by Holly Hall
Fred emits a long sigh. “I’m sorry, ma’am, do you mind?” he asks with an apologetic, “what can ya do?” kind of shrug.
I smile thinly, and he disappears.
I’m left alone with only the far-off sounds of machinery from the garage and a muted, scratchy TV program for all of thirty seconds before the front door comes swinging open. I don’t make eye contact with whoever it is that’s just entered, keeping my face pleasantly blank and studying the smudges on the tile. Through my periphery, I see it’s a man. Sandy hair, tall and broad-shouldered. He occupies a lot of space in this small room. His brown, scuffed boots are as far as I let my eyes travel, and only because they land so heavily on the tile. He approaches the counter and leans forward on his toes, briefly, then rocks backward and turns toward me. Toes pointed my way, he clears his throat.
“What’d they get you for?” he asks in a voice that’s pleasantly deep and flavored with the southern accent I keep hearing. I realize I’m still staring at his shoes when he rocks back on his heels again.
“Cracked radiator.”
“Nice to meet you, Cracked Radiator. I’m Dane,” he says, his tone amused, and he crosses the room and claims a chair. It doesn’t escape me that he left two seats between us instead of the customary one. I’m a little surprised. The way my first encounter with Mr. Kirkwood went, you’d think everyone in this town would skip over the polite social customs to sit right on top of you, chatting their way over to your place by dinnertime.
Social graces or not, the confidence in his tone trips one of my internal alarms. If he thinks that weak attempt at a joke will get my name out of me, he can rethink his strategy. Better yet, forget it entirely. I just offer him a purse-lipped smile that could mean either “nice to meet you” or “fuck off.”
“Fred say what he was doing out there?” he asks, and before I know it, I’m looking up at him. He has the strangest eyes I’ve ever seen. They look almost alive, dynamic, with more shades of blue and green than I can comprehend. That’s a problem because while I’m trying to determine whether his eyes are more Caribbean or Mediterranean, I end up staring at him for a few seconds over my limit.
I refocus on a spot on the wall across the room. “Busy with a Mrs. Weller, apparently. I assume it will take a while.”
“Thanks for the tip. Mind if I give you one?”
I lift one shoulder noncommittally.
“Fred charges an arm and a leg for labor. He’ll rob you blind and gawk at you while doing it. You’d be better off going somewhere else.”
Ahh, a know-it-all, every town has one. Little does he know, I’m not just some aloof out-of-towner who will allow herself to be conned into some backwoods chop-shop. When I don’t respond, he just snort-laughs—a suit yourself kind of sound—and leans his elbows on his knees.
It is so silent I can hear the clock ticking on the wall. Not awkward at all.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
The question is so decisive, it’s not much of a question at all. “What gave it away?”
“The you-not-being-from-around-here thing.”
“Clever of you. No, I’m not.”
He waits a beat. “Which explains you being here.”
I sense that he’s fishing for information, but I’m committed. The less people know about me, the better. I imagine a thread forming between me and each person I meet. Over time, those threads cross and interweave, so much so that you can’t break or even touch one thread without affecting another. Like a web. Well, my own web was shaken so badly that I don’t want to bother with getting anyone caught up in my new one.
So, I just say, “Sure.” Stay out of my web, kid.
“Being that we’re so openly exchanging tips, I think it’s only fair that I leave you with a good one.” When I don’t bite, he continues. I hope he enjoys one-sided conversation. “There’s a little place off the highway, northeast of town. Cross Automotive. They’ll set you up for a fraction of the cost.” Another vague smile is all I give him in answer.
The clock ticks away the minutes on the wall, and then there’s shouting coming from the garage. I stand up and make my way to the window behind the counter, looking through. Fred is involved in an animated conversation with an elderly woman with rollers in her hair. Well, animated on her part. Fred is just standing there, his hands limp at his sides, nodding in an understanding manner with his lips pressed into a thin line. Mrs. Weller is letting him have it.
I glance back at Dane, and he smirks. Leaning over to grab a sheet of paper from the copy machine, along with a pen from Fred’s cup, I grudgingly approach him. When I hold them out, he only raises his eyebrows expectantly, like he can’t understand what I’m asking of him, or maybe he just wants me to say it aloud.
“As you’ve already guessed, I’m not from here. I don’t know my way around, and I’d rather not go searching ‘up the highway northeast of town’ for a place I don’t even know exists. So please, give me directions if you mean to, or admit that you were only trying to pick up the lonely chick at the auto shop.”
Dane studies me for a few seconds, his stare one that makes me want to look away, but also makes it impossible to. Because I don’t back down from a challenge, and wow, those eyes are definitely more of a Mediterranean shade. The only thing that detracts from them is his scruffy, lumberjack beard. It could use a trim. Or, better yet, a straight razor. He takes the pen and paper, grazing my hand with his fingers. After scrawling a few lines, he hands the paper back.
“There you go, Cracked Radiator. Tell them I sent you.”
“And your name is Dane . . .” I trail off, wondering if a last name is even necessary around here. With those eyes and those shoulders, I assume it isn’t.
“Just Dane. They’ll know.”
I give him a curt nod and collect my purse and jacket, but something stops me in my tracks on the way out the door. “Thank you, Just Dane.” I look back long enough to see him nod politely.
After following most of the directions, something tells me I’ve been sent to a backwoods chop-shop. It could be the unintelligible sign hanging off the rusted gate, or the junk yard of old automobiles parked in the field out front. I’m pretty sure there’s an old school bus in the distance, and the miniscule shred of doubt only comes from the fact that it’s so eaten up by rust it’s no longer yellow. It’s definitely a bus of some sort, though. I press my foot further on the gas, making a mental note to pick up some pepper spray. Or a Taser. A gun would be more useful, but I’ve never shot one.
I manage to decipher Dane’s directions while rolling through the gate, but all that’s left is You’ll see the shop after the trees. I steer between two clumps of red oaks and follow the drive as it curves to the left, and just as I round the bend, the “shop” comes into sight. It’s a metal building with two huge doors rolled up, leaving gaping openings. There are cars inside, so I must be in the right place, and I see a man straighten up from leaning over the hood of one.
I park in front of a bay and get out, glad I don’t have to track anyone else down to the soundtrack of dirty rap music. When the guy comes out to greet me, it strikes me suddenly how much he favors Dane, in both features and stature. It’s to my relief that I discover his eyes are coffee-brown. Not quite as alluring as those ocean-blues.
“You lost?” he asks, an easy grin crossing his face. He’s not wearing what I would consider “mechanic’s attire,” but this doesn’t look like a typical mechanic’s shop.
“Not if this is Cross Automotive,” I answer.
“If you know about Cross Auto, you must know the secret password,” he responds with a wink. He’s quick with his charm, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Is there something I’m doing to provoke them? I sincerely doubt it.
“Umm, Dane sent me?” I offer, shrugging. I hope that means something to him.
“Ahh, another one bites the dust.”
“Oh no, another one got preyed upon at Henderson’s while she was minding her ow
n business,” I correct him. Who the hell is this guy, and who is Dane, really?
“Typical Dane. What exactly do you need done?”
“I’m not sure. Someone said I might have a cracked radiator? There was a puddle in my driveway.”
“All right, let’s have a look at you, then.” When my eyes dart up to his, he jabs a thumb toward my SUV. “The car, I mean,” he says, chuckling.
“Okay.”
It doesn’t take long for me to be properly diagnosed with a cracked radiator. I guess conversations with Mr. Kirkwood have their benefits. I’m told my radiator will need to be replaced, and it won’t be completed until tomorrow.
“Is it safe to drive home?” I ask. After all, telling me I have a cracked radiator is the equivalent of speaking gibberish.
“You run the risk of overheating your engine, and then you’d be broken down on the side of the road,” he says simply.
Great. Breaking down in the middle-of-nowhere Tennessee and giving a chainsaw-wielding murderer a crack at me is just what I need.
He plucks a set of keys from a hook near the door of what looks to be an office. “I can give you a ride.”
I glance around the shop, wondering if there’s anyone around whom I can transmit silent pleas of help to, and the man notices. He just holds out the keys. “If you’re worried about me killing you or something, go ahead and take it. It’s the black one out back. Hope you know how to drive stick.” That he knows I have no other choice but to accept is evident in his tone.
I certainly don’t know how to drive stick.
“I would appreciate a ride home,” I finally say.
“Great. And my name is Trey, by the way, in case you want to text it to somebody as an insurance policy or whatever. I’m Dane’s wiser, better-looking older brother, if you couldn’t already tell.”
Ah. That explains the physical similarities, but the resemblance stops there. I just smile blankly and follow him.
Unfortunately, revealing my address is unavoidable. I’ve only begun to describe my house and he’s already nodding like he knows exactly where it is. Of course—the Miller house. Lynn said it like everyone should know the previous inhabitants.
I follow him through the shop, trying and failing to mask my surprise when he stops at a sleek Mercedes SUV. Not what I would expect from a mechanic. Shallow as it may be, the luxuriousness of the car soothes some of my worry. A serial killer wouldn’t drive a car like this, right? They would drive something more generic.
“I didn’t get your name back there,” Trey says, breaking the silence once we’re gliding down the highway.
“Rae,” I answer reluctantly.
“Nice to meet you, Rae. And if you think about it, you probably pose more of a threat to me. You could’ve lured me out of my shop and to my death, being a pretty lady like you, and I wouldn’t have even known your name.” He smiles at me, and though I may be rusty, I catch on that he’s trying to flirt, but the conversation grosses me out. Why are we talking about this?
“Well, I’m not into killing people. Too messy.”
“Too messy.” He laughs. “Touché.”
He seems to grasp that I’m not a fan of small talk, and we make it to my house without any more questions. I pop the door handle as soon as the car rolls to a stop, prepared to say a quick thank you over my shoulder before skittering into the house, but he’s already leaning halfway over the center console, poised to speak.
“Seeing as how you’re carless, how about I have someone drop yours off tomorrow?”
I can’t tell if this is some underhanded way to bury me further in debt to him or something, so I bite my lip, struggling with indecision. “I wouldn’t want to impose. I can find a ride to the shop.” And then, at the flash of skepticism in his eyes, I say, “I know people.”
“You know people.” He nods in mock approval. “You wouldn’t be imposing. We’ll just drop it in your driveway and go. No problem.”
“Don’t I owe you something?”
Trey shrugs, an over-rehearsed act that’s made to look endearing. “I’m sure we’ll catch up.”
“All right,” I relent because it’s the only way I can see myself getting into the house, and him out of my driveway.
“It’s settled.”
I get the impression that this is a man who’s used to getting his way. If so, he better prepare to be disappointed.
“Have a good night, Rae.”
I shut the door in response.
FIVE
In the morning, Lynn calls to confirm our coffee date. Though it’s difficult for a determinedly independent woman like me to admit, it’s nice having someone who makes good on a rain-check. When I explain the situation with my car, she offers to pick me up so we can go anyway.
Lynn arrives at my door with her characteristic red bandana around her head, and on the way to the coffee shop, she gives me an animated tour of the town I have a feeling only she can pull off.
“Kitty’s has the best breakfast, but it’s the ‘place to be in town.’ People with nothing better to do than gossip. If you want to be left alone but still have decent food, I would recommend the diner off the highway up north. It’s mostly truck drivers and roadtrippers that go there, but at least they leave you alone for the most part. Worst you’ll get is ‘the look.’ ” Lynn keeps up this stream of commentary, warning me against certain places and telling me what to order at all the restaurants. When we pass someone she knows on the road, she tells me all about them. It’s usually someone she went to high school with, or the baby daddy of someone she went to high school with.
“So were you and Adam high school sweethearts?” I ask after a few particularly humorous stories about some of the townsfolk’s dating disasters.
“God, no. I had to find him at community college.” She tilts her head and looks in my direction. “I know, real promising, right? But college attracts folks from all around. Everyone I know here I’ve either already dated or promised I would never date. Too much swapping fluids for me, personally. I do not want to be Eskimo sisters with any girl in this town. No offense.”
“None taken,” I say with a giggle. I can’t help it, her humor is contagious. And my own dating life is nonexistent, bleak—all I can do is laugh about it. I chant to myself that I did not come here to find a man, and if that was my goal, I would’ve gone somewhere more populated and less related.
Brewser’s turns out to be a quaint coffee shop no bigger than a shoebox, and we claim one of the iron bistro tables out front, settling in after placing our orders with the kid at the counter. It’s February, but a propane heater keeps the paved area beneath the awning pleasant. After a bearded waiter delivers our coffees, Lynn immediately grabs the sugar canister and dumps some in. Literally dumps, there’s no better word for it. I keep thinking she’s going to stop, but she keeps pouring. It hurts my teeth just looking at it. She takes a sip, nods appreciatively, then settles back in her chair.
“So, Raven, what’s your story?”
I inwardly wince. It shouldn’t be unexpected that Lynn is curious, but the question hits me like a splash of cold water. I suppose it was naïve to expect that I’d be able to lock myself away like some hermit to wallow in my failures alone.
“What makes you think there’s a story?” I ask.
Her look is searching. “Everyone’s got one, even me, and nobody ends up in Heronwood without there being a story. I get the impression you’re seeking shelter or something, and I can’t help but wonder why.”
My gulp of coffee goes down like a handful of pebbles and it’s a struggle not to cough. I didn’t expect her to be so perceptive, and I didn’t think I was so transparent. Seeking shelter . . . possibly. But not for the reasons she might’ve guessed.
I flit between two options in my mind. One: give her the CliffsNotes version of my past, skating over the details, and maybe become surface friends—people who don’t have any real conversations and show no true concern for one another. But that’s no bett
er than Caroline, or any of the others I left behind. Two: tell her everything and run the risk of the whole population of this town finding out who I am and treating me differently because of it, but possibly gain a friend from my honesty.
“I guess I should start from the beginning.” I take a more careful sip and prepare to do something I vowed not to. “I had a few rough relationships when I was younger. Came out of them determined not to trust anyone. Then I met Jenson. We talked for hours and hours the first time we met, without ever running out of things to say. He seemed so intrigued by me, and I think that’s rare and little bit intoxicating for a young girl—being told you are captivating, that you are worth every word he said. I was flattered. I fell completely in love in a matter of weeks, it seemed, and we got married after a year of dating.” I stare into my coffee cup, making out the swirls of cream, trying to collect the thoughts and emotions that span over half a decade. It seems impossible now, capturing those feelings and injecting them into words.
In moments, it feels like I’ve been transported back in time to the early days, before things got so complicated by love and resentment. We met at one of his shows, back in the early days when he performed at little hole-in-the-wall bars. A friend had to convince me to go, and I only gave in because she promised me alcohol. I’d wanted to drown everything my asshole ex-boyfriend made me feel. It took me a while to catch on through the haze incited by cheap liquor, but I’d felt Jenson’s eyes on me from the stage. Though I denied it was me he was really looking at. He sought me out after his set, introducing himself as Jenson, not Jenson King. He wasn’t Jenson King back then. I’d gotten thoroughly drunk while he was singing, and he fetched me a water without asking and sat with me on the back steps in the alley while he smoked a cigarette and I spilled all my bitter words.
We talked until the dark hours of the morning, when even the moon seemed to be asleep. I would’ve admitted without coercion that he was attractive, with tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves and his down-turned eyes. But it was the things coming out of his mouth that had me transfixed. He said beautiful things; words that painted pictures of better places in my mind, real masterpieces. But how meaningful are words, really? He left me wanting something I could feel deep in the muscle of my heart. Something that gripped my soul instead of just playing my heartstrings.