“Excuse me, young man,” Doris said as she knocked on the hood of the car.
The humming stopped. The mechanic stood up to greet us; he was tall, well over six feet, with thick black hair and striking emerald-green eyes. His overall sleeves were rolled up, and from his elbows to the tips of his fingers he was covered in grease. His name was Dan, according to the label on his breast pocket.
“Oh hello,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”
He addressed us all, but his eyes found Flora’s and held them. We all noticed it, especially Flora, who blushed and lowered her own.
“There seems to be a problem with my car,” I said, cutting through the extended “Moment in Time” pause.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
He listened intently as Doris explained the symptoms but looked directly at Flora, saying, “Let’s get you back on the road. Can you give me about an hour to look at it?”
I looked at my watch. It was nearly six o’clock. “I think we should try and find a hotel and check in for the night. Are there any nearby?”
“Actually, my parents own a lovely B&B just up the road. It’s very quiet at this time of the year, so I’m sure they’ll have rooms. And I may have some sway to get you a reduced rate,” he added with a coy smile.
“That sounds perfect.” I was relieved.
“Okay. Let me clean a little of this grease off. I’ll call my parents. Then I can walk you down to their house.”
With a final glance at Flora, he walked off toward the bathroom, and she let out a breath beside me. I was pretty sure she’d been holding it since we’d arrived.
Ten minutes later, Dan was back, washed and wearing jeans, a denim-blue shirt, and a black leather jacket. He closed up the garage, and we followed him up the road, carrying our overnight cases.
“So, where are you coming from?” He directed his question at Flora.
She just blushed and looked at her feet.
Annie answered him. “We’re from a little town called Southlea Bay. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“On the contrary, my aunt lives there. Do you know Karen Shore at all?”
“I do,” I answered in surprise. “She works with me at the Southlea Bay library. It’s a small world, isn’t it?” I mused.
“She loves it there, and I don’t blame her. I love to read too,” he added. “She always says no one could be unhappy while they’re surrounded by books.”
“I know what she means,” answered Flora in a small, tight voice. “I feel the safest surrounded by my books. They’re like my friends.” She bit her lip nervously, as if worried perhaps she’d revealed too much to him. But he murmured agreement as she added, “Friends that are always there for you . . .” Her voice trailed off as we arrived in front of a little swinging sign that read “Primrose Hill Bed and Breakfast,” and Dan unlatched a white picket gate.
The house was an impressive Queen Anne–style Victorian, complete with a turret, gables, and gingerbread detailing. Its clapboard walls were painted a soft blush pink and its gables a creamy white. A stunning lattice arbor lush with crimson foliage invited us onto the scrubbed white deck adorned with overflowing planters and a couple of well-worn rocking chairs.
“How lovely,” said Annie, clapping her hands as Dan trotted up the steps and rang the bell.
Dan’s mother greeted us at the door as if we were long-lost family, and Dan offered to carry our overnight bags up to our rooms.
“How gallant,” remarked Annie once he was out of earshot. “Just like he fell right out of a romance novel.” She bumped Flora with her elbow.
Flora blushed to her toes, burying her face deeper into her long paisley scarf.
“I don’t trust him,” snapped Ethel, who’d insisted on clutching her bag. “Him being a man and all!”
Dan left to return to the garage. His mother commented, “You ladies look half-frozen to death. I’ll go and get dinner started right away.”
Beckoned in by the heat emanating from a magnificent white marble Corinthian-style fireplace, we made our way into her sitting room. The room was impeccable, elegantly decorated with sumptuous fabrics and tasteful antiques. A highly polished mahogany coffee table centered the room, surrounded by overstuffed armchairs and plump footstools. From the ceiling, tiered crystal chandeliers reflected sparkling white light into every corner of the room. Annie planted herself in front of the TV and turned on the evening news as Doris opened her map book and made notes. Ethel seated herself at a high, glossy card table and began to work on a half-finished jigsaw of marine life as Flora wandered thoughtfully about the house.
We polished off a fabulous home-cooked meal of chicken pie, mashed potatoes, and vegetables before Dan arrived back. He joined us in the dining room just as his mother appeared with a decadently layered chocolate cream pie, and his father served us coffee.
Dan poured himself a cup and sat down next to Flora, who colored for the umpteenth time that evening.
“Well,” he said, taking a sip, “I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first?”
Doris and I spoke at the same time.
“The bad,” she said.
“The good,” I said.
Amused, he looked at us both. “Which one?”
“The good,” said Flora, daring to look at him for a moment.
His gaze lingered again.
“The good news is the problem you came in with was your tracking. When you swerved hard on the freeway, you must have knocked it out of alignment. That was very simple, and I’ve already put it right.”
“Wonderful!” said Annie, clapping her hands together.
“Not so fast,” said Doris, ever cautious. “What’s the bad news?”
“It’s going to cost us five thousand dollars!” spluttered Ethel. Then she squinted her eyes at Dan as if she were about to bite him.
“No!” he said and sounded shocked at the thought. “That was a quick job. I wasn’t even going to charge you for it. The thing is you have a much bigger problem with your engine. I checked all your systems while I had your car up, and your ECM is damaged.”
“ECM?” asked Doris, puzzled.
“It’s our Engine Control Module,” said Flora. “It controls all the workings of the engine . . .” Then she blushed beet red. We all looked at her, utterly surprised. Dan looked impressed.
“Exactly,” said Dan as we all continued to stare in wonderment at Flora.
Self-conscious of our gaze, she responded in a whisper, “My father used to restore cars.” Then she returned all her focus to her teacup.
Forcing his gaze from her, Dan went on, “To be honest with you, the engine could go at any minute. It’s amazing you got this far without a problem.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, puzzled. “It’s been running okay.”
“Did you notice any warning lights on your dashboard?”
Now I could feel my own cheeks starting to color. “Well, yes. But my husband said we probably just had a loose connection or something . . .” my voice trailed off pathetically.
“To be fair, he would probably be right half of the time, but unfortunately this time there actually is a problem.”
“Can you fix it?” asked Annie over a mouthful of chocolate cream pie.
“Technically, yes.” He took another sip of his coffee. “But unfortunately I don’t have the right parts. I phoned around, and the quickest I could get them out here would be two days.”
“Two days!” we all echoed.
“But I need to be in San Francisco. My daughter needs my help.” I couldn’t help sounding petulant.
He was instantly reassuring. “I do have a solution, but it’s a little bit extreme, so you may want to think about it before you decide.”
“What is it?” said Doris. “We really need to get back on the road.”
He made circles in the sugar bowl with a spoon. “Tomorrow, I have to go down to southern Oregon to pick up a car from a frie
nd’s garage. I called and asked, and he happens to have the part you need. I was going to take the train . . .” Then sounding more self-conscious, he said, “But if you wouldn’t be too uncomfortable”—he afforded himself a quick sideways glance at Flora—“I could travel down in your car with you tomorrow. That way, if you have any problems I could patch it up as we go.”
Doris responded immediately. “That’s very kind of you, young man. Are you sure we won’t be inconveniencing you in any way?”
“The way I see it”—he finished the dregs of his coffee—“is that we would all be helping each other out.” His voice petered off as his eyes met Flora’s once more.
It was like watching two sixteen-year-olds.
“I think that sounds great,” said Doris.
After dinner, we insisted on helping clear away the dinner dishes. Dan and Flora lingered at the sink as they slowly dried the plates. I joined everyone else in the sitting room and settled to read a magazine.
Flora arrived back in the main room wearing her coat and hat.
“Dan and I were thinking of going to see a movie . . .” Her voice trailed off.
For a split second, there was complete silence in the room as the reality of what she was saying sank in. Flora was going on a date, the first of her life, for sure. I smiled to myself.
After they left, Dan’s parents joined us in the sitting room and chatted comfortably about running their B&B. They spoke fondly about raising their family, especially Dan. They told us in hushed tones that he’d suffered a serious breakup the year before and they were thrilled to see him taking an interest in Flora.
“She seems very sweet,” said his dad. “Have you known her long?”
“I’ve known Flora her whole life, and her parents before they died. She’s a lovely girl,” said Annie. “As far as I know, this is the first time I’ve seen her show interest in anyone.”
“How sad that her parents passed away,” sighed his mom. “She seems so young to have lost them.”
“Don’t you worry about Flora,” reassured Doris, tapping Dan’s mother’s hand and knocking back a glass of cherry brandy in one gulp. “She has us.”
Doris set up a card table in the dining room, and the group started a lively game of poker. I excused myself and returned to the sitting room with a book.
Later, I was in the kitchen fetching myself a glass of water when I heard the gate open in the front garden.
Glancing out the window, I noticed Jack Frost had woven his magic spell. All about the garden, the bright porch light reflected crystalized flowers and sculptures of frozen blades of grass. Through the icy pane, I saw that Flora and Dan were back and outside under the arbor. They seemed oblivious to the arctic temperatures.
She had her upturned face to him, and her eyes were alive and sparkling. She appeared to be listening intently to every word he was saying. Just then, he must have said something witty because she burst out into a delicate ripple of laughter. It took me by surprise, as I realized it was the first time I could honestly say I had seen her really look joyful, let alone laugh.
They fell in the front door ten minutes later, giggling. There was undoubtedly the presence of young love in the air. It permeated the house like the fragrance of wild roses, bringing an added sweetness to the evening. Flora was glowing; I couldn’t believe it was the same girl who had left the island with us that morning. They joined us in the sitting room, talking excitedly about their night, finishing each other’s sentences as they recalled the terrible movie they’d just seen.
I listened for a while then excused myself to make my way to bed. As I wandered up the stairs, I glanced back one more time. The lovebirds were quietly talking and laughing together as they toyed with the jigsaw puzzle Ethel had abandoned.
I sat on my bed and dialed Stacy. Chris answered and said she was doing much better but was exhausted and had gone to bed early and then reassured me, telling me not to worry as he was taking care of her. I told him to give her my love before I hung up and dialed home. As I waited for the call to connect, I thought about how much I liked Chris. He met Stacy at UCLA while he was getting his computer science degree and Stacy had been studying business. He was quiet and thoughtful and made a good match for Stacy’s volatile nature. They hit it off from the beginning. After graduating, it was only a matter of time before they moved back to his home in San Francisco. Stacy started a job she loved in advertising, and Chris had found a fantastic job working for a major computer technology company. He traveled a lot for work and sometimes was even able to take Stacy with him.
After a couple of rings, Martin picked up, and I filled him in on the events of the afternoon. He seemed taken aback by the fact that the red check engine light, which had been illuminated for the past month, had, in fact, actually meant we were supposed to check the engine.
“Really?” he said, not meaning to be comical. “That’s the last thing I would have thought of doing. It seems to flick on and off like a Christmas tree light. I was sure it was just a loose connection.”
He paused for a moment. He was probably standing like a statue in our hallway, thinking, staring at his shoes. In the silence, I heard the distinct sound of a cat meowing.
“What was that?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.
“What was what?”
“It sounded like a cat.”
There was a hesitant pause.
“Do you remember how the Joneses’ cat got into the raccoon trap?”
“Yeeess.”
“The thing wouldn’t come out all day, and I finally managed to coax it out with a piece of cooked salmon. I took it over to their house earlier this evening. But, as it turns out, it’s not their cat after all. Theirs is a boy, and this is a girl! So, I thought it was cruel just to turn it out when it was so cold . . .”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, finishing this story. “It’s moved in!”
“Just until I can find its owner. I’ve been asking around.” He was trying to earn some extra points. “I also called the animal shelter, but they’re full right now. She’s on their waiting list.”
Here it comes, I thought, I could feel it in my bones . . .
“She’s such a sweet little thing, really, lovely and good company. I was worried that the raccoons would eat her for breakfast.”
My husband’s love of cats was obvious in his concerned tone.
“So, let me get this straight. You were supposed to be getting rid of one wild animal and instead you’ve taken in another one!”
“Yes,” he answered sheepishly.
“I just might have something to say about that.”
“I thought you might.” Then he added quickly, “But, unfortunately, I have to go. I think I hear Dwayne at the door. Love you. Bye.” He hung up. He was being playful, and it made me laugh. It was well after ten, and I was sure there was no one at our door.
Under that “I’ve got it all together” exterior, my husband had always been a big teddy bear. I was pretty sure that the cat had come home to stay.
I fell into bed exhausted, but at about three o’clock, I woke up again. I often had trouble sleeping the first night away from home. I was also worried about Stacy. I put on my robe and slippers and went to get myself a glass of warm milk.
When I arrived downstairs, I was surprised to find that Doris was also awake. She stood in pink curlers, staring absently out the kitchen window.
“Doris, are you okay?”
I seemed to bring her back from a faraway place.
“Oh, Janet, I couldn’t sleep. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all . . . too awful.”
There was a deep sadness in her eyes. This was a very different Doris than the one she presented to the world. She seemed utterly forlorn and lost. It was quite disconcerting.
I tried to buoy her spirits as I prepared my drink. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
She
looked at me intently, as if once again she were trying to figure out if she could trust me or not, then, appearing to make up her mind, she sighed deeply.
“Do you remember when I told you there was another important reason that I needed to get back the manuscript from the publishers?”
I nodded and sat down at the table. Doris joined me.
“I did some more investigating, because I just couldn’t believe this scandalous story could be true. This evening I made a phone call to a person that could help me confirm some of the facts, and they told me something that has made me believe more than ever that the story must be true.”
“We’ll just have to make sure we get that manuscript back from the publishers,” I said optimistically as I took a sip of my milk.
I had to admit I had been hoping she’d divulge the story to me. I plucked up the courage to ask her a question I’d been wondering about ever since she’d confided in me.
“How did you find this story?”
Doris narrowed her eyes again as if she were trying to figure out how much she wanted to share.
“I was given it. The person who wrote this particular piece has passed away and often wrote many fictional short stories. I just assumed it was fiction just like all the others.”
“How did you find out it wasn’t?” I took another sip of my milk.
“By accident.” She wrung her hands slowly. “There was some information in the story that was mentioned to me in passing the other day. And so that’s why I decided to do some more checking.”
“And where is the original story now?” I asked, finishing my drink.
“It’s totally safe. As soon as I suspected anything, I hid it in a very safe place. I didn’t want it to be found while we were away. The story is about . . . someone very dear to me and . . .” She paused then, obviously trying to collect herself.
I took the opportunity to reach out and take her hand. “It’s one of your rejected ladies, isn’t it?”
Doris’s expression confirmed my suspicions, and ever so slowly, she nodded her head.
“The person who wrote this story lived in our village for a spell and, yes, it’s about one of my ladies.”
The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) Page 9