“It’s not my fault,” Grier said. “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do when the car’s taken in for service?”
Sebbie whined and plopped down on the seat, head on his paws, as if he found the question unworthy of an answer.
Not once in all the times Grier had designed her return-to-the-past stories had they ever contained a scene where she let her car run out of oil. Nonetheless, here she was. She tried the engine again, only to be met with a low groaning sound that signaled nothing more than a complete lack of cooperation. She sat for a moment, her head against the back of the seat, staring through the sunroof at a swipe of vivid blue sky.
How exactly had she let herself be talked into returning to Timbell Creek?
She reached for her phone, swiped the screen and tapped in 411. Nothing. No signal.
Great. Sebbie emitted another low whine, as if this, too, could be blamed on her.
“Looks like we’re walking, buddy.”
At this new development, he hopped up and wagged his tail.
Grier opened the door and slid out, glancing down at the strappy Via Spiga heels she’d paired with a Donna Karan sleeveless wrap dress this morning. The car had decided to have its oil crisis ten or so miles from the town limits of Timbell Creek, and she did a mental calculation now of how long it would take her to walk that far in these shoes.
She snapped on Sebbie’s leash, and he leapt from the car, his opinion on the status of their day clearly having changed.
“Maybe we can pick up a signal down the road a bit,” Grier said.
Another bark of agreement, and Sebbie tugged at the leash.
“Hold on,” Grier chided, grabbing her purse from the back seat and hitting the remote lock.
They headed down the two-lane road, Grier’s heels clicking on the asphalt, Sebbie bouncing along on the end of the leash. The sun glared against her shoulders, its burn reminding her that she didn’t have on sunscreen. She flipped the cell phone open and held it up, waving it left and right like a compass in search of true north. Nothing. Nada.
Sebbie pranced along with his head and tail high, as if the two of them were headed for an appointment with the Queen of England. Not for the first time it occurred to Grier that it would be nice to have a dog’s perspective of the world. Nothing to worry about beyond the immediately visible.
To their right, a herd of black and white cows had called a halt to their grazing, staring at them with big, blinking brown eyes. With a snort, a younger calf broke rank and trotted over to the fence for a closer look. Sebbie barked a greeting. The cow lowered its head and let out a long mooooooo. Grier wondered what they’d just said to one another. Probably something along the lines of “wonder what she was thinking when she picked out those shoes this morning.”
The whole herd of cows followed the younger one’s lead, and they meandered along the fence until they reached the end, where they stood in a group and stared after them. Grier wished for a box of sugar cubes, a bag of carrots or something cows might like. The half-empty box of Tic Tacs hunkering in a corner of her purse wasn’t likely to impress them.
Just ahead to the left lay a sprawling cornfield, row upon row of short green stalks sprouting from the tilled earth. The musty scent of clay and fertilizer hurled her back to her childhood and the spring mornings she’d stood waiting for the school bus, watching as Mr. Brooks who had lived across the road, maneuvered his tractor up and down his long field, turning the dirt over for planting.
Uncanny how a memory could send a person straight back to the past. A place she hadn’t let herself visit, even in thought, for a long time.
She glanced down at her clothes, aware that the shoes and dress alone cost more than her mama had ever made in three months of working at the sewing factory in town.
She readjusted her sunglasses and blinked the thought away, holding the phone up again to see if it had changed its mind yet. Nope. Sebbie barked and trotted on a little faster, pulling her along with him.
“Hold up there,” she said. “I’m getting a blister.”
Sebbie actually looked at the shoes and, clearly unimpressed, forged on as if they were the lead contender in a bobsled contest.
A vehicle sounded in the distance, and sudden relief washed over her. She stopped and turned around to glance back, urging Sebbie off the asphalt into the tall grass on the side of the road. Was it tick season yet? She reached down and scratched the side of one leg, the very thought making her itch.
A truck appeared at the edge of what she could see of the long, straight road. The engine sounded like a mad lion, roaring even louder as it grew nearer, and Grier moved the two of them farther into the grass.
The smell arrived a good ten seconds ahead of the mud green truck. If the stench surrounding it had a color, it would be that exact same shade of mud green. Grier pinched her nose together. Sebbie yelped and made a low-throated protest, before barking in all out earnest.
As the truck rumbled closer, she read the banner inscribed across the front of the hood. What must have once been white letters had long since succumbed to a dingy brown. Horace and Son Septik Tanc Cleaning. Hard to say whether the spelling was intentional in the vein of cute advertising or just an honest case of illiteracy.
To Grier’s dismay, the truck began to slow down. Sebbie looked up at her with a pitiful plea in his eyes, wrinkling his nose. She put her hand over her own nose and mouth and blinked hard, her eyes beginning to sting.
The driver hit the brakes and came to a tire smoking stop fifteen yards in front of them. Just as she considered ducking into the cow pasture, the reverse lights popped on, and the truck began to roll backwards. The smell now hit them full force, and she caught a glimpse of the hose hanging from one side, trying not to imagine where it had last been used.
“Hey, there, ma’am!”
Grier lifted her gaze to the lowered window on the truck’s passenger side. A young man in his late twenties grinned out at her, his bill cap boasting the same company logo as the front of the truck. “You need some help there, ma’am?”
Sebbie began to bark, as though he’d suddenly realized it was his duty. Grier rubbed his back, saying, “Ah, no, actually, we’re fine.” She waved her cell phone as if that explained why she was walking this road in her unfortunate choice of footwear.
The driver leaned forward. If the guy on the passenger side was the son in Horace and Son, this could only be Horace.
“That yer BMW back yonder?” he asked. A front middle tooth had gone missing, accounting for the audible whistle between each word.
“Yes, I seem to have a little oil problem.”
“Funny how these fancy cars won’t cooperate without it,” he said, chuckling. “Y’all hop on in here, and we’ll give you a ride up to the Exxon.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said quickly, “but it’s such a nice day, we’re fine to walk.”
Son looked at her as if the top of her head had just sprung a worrisome leak. “Shoot now, it’s gotta be five miles or more.”
Sebbie barked again and started to pull her toward the truck, obviously in agreement with Son.
“Nothing like a good walk on a spring day,” she said, painting the words with a big smile.
This time, Horace delivered the look. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“Thank you for stopping, though.”
Both men nodded, and then the truck ground off one gear to the next until it turned to a blip in the distance.
The smell, however, lingered.
Grier glanced down at Sebbie, unable to resist scolding him. “You were just going to hop right in there with them?”
He cocked his head to one side and started walking, forcing her to follow.
She teetered after him. “What made you decide you could live with the smell?”
Sebbie barked once and glanced back at her shoes.
“Yeah, well, I can hardly roll back into Timbell Creek reeking of someone’s septic tank, can I?”
&n
bsp; Sebbie pranced on, head high.
Her blister now raged in protest, and she wished for the first aid kit in the glove compartment of her car. They walked another half mile or so in silence, the sun raising more red splotches on her skin.
Sebbie started to pant, and sweat stains bloomed in the armholes of Grier’s sleeveless dress. Lovely.
She had started to seriously regret her rejection of Horace and Son when another vehicle rounded the curve behind them. She glanced at her swelling feet – her pedicured red toes were starting to look like cherry tomatoes. This time, she wouldn’t be so picky.
A red Chevrolet truck roared toward them, the body of which had been jacked a good foot higher than its original intended position above the tires. The chrome bumpers and side runner gleamed as if maintained by someone who cleaned royal silver for a living.
The horn on this one played “I Wish I Was in Dixie.” Sebbie’s bark now hit a few notes of uncertainty before evolving into a low rrrrrrrr. The truck stopped, and the driver leaned over, rolling down the passenger side window. “You need some—”
The question ended there, and they recognized each other at the same moment. The sound of his voice flung her back nineteen years to a place she had never imagined again finding herself. First thought? He still looked like Bradley Cooper.
Whoever said life always turned out fair never spent nearly two decades wishing in vain for an old boyfriend to develop a paunch and chin warts.
“Darryl Lee?”
“Is that really you, Grier?” he asked, disbelieving.
“I—yes,” she said, hearing the shock in her own voice.
He lowered his dark sunglasses and gave her a long look, following it up with a whistle. “Good gracious, girl, who woulda guessed you’d turn out this fine?”
Should she be flattered or offended? Considering their past, she latched onto the latter.
“Now that’s a compliment,” he assured her, as if he’d read her decision.
“Thanks,” she said, failing to disguise her sarcasm.
“That your car I passed a couple miles back, or are you on some kind of marathon walking tour?” His chuckle had Southern-boy charm.
“That was my car,” she said, forcing the words out through a fixed smile.
“You need some help?”
She kept the smile pasted in place, trying hard not to compare his offer to jumping into a pit of vipers. She’d have sacrificed manicures for a year to have another option, but her feet throbbed, and the possibility of being forced to wear bedroom slippers in front of the cameras tomorrow morning prodded the answer from her. “A ride to the next gas station would be great.”
He opened the door and patted the seat. “Sure thing, baby.”
“So not your baby,” she said, climbing in with Sebbie under her arm.
Darryl Lee grinned an infuriating grin.
The seats had been slicked in silicone spray, and she slid backwards with a mortifying lack of grace. Sebbie grappled for footing, too, before giving up altogether and plopping down, legs spread-eagled.
She remembered then that the seats in the Chevelle Darryl Lee had driven in high school had a similar sliding board effect. Some unsettling memories of making out in the back seat of that car floated up to the soundtrack of the two of them giggling wildly and slipping around like two fools greased with shortening.
A speaker hung in either corner of the truck’s interior, and the low twang of bluegrass filled the awkward silence.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got somewhere to be.”
His gaze lingered at the neckline of her dress before he slapped a hand on the steering wheel. “No problem,” he said, gunning the truck back onto the road, gravel spitting out behind them.
Darryl Lee reached over and patted Sebbie’s head, only to receive a low rumble of complaint in return. “He looks like something the cat spit out.”
She sliced him a glare.
“Nice leash though. Is that Louis Vuitton?”
“Like you would know Louis Vuitton from Wal-Mart.”
Darryl Lee laughed. “Girl, I’ve had a little polish since you knew me.”
Grier pulled Sebbie into her lap just as Darryl Lee gave his fingers a sniff and then drew back with an astonished, “Whew. What is that smell? You two get into something out there?”
Immediately defensive, she said, “This truck drove by and we. . .never mind.” If mortification needed a poster girl, she’d be a shoe in. Of the many reunion scenarios with Darryl Lee she’d envisioned over the years, this wasn’t one of them.
Darryl Lee draped his arm across the seat, steering with his left hand and pinning her with an assessing look.
“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?” she asked.
He grinned and wolf-whistled through his teeth. “Damn, girl. You do look good.”
“Thanks,” she said, aiming for a note of indifference. “You look the same.”
“That good or bad?”
“Neither. Just a statement of fact.”
“What’s it been? Seventeen, eighteen years since we saw each other?”
“Nineteen,” she said a little too quickly.
“Ah. Nineteen years. Now, that’s hard to believe. I’d hoped I was reason enough to make you stay.”
Did she hear real regret in his voice? She turned then to glare at him. “Let’s not rewrite history, shall we?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My shadow hadn’t left town before you took up with Marta.”
He had the decency to look sheepish. “Only because you broke my heart.”
“As I said, you haven’t changed.”
He let that one go, watched the road for a bit. “You married, Grier?”
“No,” she said, and then curious in spite of her declared indifference, “You?”
“Not so much anymore.”
She folded her arms across her chest, set her gaze outside the window, unable to keep the sarcasm from her reply. “I’m shocked.”
“Hey, now, do I really deserve this kind of grief?” he asked with a smile she remembered only too well.
“If I didn’t think you’d kick me out of the truck, I’d say yes.”
Darryl Lee laughed. The sound shimmered through her. Unfair that old chords could be so easily strummed.
“Darryl Lee. I appreciate the ride, but let’s not pretend there’s any love lost between us. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve seen your true colors, and you don’t need to bother with the pretense.”
He gave this a moment of consideration before saying, “Does New York City do this to everybody who ends up there?”
“What?” she asked with reluctance.
“Steal their softness.”
She absorbed the statement, feeling as if she’d been sucker punched. Not what she’d expected him to say. Accuse her of deserting her beginnings, okay, she could live with that. But he had no idea why she’d left here, and her hand itched with the need to give him a ringing reminder that, of all people, he had no right to judge her.
“How far is the gas station?”
“Half mile or so.”
“I can walk the rest of the way. Just pull over, please.”
“Hold on, now, Grier,” he said on a half-laugh. “Don’t you think we’re letting this get a little out of hand?”
“Actually, no. The mistake was getting in here in the first place.”
“Dang woman, you do know how to hold a grudge.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Holding a grudge would mean I’ve given you a second thought in all these years, and I assure you that’s not the case.”
He lowered his sunglasses and lasered her with a look that labeled her soliloquy a load of cow manure.
She didn’t bother to deny it. The Exxon sign had popped into sight, and with any luck at all, this conversation had gasped its last breath.
“If you say so, sugar.”
They veered into the s
tation as if there were an impending shortage on brake pads, and Darryl Lee was conserving. She gripped the door handle and held onto Sebbie’s collar to keep him from taking a nosedive onto the floorboard. A white Ford truck pulled away from one of the gas pumps, forcing Darryl Lee to give in and siphon off some of his brake supply. At the same time, he hit the horn, sending out another round of Dixie.
He lowered his window and waved for the driver to stop. “Hey,” he yelled, “I’ve been lookin’ for you! Pull over!”
She got a glimpse of the man in the other truck and the distinct impression that he wasn’t as happy to see Darryl Lee as Darryl Lee was to see him. Darryl Lee cut the engine and put a hand on her arm. “Can you wait a minute?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I really need to get going.”
“Nineteen years, and you can’t wait two minutes?”
She failed to hide her astonishment. “You’re not really suggesting that I owe you something, are you?”
He glanced down at her feet, now threatening to burst free from the flimsy straps of her Italian sandals.
“Two minutes,” she conceded.
He hopped out of the truck, walked over to the Ford.
Sebbie took his place in the driver’s seat, paws planted on the windowsill, staring at the two men as if he’d been given a front row seat at a catfight.
The truck’s passenger side window lowered, and a large black and tan hound stuck its head out the window, greeting Darryl Lee with a tongue-lolling smile.
Sebbie started yipping full blast.
Grier picked him up and shushed him. To no avail. He did a happy dance on her lap, wagging his whole body at the hound, who was, of course, paying no attention to him.
The Ford’s driver got out and walked around to where Darryl Lee stood rubbing the dog’s head.
Grier tried not to stare, but curiosity got the better of her, and she squinted at the man’s face. With a start, she recognized him as Darryl Lee’s older brother, the resemblance impossible to miss.
Bobby Jack Randall. The name came instantly to her, even though she’d barely met him once when she and Darryl Lee came back to his house to watch TV, high school code for making out. Bobby Jack had been home from college for the weekend, and she remembered now the way he’d looked at her with what she’d later realized – too late, actually – was pity and even later on discovered the reason for.
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