by Nancy Radke
TENNESSEE TOUCH
by
Nancy Radke
(Also includes a short story, The Prettiest Gal on the Mountain)
Praise for TENNESSEE TOUCH
“Here’s a man searching for a worthy woman, but she uses Mace on him.” KS
“A touch of mystery and a touch of humor. I really enjoyed it from beginning to end.” AddyM
“Some men just have that touch.” Gail P.
“Another page turner.” Bobbi N.
Table of Contents
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
MAIN MENU
1
It was the first time Alison had ever talked to anyone on the freeway, at least talked to them in this way. She had to admit, there were some advantages in knowing American Sign Language.
The red Jetta had appeared from nowhere, coming up behind her at a fast clip. Rules of the road demanded that she move out of the far left lane and let it pass.
Knowing she shouldn’t take her bad mood out on other drivers, Alison switched on her turn signal, indicating a lane change. Seattle drivers were usually courteous and a car quickly slowed down, allowing her to move over. She did, and the red Jetta accelerated, moving up beside her.
The young man inside glanced over and thrust his hand through his open sunroof. His fingers flashed, and Alison blinked. What gesture was that? Was he being rude?
No. He was finger spelling. "Thank you."
Laughing to herself, Alison responded, lifting her left hand above her half-opened window to sign, "You're welcome."
The Jetta swerved, was straightened, then slowed abruptly to hold to her speed. He hadn’t been expecting an answer. She could bet on it.
"Hello. Hello." He rolled down his passenger-side window, so she could see him better, as his hands formed the words.
Well, hello to you too, Alison thought. This was fun, and she felt her spirits lift. She rolled down her window the rest of the way, so the slightly tinted glass would not interfere with vision.
“Hello,” she signed back to him.
"Nice to meet you." He flashed a friendly smile, a broad grin that reached from ear to ear.
"Nice to meet you," she returned.
"Are you from around here?" he signed.
"Yes. You?"
"No. Just visiting."
Alison glanced back at the road to make sure she wasn’t saying an unwelcome hello to a motorist in another lane, then looked back at the stranger. Intrigued by the conversation, she continued to sign to him.
"I'm A-l-i-s-o-n." She spelled the letters out.
"-o-g-a-n." He had started to spell the word before he had his hand high enough for her to see.
"Say again?"
He finger-spelled the letters more carefully this time. "Logan."
"Got it." What do you say next, to a person in a car alongside yours? "Are you going far?"
"To the airport. My plane leaves at nine."
Alison glanced at her car clock. It was only five P.M. "Why so early?"
"Nothing else to do. I don't know anyone in Seattle...except you."
"You could go sightseeing."
"I have. I went to Kirkland and wandered through their art galleries."
The words actually came out, "Go Kirkland, art house, look look," but as an interpreter for the deaf, Alison had no trouble with American Sign Language. Using ASL, she had spoken to people across a room, carrying on a conversation uninterrupted by the crowd—but never on the freeway, with their cars traveling side by side down the inner lanes. It was a unique experience.
The freeway. She glanced around, suddenly realizing something was wrong. She had passed her exit.
Also, the line of cars on her right were zooming by, but the cars behind him and her were following at the sedate, forty mile pace they had slowed to. No cars in front of them.
They were holding up two lanes of traffic.
"Look behind you," she signed, embarrassed.
He did, then shrugged his shoulders eloquently. "Oops. Forgot them. Take the next exit," he suggested. "I’d like to talk some more."
Should she? It was full daylight. She could stop in an area where there were people around.
"Okay." She slowed down, letting him move in front of her, then hit her right turn signal. He moved on over and she followed. She could see the rental car markings on his license plate, and mentally reminded herself that he was not from around here. She needed to take some precautions.
She had been depressed; in need of a quick way to take her mind off her brother's situation. This had done it.
The far left lane of traffic sped up as Logan pulled over, the first few drivers honking with quick beeps and friendly waves as they passed by. The middle lane did the same as Alison moved to the right, and she felt her face flush. She hadn't realized they were providing so much entertainment.
The radio station was playing a carefree song, and she hummed along with it as she drove, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. She had turned it on to cheer herself up, but it looked like Logan had taken care of that.
He was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, but Alison knew better than to judge by looks. She had been disappointed in men who were good-looking and in those who weren’t. The type of men she seemed to attract were only after one thing, and that didn’t involve love or marriage.
The stranger intrigued her. She laughed delightedly. It was just what she needed to take her mind off the visit she had just had with her mother and brother.
The radio interrupted its music to give football scores. Keeping her eyes on the road, Alison frowned and reached over to move the dial. That season again. It felt like football took up half the year. She advanced the dial and got more scores. The fall madness had begun and it wasn’t even fall yet. She hated this time of year.
Squinting against the bright sunlight to keep the Jetta in sight, she followed Logan onto the Northgate exit, happy to get off the freeway and away from the curious drivers that had willingly stayed behind as they talked.
He drove onto Northgate Way and turned the Jetta into a handy parking lot.
He uncoiled from behind the wheel, a well-dressed man in tan denims and a short sleeved turquoise polo that deepened the color in his blue eyes. He yanked the keys out with him, shut the door and met her halfway.
She was tall, five-eight, but still had to look up at him. "If you're going from Kirkland to the airport, what are you doing here, driving south on I-5?" she asked, fingers flying as she signed the words. Now that she was off the freeway, no longer speaking car to car, she didn’t feel so on stage.
It wasn’t the first time she had stood in a parking lot using ASL. People walking by glanced at them, but didn’t stand and stare.
"I took the long way around on 405. Drove some of the back roads. I almost missed my exit and headed toward Canada."
"I did miss mine. I planned to take the one earlier."
He grinned. "I'm glad you didn't."
"What happened? Your knuckles?" She drew a question mark, pointed to him, then tapped her own.
"Nothing much. I was playing football."
"Ugh." She made a face for that word. "Football. Don't mention it."
"You don't like the game?"
She shook her head emphatically. "No! My brother played college ball. He was injured. Paralyzed. His girl left him...she couldn't take the stress. It ruined his life. He’s living with my mother and her fourth husband and it’s really a bad situation." She signed the facts. Sharing life stories in sign language was a lot faster than speaking it.
"I'm sorry. But it was just an accident. It could have happened some other way. Car crash."
&n
bsp; "I hate the sport! It's too violent."
"It does have its share of injuries." He shifted his weight, as if uncomfortable with the subject. "I know this is really crazy, I’ve never met anyone like this before—on the freeway—but there’s a small fish restaurant nearby. A fish market. Would you like to come?"
“Well...” She waggled her fingers.
“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with this.”
“It’s just that...”
“Look, I know you don’t know me, so drive your own car...follow me over. It’s just a few blocks.”
"That sounds fine." Her mother's second husband had tried to force her into sexual situations, and she preferred her distance.
"I'll stay right behind you," she signed. "We don't need people honking at us again."
"Right. Although...they didn't honk until after I moved over." He paused, looked at her with astonishment, then said, vocally, "You...heard them...honk?"
"Yes." She spoke the word out loud, suddenly realizing he could hear as well as she. "I thought you couldn't hear."
"Ditto."
The ridiculousness of their continued conversation in ASL hit Logan as funny. He’d been so surprised when she returned his words on the freeway. That had never happened to him before. Now this. He laughed aloud. Once started, he couldn't stop.
"Oh, boy!” He slapped his leg, shaking his head at himself. "Do I feel stupid! I wonder—would we have found out eventually at the market?"
His laughter must have been contagious, for Alison began to giggle, then broke out laughing with him. "I've heard of this happening, but it's the first time for me."
He gasped for control, glad she could see the funny side of it. "Me, too. Although I'm sure we would’ve said something to the waiter. That would’ve given us away." He laughed harder at the image of them continuing to sign all through a meal. It had been done before.
"How do you know ASL?" she asked, catching her breath.
He shook himself, throwing off the last remnant of laughter. "My mother became hearing impaired. I learned it so I could talk to her. How about you?"
"I'm an interpreter."
"That explains why you're so good. You had me fooled." Alison was a beautiful woman, lovely enough to be a model or an actress. He would never have pegged her as an interpreter.
"There's certainly no accent to give me away," she agreed.
Her laughter ended, but the sparkle in her gray-green eyes remained, still dancing, enhancing her beauty. Her direct way of meeting him made Logan want to know her better. "Shall we proceed?"
"Certainly."
He walked over to the Jetta and got in. Life was funny, he thought, shaking his head as he turned the key. Here he was meeting up with this really neat woman and she didn’t like football. That would have been fine if his job was anything other than quarterback for the Green Bay Skippers. Professional football, where the other team really would like to cream him permanently.
It didn’t matter too much. If people didn’t recognize him, he often avoided telling them what he did for a living. As soon as they found out, they treated him differently. Like he’d hit a switch.
Both women and men. The men would get this starry-eyed glaze over their eyes and either fall all over themselves to please him or try to show how tough they were. The wrong kind of women would go into what his buddy Jake called ‘gold-digging mode,’ and the right kind of women would shy away from what they perceived as a wealthy, unreachable athlete.
His job had prevented him from getting to know a woman—truly know her. It had become enough of a problem in his life that he now told people he was a welder. It wasn’t a lie, he did weld, but just as a hobby.
It was a good thing the car rental agency didn’t have the BMW he had used last year. The Jetta fit the image he wanted.
He hadn’t been going to stop and eat until they pulled off the freeway and he realized where he was. It was a spur of the moment decision, the kind he made often. He had eaten at this place one other time he was in Seattle for a game.
He drove the few blocks to the restaurant-market, making sure she was able to follow him easily. He was supposed to be meeting Jake and the three other players at the hotel, but they would load his gear, figuring he’d catch up.
She probably had a boy friend. Not engaged though, or married. No rings.
She parked beside him and proceeded into the small building—not much larger than a garage—and looked around.
"You really meant a fish market," Alison remarked, glancing at the large display cases. There were only three tables in this "restaurant," and two were occupied. Colorful fish had been painted on a blue ceiling ocean and among seaweed on the blue walls. Otherwise, they could be in any small market.
"Yes. I figured everyone knew about this place. A teammate— a... a buddy of mine told me where to come. We were lucky we didn't have to wait." He'd have to watch his words more carefully. He smiled at her over the table, pleased with what he saw. Her shoulder length, dark auburn hair framed an oval face; her cheekbones and jaw slightly wider than perfect.
The waiter—who looked also to be the owner/cook and fish expert—brought them some water and a very limited menu—any kind of fish plus a salad. He left them to serve a customer coming in to buy fresh fish.
"The fish should be fresh,” she said. “What do you recommend?"
"Umm...cod is always good. No, wait. Crab. Crab and salad, if you don't mind how messy it is to eat."
She laughed. "You go ahead and tackle the crab. I'll take cod."
He could have crab any day. "Two cods," he told the waiter, who rejoined them at that moment. "Deep fried?" he asked Alison.
"Yes."
He nodded to the waiter, then turned back to Alison. “I still can’t get over those drivers not honking at us to move out of the way. They could see there was nothing in front of us slowing us down.”
“Seattle drivers are polite. Some of them. I think they were being entertained.”
He laughed. “More polite than the drivers I’m used to.” Oh, oh. He shouldn’t have said that.
“Where are you from?” She asked the question so innocently.
“Wisconsin.” It sounded better than Green Bay. “Benderville.” He had rented a house there that he shared with his wide receiver, Jake. The location was secluded, yet close enough to drive in for practice and games.
“The land of a thousand lakes?”
“Actually there are over eight thousand, five hundred.”
“That’s a lot. There’s a small lake next to my apartment that has a running track around it. I jog there at least three times a week.”
"How long is the track? A mile? Quarter mile?"
"Just a little over a half mile. I was surprised they even named the lake. Lyons Lake. Sounds impressive, doesn't it?"
"Right."
"Well, it's slightly bigger than a water reservoir. Ducks use it mainly."
As they continued to talk, Logan felt himself becoming more and more interested in her. She intrigued him. Challenged him. There was a fine reserve that said, "Stay back, keep your distance, don't touch."
It showed in the way she held her body, used her hands. The way her eyes summed him up.
She was not about to throw herself at anyone. She was...a lady. A lady with a full and generous mouth, sweet, sensitive lips—giving her face character as well as beauty. It was important that he stay and talk to her. More important even than making the plane.
He had been instantly drawn to her and wondered how she felt about him. He was falling all over himself to make a good impression. Was he succeeding? Or would she never want to see him again after this?
The meal was placed before them and they stopped talking to eat.
Something doesn’t add up, Alison told herself, noticing that one of his eyes was slightly swollen. She couldn’t see a man his age playing a pick-up game of football and getting hurt doing it. Had he been in a fight? Today was Saturday, he could hav
e been in some tavern brawl last night. She was used to detecting lies. Her mother’s first three husbands had given her lots of practice.
He said he was from Wisconsin. Was that the truth? He had hesitated before naming a town and he had a distinct southern drawl. He could have moved there, of course, but she felt uneasy.
“Who do you work for?” he asked, stopping to take a drink of water.
“Myself. I’m free-lance. Almost all interpreters are, you know. We book customers two to three weeks in advance, sometimes longer than that. Right now I’m interpreting for a high school student taking a summer class.”
“Can you read lips?”
“Yes. That’s something I picked up while trying to understand how difficult it is. It’s hard to do. If a person can read lips, it still helps to give them some special signs to clear up some words.”
“I can read lips, but I get lazy because I can hear,” he said with a crooked grin. “Once I get around my mom, my skills sharpen up again.”
“That would be natural. This is excellent fish. I bet the owner could keep a few more tables filled, if he had room.”
“Or if the city would allow it. They can regulate a business right out of business.”
“True.”
“But you’re right. He does have a hot little establishment going here.”
“By the looks of that swollen eye, you weren’t doing so hot, though, yourself.”
“Ha. Somebody hit me when I wasn’t looking.” He looked uncomfortable as he made the admission.
“I suppose you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” If he had been looking, the other person would have been sent flying, that was for sure. It sounded like a brawl with several people.
He shrugged good-naturedly. “Something like that. It comes with my job.”
“What do you do?” she asked, wondering what kind of job called for fist fights and swollen eyes. Could he be a bouncer?
He glanced away, then back again. “Oh. I’m a...welder.”
“How do you get hurt welding?”