by Laura Briggs
"Thanks," said Drew, aware that her voice sounded slightly ungrateful. Irritation was chafing her, part of the sinking sensation of her predicament, she supposed. Now that she'd stranded herself hundreds of miles from her old home, the place she'd experienced every Christmas of her life until now.
As she uncapped her pen, prepared to scribble her phone number and name on a scrap of paper, she heard the man clear his throat again.
"Ma'am," he said. The gentle tone made her look up from the message, despite the inner urge to finish this as quickly as possible.
"About that hotel room," he began. She forced a flat smile to her lips.
"I don't need directions," she said. "I'll just go back to the highway and drive towards civilization. Thanks anyway." She folded the slip of paper and reached over to slide it across the counter, making eye contact with the man across from her at the same time. There was something rugged in his appearance despite his starched shirt and clean-shaven appearance, reminding her of denim ads and western calendars.
"That's not what I mean," he said. "There's a room upstairs where you can stay for the night. Free of charge and more comfortable than a long night's drive."
The directness of this statement shocked her, the message in her hand momentarily forgotten. "You mean — spend the night — here? But why?"
"Look, it's almost Christmas. I don't know where you're from —" he cast a glance at her sweater and Gucci purse at this point, "—but I'm guessing it's pretty far. And you never know — Arlene might get back any time."
"I—I couldn't do that," she protested. Picturing herself the victim of a serial crime late at night when a stranger crept upstairs — although she couldn't see this man or his mother as a murderer somehow. "I mean, you don't know me —"
He laughed, a genuinely humorous sound, as if he read her mind. "Nobody lives here, if that's what you're thinking," he said. "We lock up the restaurant part, so there's just the stair door to the outside. And there's a lock on the room door." This part, he added with a significant glance, slightly more serious than his previous expression.
She stared at him, feeling a strange warmth seep into her cheeks and her fingertips. Despite the plainness of his appearance — and the hints of western lifestyle — she found herself locking eyes with him. Noticing the attractiveness of his features, the tanned skin of his arms and hands as he leaned on the counter.
The swinging doors to the kitchen parted as Tonni returned with a glass of water and two red and brown-spiraled cookies on a plate.
"What do you think, Mom?" he asked, glancing at her. "You think it'd be all right if this young lady —"
"Drew," said Drew, interrupting momentarily. "Drew Lorman."
"— if Miss Lorman here slept in that guest bedroom upstairs?" He moved aside the stack of menus on the counter and slid them in a rack on the front. "It ain't been used in awhile, but it's clean — and better than sleepin' in a car on her way home. Gettin' on towards dark about now."
"She could use it tonight and a little longer if she likes," said Tonni. "Maybe Arlene'll be back soon." She directed a smile at Drew with these words.
It seemed to Drew that the young man from behind the counter had asked this question as a mere formality; he was already moving towards the door before his mother was finished speaking.
"You got any bags with you?" he asked, over his shoulder as he pushed it open. Drew followed, feeling reluctant despite the sense of gratitude which should be kicking in at this moment.
"I do," she answered. Outside, the sunset had faded into evening gloom, a slight chill in the air despite the warm temperatures of before. She could see the dim atmosphere of the shops of main street, no signs of life behind the gas station's plate glass windows. Unlocking her car door, she shouldered her new carryall and pulled the overstuffed duffel bag from her passenger floorboard, the one which contained her mother's jewelry and a few extra clothes which Drew tossed in at the last moment.
The man from the restaurant took hold of her bag as she closed the car door, pulling it from her grip as easily as if it were made of paper. She uttered a sound of protest which he didn't seem to notice.
"This way," he said. She followed him inside, forcing her trailing feet to catch up with his long stride. A pair of legs clad in faded denim, taking the stairs two at a time without hurrying or effort, his worn boots producing a thud on the dull carpeting.
This place must have been a residence at one time, she thought, shivering slightly in the cool air of the stairwell as she climbed behind him. The worn carved banister slid beneath her fingers, her eye drawn to the rough board walls contrasted on either side. A framed image of a desert landscape, a spotted mirror in which her appearance was reflected in passing, a tangle of sweaty hair and pale skin sporting sun freckles from her cabin weekend last summer. She tugged off the sweaty blazer and let her sweater absorb the cool air as she reached the hallway above.
The young man pushed open one of four doors visible, divided evenly on each side of the hall. "Bath's in the one closest to the window, at the end," he called. She crossed the threshold of the room, glancing at the plain bed frame and mattress covered by a quilt, the battered dresser and wooden rocking chair almost grey with age.
He placed the bag on the bed, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets as he faced her. For a moment, he seemed almost bashful as his glance wandered towards the bare walls and muslin curtains shrouding the window.
Drew shrugged. "Can I ... pay you something?" she asked. "For rent? Or maybe help you with something downstairs, Mr. —?" It was uncomfortable to be across from a stranger at this moment, whose offer of lodging was charity after a long day's journey.
"J.P. Marsh," he answered, holding out his hand for a formal handshake. Her fingers closed over his own, feeling the leathery texture of his skin, the worn calluses on his palm. "Don't need any money for this. We're closing up early tonight, so we don't need help, either." He moved towards the door, almost brushing her shoulder as he passed.
"I'll bring you up something," he added, pausing outside the door for a moment. "That way you won't go hungry, since we're the only place to eat in town — save the convenience store." With a faint grin, he turned and disappeared down the hall again.
"Great." Drew's voice emerged, a faint, croaky sound too late for J.P.'s ears. She sank down on the bed, dropping her purse on the floor in the process.
Tomorrow, what would she do? Leave empty-handed? There didn't seem to be any point in staying unless Arlene Davis would be back soon. She certainly couldn't stay here — and apparently, the nearest hotel would take her further away, proving what she knew deep inside all along. She was destined to spend Christmas among strangers in a foreign, meaningless environment.
Loneliness washed over her, but she resisted the urge to cry. This whole idea had been ridiculous from the start. She deserved to end up in this mess after passing on so many familiar invitations for the holidays.
Closing her eyes, she leaned against the bed's iron footboard, unwilling to really lose herself in her emotions until after the stranger J.P. brought up "something" before he locked up for the night. No doubt sleepy towns like this spent the holidays in complete silence; busy with families and family traditions ensconced in the warmth and safety of home.
Why couldn't she have at least been stranded somewhere bustling, busy, and civilized like Dallas? Where she could lose herself in the crowd and lights and never know what she was missing.
Chapter Four
When she opened her eyes, Drew glimpsed unfamiliar walls. A moment of panic assailed her until she remembered — the Dry Street Barbecue. The place where she thought she would find her birth mother until yesterday's developments.
Sitting up, she brushed the unkempt curls from her face. Downstairs, she could hear the sound of voices, scuffling movements. The Marshes must be opening their restaurant.
Her stomach was growling as she dug through her bag for something less stuffy than a sweater for the warm t
emperatures. The sight of a turtleneck festooned with a Christmas holly design sent a wave of sadness washing over her momentarily before she shoved it out of sight in favor of a tank top and button down.
Just smile and say thank you ... and slip a twenty onto the counter before you go. Drew repeated this advice internally, as if rehearsing for a final scene in the Dry Street's main dining room. She owed them gratitude for a place to sleep, of course. The best plan was to leave for Boston and stay with a friend until the holidays were over. Give up on this plan of meeting her birth mother for a more sensible one involving her future plans.
But what plans were those? And where would she find someone willing to let her crash until January — without finding herself the object of pitying smiles and painfully outside of the festivities.
She pushed open the door to the dining room, expecting the smell of muffins and hot coffee, or whatever the breakfast equivalent was in small Texas towns. Instead, she smelled the same faint scent of smoky meats and charcoal from yesterday. The only sign of morning activity was J.P. Marsh, seated at one of the tables, untangling a row of novelty lights shaped like chili peppers. Several more like it festooned the windows of the restaurant, including a strand featuring miniature wolves — or coyotes, since Drew wasn't certain.
He glanced up from his work and offered her a friendly grin. "Morning," he said.
"Good morning," she answered, although her gaze was still fixed on the lights dangling across the panes of glass. Was this Texas's idea of Christmas, she wondered?
"Little extra something for the holiday party tonight," he said, holding up the strand as if reading her thoughts. "You want something for breakfast? We don't open in the mornings, but there's always some leftover sopapillas in the kitchen. Little honey on top if you want something sweet."
Sopapillas? Honey? Drew decided not to ask. "I should probably just ... get something on my way out of town," she ventured, after a moment's pause. "Thanks anyway." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, remembering the note from yesterday. She had misplaced it since last night, so she would have to write another one. Should it include something more personal? Dear Arlene, I think I might be your long-lost child... She pictured the possibility of J.P. or Tonni reading it, however, once she drove away.
J.P. didn't look like the type to peruse other people's personal business; he was studying her with a look somewhere between kindness and pity. For some reason, this made an uncomfortable blush surface on her cheeks.
"I ... I owe you something for last night, of course," she said. "I'll give it to you now, since ... well, since there's no point in staying here any longer. With Arlene gone, I mean." She fumbled with her purse, wondering why its zipper resisted her so at these moments.
J.P. laid aside the lights. "She might be back any time," he said, a statement which seemed all-too familiar at this point. "It's Christmas Eve, there's lots of traffic out there on the roads. You came all this way, so there doesn't seem to be any point in you going back now." He leaned one elbow on the table as he studied her. "You did come to see her for Christmas?"
Drew's mouth opened, then snapped shut. Finding the words was more difficult than she imagined, without explaining her reasons for being here to a total stranger.
Finally, she answered, "There's not any place for me to stay. You said so yourself. I think that's a good reason to go home."
"But if you had a place to stay," he answered, "you would stay?" Although this ended as a question, it felt more like a statement to Drew, as if he already knew the answer and was merely confirming it.
"Not anyplace free," she answered, firmly. "I mean, I would stay in a hotel or something —"
"But since there ain't any available, you'd take an alternative — if it was in exchange for money?"
"You mean here?" she asked. "Because I don't think that's such a good idea. Me, staying in your place of business for ... well, for more than a night." She couldn't explain why, since no explanation came to her mind. Other than the feeling that this solution — no matter how lost and uncertain she felt — was not the one she wanted.
Tonni emerged from the kitchen, carrying a thermos of coffee. "Hey, there," she greeted Drew. "Up with the birds this morning? After that long drive, I thought you'd still be asleep." She set the thermos on the table beside a box of silver foil stars and tinsel strands wound in a ball.
Since it was nine o' clock, Drew doubted that her hostess was being anything but polite with this statement. "Well, since I'm on my way home, there was no reason to sleep in today."
"If she stayed upstairs for a couple of days, you wouldn't object," said J.P., looking at his mother. "She wants to pay for it; there's no need for that, but she won't hear of anything else."
Tonni looked at Drew with a frown. "Why, goodness, you can stay here for another night or two," she said, "Why, there's no telling when —"
"—when Arlene will be back," finished Drew. "But I can't —"
"And there's no need to pay for it, of course. Unless that's what makes you feel better. I suppose there's some who'd feel obliged if they took for free. After all, a friend of Arlene's a friend of ours." Tonni unfurled a string of stars, her voice taking on a thoughtful, serious tone as if she was evaluating this statement as it was in progress. J.P. glanced at Drew, eyebrows raised as he waited for her answer.
She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "I'll wait one more day. But I have to pay you for the room." With these words, she pulled her wallet from her purse and opened the cash compartment. Only to find a couple of ones and a ten-dollar bill crammed inside.
She glanced up with a faint smile. "Um, where's the nearest ATM?" she asked. J.P. and Tonni exchanged glances.
"Not for at least —" began Tonni.
"— fifty miles," finished Drew, who was aware of how this statement must end. "Right. I don't suppose there's any way you can take a credit card?" She cast a hopeful glance at the register, which appeared to be a vintage model, as if a sign that few tourists ever ventured into the Dry Street venue.
Tonni made a tsking noise. "The scanner's been broken for 'bout a month," she answered apologetically, as the corners of Drew's smile began to sag.
"But don't you worry now. We'll think of something."
Chapter Five
Drew scraped the contents of a leftover container of coleslaw into the garbage before sinking the bowl into a sink of sudsy water. When she glibly insisted on helping out as a form of payment, she hadn't pictured this, exactly. More something along the lines of refilling salt and pepper shakers and napkin holders.
She plunged her hands into the waves of dish soap, half-wishing for the yellow rubber gloves she once wore when working in the kitchen of a hotdog diner — a brief summer job which earned enough money for her one spring break trip to Panama Beach. Steam from the faucet drifted over her face as she rinsed off the dishes, strands of wavy hair straightening as they plastered themselves to her face.
"I see Ma found you one of my old shirts." J.P. was standing behind her, a coat slung over his shoulder.
She glanced down at the faded green flannel billowing beneath her plastic apron. "Yeah, I guess so," she answered. "She said that barbecue sauce would stain my clothes."
He laughed. "She ain't lying." He reached over and shut off the faucet, taking the newly-washed bowl from her fingers and drying it with a towel from the counter.
Drew tucked her damp hair in a makeshift ponytail band holding her hair back. "Thanks," she said. He nudged her aside slightly, pulling the container's lid from the water, rinsing and drying it in the same fashion.
"I think you washed enough containers of old leftovers," he said, wiping his hands on the dish towel. "There's something else you could help with, if you're so bent on paying your way here."
She rolled her eyes slightly. "Maybe in your culture it seems strange not to take something free from strangers, but I'm not exactly a charity case here. I can definitely cover a couple of nights —" she swallowed hard,
glancing at a clean tub which held extra-greasy refried beans, "—with a little kitchen labor."
J.P. shrugged on his coat. "Suit yourself," he said. "But I could use a hand. And not with anything involving macaroni salad from last Sunday's brunch, either." He shot her a glance half-humorous, half-sympathetic as he turned to go.
She hesitated, then spoke. "Wait," she said. Pulling off the apron, she strode after him. His smile, she couldn't help but notice, was tilted slightly to the side as one corner shifted higher than the other. He opened the door for her, ushering her towards the bright sunlight outside.
"Shouldn't we tell Tonni?" said Drew, glancing over her shoulder at the closing door to the restaurant.
"She's already gone," answered J.P., opening the door to a battered green pickup parked outside. "Tonight's the big to-do, so she's over on Main getting her hair done and picking up those extra crates of onions and peppers that've come in at the co-op."
Drew pictured herself helping heave slabs of meat and big vats of tomato sauce into the back of a delivery truck for the unexplained "to do" tonight. She broke from it only with the realization that J.P. was still standing there, gazing at her quizzically as if he expected her to do something. It was then she realized that he was holding open the passenger door, not the driver's side.
"Oh. Thanks." She climbed inside and slid into the passenger seat obediently, wishing she could drive herself to wherever they were going. A glance in the side mirror showed her a picture she was unaccustomed to seeing: hair disheveled, a faded old shirt hanging loosely around her shoulders. She felt a twinge of dismay, a feeling of self-consciousness as she looked away. Beside her, J.P. snapped his seat belt into place, then turned the keys in the truck's ignition.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
He slid one arm around the seat, gazing out the rear windshield as he backed out of the parking space. "To create a little Christmas cheer," he answered. "It's Christmas Eve. Got to get everything decorated before the party." The truck signaled left, veering away from Main Street and in the direction of non-civilization beyond.