yeah.”

  “Maybe your luck is turning around,” I said.

  “Doubtful.” He turned it over in his hand. “It’s even more cracked than before. And the case is missing.”

  “Does it work?”

  He tapped it, raising his brows. “Actually, yeah.”

  “Maybe we can find your wallet,” I said, hopeful.

  “And your purse.”

  I shook my head. “Everything was inside my carry-on. I’d have found it by now.”

  We kept on down the road, picking up stuff as we got farther and farther away from the turnoff to the little town. It occurred to me we’d get to California faster by walking if we’d have just avoided all the modes of transportation we’d attempted.

  We reached what appeared to be the end of the items discarded out of the robber’s window. Wyatt’s wallet wasn’t on the road. We’d just made the last pile of stuff when a rickety black truck came down the highway, slowing down when we were in sight and stopping right by us. There was a cobra painted on the hood.

  A middle-aged man rolled down the window, taking in the sight of all the litter. He had wild eyes. It was a little scary. “What’s goin on here?” His voice was more of a growl.

  I spoke up. “Just cleaning the highway.”

  He squinted, thick salt-and-pepper brows furrowed over his eyes. “Why?”

  “We care about the environment?”

  Then Wyatt stepped in front of me, a small gesture, but a protective one just the same. “We were robbed and hoping to find some of our things.”

  The man nodded thoughtfully, glancing back at the turnoff to the tiny town. “At the pie place back there?”

  “Yes,” Wyatt and I said in unison.

  “Sounds about right. Happens every year.”

  So we’d been told.

  “Listen,” I said, hoping for answers. This guy had a seriously ominous vibe going on but he seemed to know what was up around these parts. “Do you know if there are any more busses scheduled to come by? We missed our bus while we were filing the police report.”

  The man studied us for a long moment, rolled down the driver’s side window, spat, then turned back to us. “Which way you headed?”

  “We were headed to Avery, Missouri,” Wyatt said. “But we’re on our way to California.”

  The man grunted. “You’re a ways off from Missouri. And it’s the wrong direction if you want to get to California.”

  Yeah, we get that.

  “There ain’t no more busses far as I know.”

  Disappointment shot through me. We were penniless and stuck in the middle of nowhere. And I resolutely drew the line at hitchhiking.

  “I can take you as far as I can,” said the man.

  I was poised to decline when Wyatt asked,” Where are you headed?”

  “South.”

  Oh great. Not vague at all.

  Wyatt turned to me, eyes bright, all hopeful and cheery. Old Wyatt was back. His expression declared, We’ve been saved!

  I hoped my face communicated my alarm. No! Run away. Stranger danger.

  He took me aside. “We don’t have to go back to Avery. We can keep going South.”

  “I’m not getting in a truck with Wild-Eyes Ludwig.”

  “What’s the alternative? Walk to California?”

  How did he know the thought had crossed my mind? “Maybe the cops can take us somewhere safe.”

  Wyatt snorted. “Those guys? Fat chance.”

  He had a point. Officer 1 and officer 2 were a couple of good ‘ol boys. Right before we took off I noticed them raiding the beer fridge.

  “Ya comin’ or not?” The guy was growing impatient but Wyatt held my shoulders at arm’s length, leveling his eyes to mine. “Alright. We’ll wait for the bus.”

  There was no bus. And even if there was one, we weren’t guaranteed they’d honor our tickets. Wyatt clapped his hand on the passenger side window frame and offered a grateful smile at the man. “Thanks, but we’re gonna stick around here for a while.”

  “Suit yourselves.” The man put the truck in gear.

  “Wait.” I ran to stop him. “We accept.”

  He gave me a stern look. “You ax-cept?” He said the word like it tasted bad on his tongue.

  “Yes. We accept your offer to give us a ride.”

  He shook his head. His expression was all, ‘weird out-of-towners’ and he set the gear back to park. We shuffled in, Wyatt taking the center seat. Reeses on my lap.

  The ride was uncomfortable in more ways than one. The interior of the truck smelled of tobacco and something musty. Every now and then the man would hawk a loogie out the window, and Wyatt’s many attempts at conversation were abruptly cut off. Wyatt introduced himself, me and Reeses, but was met with silence. The man had absolutely no interest in chatter nor did he find it necessary to tell us his name.

  We rode as the sun began to set. The thought at the forefront of my mind the entire time being: Where exactly South are we going?

  Studying his profile, I noticed the deep-set lines on the man’s face. The heavy, loose skin under his eyes making him appear more like a basset hound. The permanent scowl on his features. He had a faint scar on his chin. And his left hand had two missing fingers.

  About an hour in, he pulled onto a dirt road. The soft slush of snow mixed with the earth to form muddy ice trails in lieu of tire tracks. The surroundings became increasingly overgrown with evergreens and wild brush as we progressed to this mysterious—and alarmingly remote—destination. The man didn’t say a word until he parked in front of a decrepit shack. A felled tree stretched the front of the property, serving no purpose other than to make the place appear abandoned. Old tires were strewn haphazardly in random spots, and the disturbing presence of an ax perched prominently on a chopping bl
ock right in front of the truck.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” With a grunt, the man lowered himself from the truck and slammed the door shut. Wyatt’s Adam’s apple bobbed. We exchanged a frightened look.

  The man rounded to the back of the truck, opened the tailgate, and slid out something heavy inside a large, black bag. He slumped it over his shoulder and disappeared around the back of the shack.

  “Wyatt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think is in that bag?”

  He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid to find out.”

  “Was that my imagination, or did that look like a body?”

  He didn’t answer. He was thinking what I was thinking. This was the sort of place people went missing.

  “Wyatt?”

  “Shhh.”

  “I have to pee.” I shouldn’t have polished off that soda.

  “Hold it.”

  A minute or two later, the man returned. He got in the truck without a word, his expressionless face betraying nothing, and he drove us back onto the main highway. The air was thick. Any minute now we could be dead meat. Was this how he lured his victims? Where was he taking us? If I survived this, there was no way I’d tell my brother.

  We crossed the Kansas state line a while later and before we knew it, the twinkly lights of a quaint little town came into view. As we entered the center of town, the sight was an explosion of Christmas. Garlands hung from every surface creating a canopy of green over the streets from the rooftops to the lampposts. All the shops were decked out with wreaths and bright red bows. Colored lights covered every tree. Was that a gazebo in the town square? I could have sworn we’d stumbled upon a Hallmark movie sound stage.

  “This is as far as I go.” The scary man pulled over to the curb, the truck still running. In other words, “Get out.”

  So, you’re not going to kill us after all?

  Wyatt breathed a sigh of relief. “I can’t thank you enough for the ride.”

  The man responded with a minuscule nod.

  “Where are we, anyway?”

  Stop asking questions, genius. Let’s go.

  But something in the man’s features softened for one fleeting moment when he said, “Bethlehem.”