Imagine That
by Kristin Wallace
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
IMAGINE THAT
Copyright © 2014 KRISTIN WALLACE
ISBN 978-1-62135-305-8
Cover Art Designed by Book Beautiful
Thank you to my Heavenly Father for gifting me with an amazing imagination. Just when I think the ideas may have dried up, a new one emerges. Thank you to my wonderfully supportive family. There are so many writer friends who have contributed to my career and I love all of you.
Chapter One
A stomach-churning thunk. A disaster-laden chug. A scary, threatening gurgle.
Emily Sinclair’s hands clutched the steering wheel as she guided her how-could-you-give-out-on-me-now convertible to the side of the road. With a last ominous blunk and splutter, the car gave up the ghost.
She switched off the engine, waited a few seconds, and then turned the key again. Nothing.
Not surprising. As if anything glug-glugging like an octogenarian trying to cough up a lung was going to restart with so little effort.
A cranky yowl went up from the passenger seat. Emily glanced over at the pet carrier and sent the fat Persian inside a confident smile. “Don’t worry, Wordsworth. This is why modern man invented cell phones.”
She fished her phone out of her purse. A blank screen stared back at her. Pressing more buttons did nothing.
Dead.
Dead as her car.
With a sound of disgust, Emily tossed the useless phone aside and stared out the windshield at the deserted country road in front of her. The very deserted country road that stretched around a sparkling blue lake and disappeared into the back of beyond. The kind of road featured in all the best horror stories. Emily’s mind conjured up every one, along with the opening line in the newspaper article.
Once-famous children’s author found mangled to death. Quest to locate her lost imagination and revive faded career ends in disaster… as her mother predicted.
Muttering an oath, Emily climbed out of the car and slammed the door as hard as she could. What a fix. And ironic. There were rules about writing. Not grammar rules, like where to put commas or when to use a semicolon. No, the unofficial rules for fiction writing. Chief among them is that an author should never start a novel with the character driving or thinking. No, readers wanted action right off the top, and the car could never break down.
In college, Emily had written a short story where the heroine’s car stalled in a typical these-people-will-murder-you-in-your-sleep town. Emily’s professor had written cliché in bold, red pen across the page. Not satisfied, she’d added boring cliché, underlining the boring with three thick red lines. The critique had stung. The fact that it had come courtesy of Professor Vanessa Sinclair, Emily’s mother, had been like ripping off an old bandage.
Emily was breaking all three cardinal rules of writing at once. Though technically the driving rule didn’t apply. Same for the sitting rule. She was thinking, though. Thinking her entire life had become a cliché, so what did it matter if she broke her mother’s precious writing rules? She was a one-hit writing wonder. A flash in the pan. A big-haired eighties’ rock band that had scored one giant hit and then disappeared into the oblivion of those nostalgic ‘Where are they now?’ music specials.
Emily sighed. If one had to break down somewhere, one could do worse than… what had the sign said back there? Covington something. Covington something, Georgia. Muted afternoon sun shimmered off the surface of the lake. She lifted a hand to ward off the eye-watering glare and focused on the water. In her previous life, the golden flecks of sunlight reflecting off its surface would have transformed into a million different kinds of fantastical creatures. Or maybe something nightmarish would charge out of that bank of oak trees across the lake.
Unfortunately, Emily was stuck in her real life, and her imagination was on the fritz.
Well, at least she wouldn’t die of water deprivation while she waited to be rescued.
Speaking of rescue.
A car had appeared, winding around the curve of the lake. A big ole’ country truck calling to mind hoedowns and hay rides. A big ole’ rusty truck, Emily realized as it drew closer. Burnt red growth spread out across the hood like a marauding band of Vikings overtaking a defenseless village. She imagined rust was the only thing holding the vehicle together.
The truck slowed and Emily tensed, torn between elation at being found and wariness regarding exactly who might be behind the wheel of the ancient rattletrap. The glare off the windshield made it impossible to see inside the cab, however.
The tires veered off to the side of the road and stopped, sending up a cloud of dust. Emily waved her hand, choking on the airborne dirt. Her mouth felt dry as if she had licked the ground. The door opened. Work boots emerged. Brown and roughed-up and covered in… paint. A man stepped out, and Emily steadied her hands against the car to keep from falling over.
Mr. Darcy. No, Heathcliff. Only instead of a cravat and breeches, he was dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, which seemed molded to an impressive chest. Heath stretched up a good six-plus feet, towering over her puny five-foot-two frame. A lock of dark chocolate-brown hair brushed over his forehead. Their eyes met. Since she was already thinking in clichés, Emily’s mind offered up a million of them to describe his eyes. She could start with gray, but no way did such a mundane word do them justice. Slate, storm clouds, a roiling sea, glazed pewter. Devastating, and framed by thick sooty lashes no man had a right to possess.
He stopped a few feet away, and Emily had the fanciful notion he was trying not to frighten her. Like she was a skittish filly about to bolt.
“Hi,” he said. “Car trouble?”
His voice was like his eyes. Smooth and deep, like honey in a cup of hot tea.
Emily nodded. How could she speak when every male literary fantasy she’d ever dreamed about had unfolded from a rusted-out pickup?
“You okay?” he asked. “You didn’t have an accident? Knock your head on anything?”
“No. Just a car that decided to die,” Emily said, finally finding her voice. “Along with my cell. Although that’s my fault since I didn’t charge it last night, even though my mother is always nagging me not to forget, since I’ve taken it into my head to wander the globe on an aimless search for purpose and meaning. Her description anyway, but if you’d lost your imagination wouldn’t you go to the ends of the earth to find it again? She doesn’t understand, though. Although maybe she’s right. I mean, here I am stuck in Covington something, Georgia, with a dead car, a dead cell, and a dead imagination. Although if I had an imagination I know I could come up with something fantastic about your truck.”
Emily slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified by the verbal diarrhea she’d just unleashed on her hapless rescuer.
The stranger stared at her for a moment, and then did the most unexpected thing. He grinned. “What was that?”
Her butt thumped against the hood of the car as her legs gave out. Oh, Heath had a smile on him that could tempt any fair maiden to let down her hair. Or anything else he wanted.
“That was me losing my mind,” Emily muttered. “Car fumes, maybe. Or all the fresh air around here
.”
He hooked his thumbs in the belt loop of his jeans. “So, your car broke down and you need a lift?”
Oh, sexy. Emily had seen the pose from other men before, but somehow Heath reinvented the move.
“If you have a cell phone handy and maybe a number of a towing service, I could call someone,” she said.
Emily’s brain might not be functioning on a normal level, but she was astute enough to know it was a bad idea to get into a car with a strange man. Even Heathcliff.
“Actually, my cell died this afternoon, too.”
Shoot, she thought, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. “Maybe when you get to wherever you’re going, you could send a tow truck out here? No offense. I’m sure you’re nice and all, but Ted Bundy acted nice at first, too.”
A furrow formed between his eyes, and his shoulders stiffened. “I would never hurt a woman. I would never hurt you.”
Emily stared at him. It had been a long time since she’d trusted a man. She pushed to her feet and stepped closer. The stranger didn’t move but kept his arms resting at his sides.
Then a dog barked. Emily swiveled toward the back of the truck. A black lab hung its head over the side. The dog barked again, and its tail swished back and forth in a boy-am-I-glad-to-meet-you greeting.
“Meet Blackie,” Heath said.
She chuckled. “Original.”
“My kid brother named him.”
Emily figured it was a pretty safe bet Ted Bundy wouldn’t have a tail-wagging dog with him. She walked over to the truck, patted the dog’s head, and was rewarded with a wet doggy kiss.
“Blackie, it’s not nice to slobber all over people we don’t know,” Heath chided.
Emily massaged the dog’s floppy ears, and the canine quivered in ecstasy. “He’s all right. It’s kind of nice knowing someone enjoys me touching him so much… Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth again as heat rushed up her cheeks.
She had to stop running off at the mouth. What was wrong with her?
“That totally came out wrong.”
The expected suggestive rejoinder never emerged. Instead, he coughed into his hand. To hide a laugh, no doubt.
Emily studied him a moment more. If her rescuer passed on the opportunity to slam-dunk the setup she’d given him, he must be a true gentleman. “Okay, I’d appreciate a lift anywhere I can find a phone.”
“I can drop you off in town.”
“Hold on one second,” she said, with a decisive nod.
She spun around and hurried back to the car. A quick press of a button, and the convertible top slid back into place. She picked up the cat carrier, purse, and her keys. Two blip-blips and the car was as secure as it was going to be.
Her rescuer eyed the crate. “What’s in there?”
“Wordsworth,” she said, holding up the carrier.
Heath leaned down to look inside, and a white paw zipped through the grate, accompanied by a hiss. He jerked back, narrowly missing a swipe across the nose.
“Word, don’t be rude,” Emily said, tapping the crate door. “This nice man is going to ensure you get dinner tonight.” She gave her rescuer a strained smile. “Sorry. He gets cranky in the car.”
“Maybe if his face wasn’t all mashed in he’d have a better attitude.”
“He’s a Persian.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Emily’s cheeks were going to become permanently stained with blush. Fighting the urge to bang her head against the cab of the truck, she scurried around to the passenger side. Heath beat her to the door, opening it with a gallant wave. Emily leaned in and set the pet carrier on the seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed Heath’s eyes had drifted down. Right about the place where little rainbow patches resided on the pockets of her denim shorts.
Prickles of awareness heated her skin. She cleared her throat, and his eyes jerked up to her face. His gaze seemed to burn right into her soul. She’d always imagined gray eyes to be cold and lifeless. His were molten.
She swallowed. “What’s your name?”
“Nathan Cooper. Most people call me Nate.”
She stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Nate.”
Nate’s hand swallowed hers whole. It fit the rest of him. Warm and firm with rough calluses.
He stared down at her. “Do you have a name?”
“I’m Emily Sinclair.”
She waited, but there was no stirring of recognition in his dreamy gray eyes. Only a polite nod. Maybe he was too old to know who she was. Or maybe she’d fallen off the map the last couple years, the same way she’d fallen off the best sellers’ list.
Emily sighed and climbed into the truck. “Yep, eighties’ one-hit wonder,” she muttered under her breath.
Nate slid into the driver’s seat. “Did you say something?”
She gazed out the window at the lake, which was still just a lake. “Nope. I’ve got nothing to say apparently.”
****
Nate’s gaze drifted across the cab of the truck, landing on Emily’s colorful shorts. She had rainbows on her…
Stop! Don’t go there, man.
Nothing good would come of thinking about rainbow patches. Not when he had too much going on in his life to think about what might be under those distracting shorts. He shouldn’t be thinking Blackie was one lucky dog, either.
“It’s nice knowing someone enjoys me touching him so much.”
God? He prayed silently. Is this a joke? One more test I have to endure?
Nate glanced at his new passenger again. Emily Sinclair was cute. Goofy, but cute nonetheless. She had hair like an old penny. Copper with a hint of red. Dark lashes framed robin’s egg blue eyes. She’d gazed at him with wariness in those eyes before finally agreeing to get in the truck. Wariness that had him wanting to protect and shelter her. Only Nate had enough people in his life needing shelter and protection right now.
Still, she’d made him laugh.
After the morning spent at the doctor’s, and receiving the gut-clenching prognosis, being able to smile was nothing short of a miracle from God. To tell the truth, Nate couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Then Emily Sinclair had pulled him out of the pit with her off-the-wall speech about dead cells and dead imaginations. Whatever that meant.
Then she’d jerked the air from his lungs with rainbow patches. And a handshake.
Nate flexed his hand against the steering wheel. Tried to concentrate on something mundane. Something boring. Something without rainbow colors. However, colors were his world and Emily came in every shade imaginable.
With that hair, her skin should have been pasty white or covered with freckles. Hers was golden and smooth, and since she’d paired the rainbow shorts with a canary yellow tank top, he could see a lot of golden skin. Even her feet were multicolored. Fire engine red polish covered toenails peeking out of blue sandals.
“So where are from, Emily Sinclair?” he asked, trying to distract himself.
“New Haven originally, but I’ve been living in Baltimore since college.”
“You’re a long way from home. Where were you headed? There’s nothing much out this way.”
“To inspiration.”
“Is that a town?”
A deep sigh. “No.”
He tapped a finger against the steering wheel, searching for something to say. Then he remembered the one word he’d managed to understand in her crazy speech. “It’s Covington Falls.”
Her head whipped around, and she blinked like an owl in the night. “Huh?”
Man, those eyes are killers. “You’re in Covington Falls, Georgia.”
Her frown disappeared, only to be replaced with another one. “Why does the name sound familiar?”
“Addison Covington lives here now. Maybe you saw the papers awhile back. There was a pretty big dustup when the press found out she’d fled here from Hollywood.”
“Right,” Emily said, snapping her fingers. “I remember reading she’d directed a
musical at the high school. Hard to believe someone like Addison Covington would choose to live here.”
“She’s nothing like the character she played on TV.”
“I guess not.”
Awkward. Silence.
Nate wracked his brain, trying to come up with something to say, but in the end Emily filled the gap.
“What do you do, Nate?”
“I’m a painter.”
“Oh.” She sat up straighter and twisted in his direction. “Do you paint landscapes or people? What’s your medium? Oils or acrylic?”
He chuckled. Did he look like the kind of guy who made oil paintings? Wouldn’t his crew have a good laugh?
“Not that kind of painting,” he said. “Houses. Exteriors mostly.”
“Houses? How interesting.”
Her voice dropped, and her lashes flickered down as she shifted again. Nate got the feeling she was disappointed. Blue collar must not be worth much in her eyes. She might be flaky, but her fancy sports car and the cat with the smashed-in face advertised she came from a refined world. Pride stiffened his shoulders, and tension squeezed the back of his neck.
He’d tried going down a similar road before and ended up broad sided and spun into a ditch. His foot pressed harder on the pedal as he willed his faithful truck to hurry. He needed to deposit Rainbow Shorts at the repair shop and concentrate on more important things.
Like how he was going to tell his brother their mother was dying.
Chapter Two
Nice going, Em. Way to insult your rescuer. You’re as bad as Wordsworth.
Seemed her manners had gone the way of her imagination. She’d just been so excited to meet a fellow artistic soul. Writers, artists, sculptors, actors. They all shared a bond. A bond born of the unstoppable need to create something. The struggle, the blood, the tears. The stupid brain freezes. Nate probably wanted to shove her out the door. Emily wished a giant hole would swallow her up.
Imagine That Page 1