Potter Springs

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Potter Springs Page 13

by Britta Coleman


  He’d been so strong for her, for so long.

  I want to get better. Effort thickened her voice. “I’m sorry.” The hardest thing to say, but a place to start. “I hurt your feelings… about the van …” She would not say the words my car again.

  “It doesn’t matter.” He spoke to the wall.

  But it did, the straightness of his spine said. The links of his vertebrae arched together, lined up against her. She traced a finger along the bumps and felt his involuntary shiver. In the tender spot at the base of his back, the place tension coiled, she pressed with her thumbs and rubbed. His muscles bunched, then separated, smooth as glass under her hand.

  She said the words. “I missed you.”

  He turned on his side to face her, one arm supporting his head. “You did?” His breath smelled like mouthwash. The moonlight caressed him.

  “I did.” She nodded, and brushed away the hair on his forehead. He needed a haircut. She hadn’t noticed it before.

  His hand spanned her waist, smaller now through sit-ups and walks. Soreness hummed in her legs, strained from hiking in Colorado. She welcomed the tightness in her thighs. Hoping he felt a renewed firmness in her body. Her muscles, her strength, returning.

  “How much did you miss me?” He dragged her across his chest so she lay full atop him. His pajama bottoms warmed her bare legs.

  She tangled her toes in the flannel and tugged down, her calves restless. Her sleep shirt bunched against her hips and he gathered it up farther, rubbing as if it were silk and fine. Calluses on his fingertips feathered her legs, her ribs, the curve of her breasts.

  He freed her from the cotton. “How much?” he asked again.

  As he kneaded her flesh, she slid kisses along his neck, burrowed her face against his chest. “Much.” She pulled away to look at him.

  Meeting her gaze, his eyes spoke of longing and hope. Her tangled hair pooled around their faces, a makeshift canopy, warm and safe. Hidden from the outside world, from the gray moon and the darkened flowers.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Me too,” she whispered back.

  A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Show me.”

  SHE WOKE LATE, as usual, and after throwing on her robe, found Mark already dressed in the yard fooling with the weed-eater. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” He grinned with all his facial muscles. The look of a truly happy man.

  Sleep still fogged her brain as the sun stung her eyes. “Don’t you have work?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I took the day off, thought we could spend it together.”

  A small miracle.

  “I like that.” She watched him. His love language to her, doing things around the yard, picking up the house. Not with words, but with actions. Show me, he’d said.

  And she did.

  “I left bacon for you on the counter.” He crouched over the coiled tubing. “There’s fresh coffee too. I got that dark roast you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mrs. Zimmerman walked Princess on the other side of the street. The dog stopped on a neighbor’s immaculate lawn, bunched in a triangle shape, and pooped. “Good girl!” cooed Mrs. Zimmerman. She waved at Mark and Amanda, and continued on her walk.

  No doubt several other neighbors would be recipients of Princess’s little presents before the morning was out.

  Amanda yawned and jammed her hands in her robe pockets, her toes curling from the cold driveway. “Maybe after breakfast I’ll get dressed and we can head down to the dealership.”

  “The dealership?” He looked at her.

  “You know, the van. So I can get my … the Toyota.”

  He stiffened, then concentrated on a tangle in the coil. Saying nothing.

  “We’re going to, right?”

  “I thought you might think it over for a few days. Before we do anything rash.”

  “I don’t need to think about it. I want-”

  “Tell you what.” He’d gotten the snag undone. “I’ll finish the yard, and you can go down to the dealership.” His tone was light, conversational.

  “But why don’t you-”

  “Mandy,” he said gently. Squinting into the brightness behind her, he rested his forearms on his knees. “I want the van. I like the van. And if you don’t, then maybe you need to work this out for yourself.”

  “Fine.” Irritated, she accepted the challenge. She dressed quickly, poured coffee in a travel mug and drove the minivan to Hemp’s Used Motorway. It wasn’t hard to find. After all, she’d seen the commercials a bazillion times, and knew the address by heart.

  Faded pennants strung across the sales lot like a tired fiesta. Amanda scanned the rows for her Toyota, but didn’t spot it anywhere. Sighing, she executed a turn to a dead stop in front of the sales office. Scavengers hovered on the stairs, no doubt tossing a coin over who’d get the next sale on the lot.

  Greasy Mustache won, sliding his hand over an impossibly black pompadour. He smashed his cigarette, straightened his tie and advanced toward the van. “Name’s Donny.” His handshake was as vigorous as his breath. “What can I do you for, little lady?”

  Amanda adopted her best Katy Thompson impersonation. “I need to speak with your manager. Right away.”

  “Now, now, hold it there.” Donny wheezed and held up both hands. “Lemme see if I can help you.”

  “No. Thank you, but I need immediate assistance from someone in charge.” Amanda stared him down.

  “Allrighty,” he conceded. “I’ll get the top man for you.” He shuffled toward the oversize windows with a shrug.

  A few minutes later, a hefty man in a silver Stetson strode out the double doors, leaving them flapping in his wake. The friction from his waddle could have started a fire. “Steve Boyd, Hemp’s used-sales manager. Can I hepya?”

  “I hope so. There’s been a mistake on a trade-in. I need to get my car back.”

  “Which car is that?”

  “A Toyota hatchback. Red, two-door. Tan interior. My husband traded it. For this.” She motioned toward the hunter green minivan. “Awaiting my signature. I’m afraid I won’t be signing.”

  “Now, that van’s a real peach….”

  “But I’m not interested in this peach. If you would please return my car, I can be about my business.” She dangled the minivan’s uni-key.

  “Well, it’s not that easy, Mrs—”

  “Amanda Reynolds. Mark Reynolds arranged the paperwork.”

  “Oh, thassright. Nice guy. Not too many husbands’d do a thing like that. Get a new car for their wives, a surprise and all.” Steve Boyd regarded her.

  Amanda refrained from comment and ignored the guilt whispers. She did not owe the used-sales manager an explanation.

  “Told me he’s in the ministry, and y’all needed it for the Lord’s work.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Guess the Lord don’t need no more helpers?” Huffing, he opened the door.

  She followed Steve up a short stack of stairs to an office. Shiny posters filled the walls, portraying misty forests at dawn and determined joggers on the beach, with captions like STRIVE and IMAGINE.

  “Lessee here.” He filtered through papers, shuffling them like a Las Vegas dealer.

  Amanda sensed a scam coming on. Steve Boyd had a loaded deck, and she knew it.

  “Here we go.” He grabbed a sheet with scribbled math figures and whistled through his teeth. “Gosh, I’m almost glad you came in. Nearly gave that baby away.” He chortled, shaking all the way through his belly, where cheap white buttons threatened to pop.

  Amanda didn’t join his laughter. She sat on the edge of her seat and waited for the torture to end.

  Skimming the paperwork, he shoved on a pair of glasses. “Hmmm. Seems there’s a bit of a wrinkle.”

  “Problem?”

  “A small kink.” He peered at her over plastic amber rims.

  “How small?”

  “Well, this here deal on your van?” He wiggled the sheets. “Was what we like to c
all a lock.”

  “But without my signature it can’t be a lock,” she pointed out. “Legally speaking. Right?”

  Steve Boyd rolled his eyes at the mention of legalities. “Your husband told us your Hancock was a done deal.”

  “It’s not, though. Because you need me to sign and I’m not going to.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that, MizReynolds. However, it seems”-he tapped the paperwork-“one of our junior salesmen’s already loaned out your Toyota. To some potential buyers. A beginner’s mistake.”

  “Who has it?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “Can’t tell you that.”

  Steve Boyd, keeper of great secrets. And small imports with high mileage.

  “Now, don’t hold me to this.” He shifted his weight in the swivel chair, which emitted a low groan. “But we might be able to get the Toyota back in the morning.”

  Amanda noticed he didn’t say your car. “I should think so, since it doesn’t belong to you.”

  He flinched. “We can handle the exchange then. That is, if you haven’t fallen in love with that peach out there by tomorrow.”

  Aha. The classic bait ‘n’ switch. She’d learned car talk at the knee of a master, and no low-rate dealer from Potter Springs was going to pull a fast one on Ben Thompson’s daughter. Amanda scooped up the detested key and pushed back the chair. “I will see you in the morning, Mr. Boyd.”

  Driving home, she fought tears of frustration. The good old boy network. Jerks. Success eluded her, and she wanted to weep in Mark’s arms. Or have him do something primal, like go beat up every last salesman on the lot.

  Then she remembered-she’d left on a tense note this morning. And it was her fault. However misguided, he’d done a nice thing in buying the van for her and she’d overreacted.

  How did they ever get this far apart? She wanted to throw herself at him and start anew, to holler, “Do over!” and have the past months erased, shaken clean like a brand new Etch-A-Sketch.

  At home, Mark met her in the kitchen. He’d been waiting.Looking downright adorable, in sweatpants and running socks, standing on the vinyl tiles.

  No sense of victory graced his brow. No crude championship from his stance. He didn’t even check the driveway to see what she’d driven back from the dealership.

  On the table between them sat fresh sandwiches and glasses of milk, with cloth napkins folded just so. Some of the neighbor’s garden mums filled a mason jar. An indoor picnic for two, ready and waiting.

  “Hi.” She took the first step. “That looks great.” Tossing her purse on the floor, she prepared to tell all. To commiserate. To love and let him love her back.

  Then she noticed the ashen cast to his face.

  “Your mom called while you were gone. From the hospital in Houston. It’s your dad.”

  CHAPTER 20

  minutes on the hour

  Mark sat next to the uneaten sandwiches and tepid milk, in awe of his wife’s cyclonic fury. Since she’d hung up the phone after a terse exchange of information with her mother, he’d never seen her move so fast. An auburn whirlwind.

  She pulled clothes from the dryer, cotton tangled in denim. Her hands shook as she packed the pile, still knotted, into an open knapsack. She dug a few things out of her larger suitcase from the retreat and transferred them to the smaller bag.

  “Can I help? Is there something I can do?”

  “No.” She tossed in a few books and her journal.

  “Let me call the church. Get Ervin to cover my rotation. I’m coming with you.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the phone. He thought of his father-in-law, Ben. Tobacco and beer, sharp eyes and wide girth. He couldn’t imagine the level of pain it would take to fell such a giant.

  “No. You stay. You’re needed here.”

  “Don’t you need me?” He followed her to the bathroom. They both hardly fit in the tiny room, the towel bar braced into his side. The edge of the bedroom carpet tickled his heel.

  She stuffed toiletries and his toothbrush in a large plastic bag. He didn’t tell her she picked the wrong one.

  “Of course I do.” She placed a dry, fleeting kiss on his cheek. “But I’ll have Mother. And I’ve got to get to Houston as soon as possible. By the time you arrange everything with Ervin, I could be there.” She shut the medicine cabinet.

  “Are you sure?” he asked her in the mirror.

  “I’m sure.”

  Back in the kitchen, she dug in her purse, leaving wrinkled receipts on the table. “If things change, either way, I’ll call you. We’ll find out what’s going on. How bad it is. Later, when we know more.” She hefted the knapsack, zipper open with a pink bra strap hanging out, over her shoulder.

  Mark took the bag from her, zipped it shut and carried it to the van.

  Outside, he tugged her coat closed and buttoned the top toggle. He held her a minute longer than she held him. “I love you.”

  “Me too. Take care of Mr. Chesters for me.” She started the engine and pulled away. The minivan disappeared down the street, turning out of sight.

  Mark stared at the empty road, imagining himself racing down its length and reaching her. Yet, the rift seemed so wide, he didn’t think he could ever cross it. No matter how fast he ran.

  * * *

  AFTER INQUIRING AT the information desk, Amanda found the ICU waiting room on the fifth floor. Once there, she merely followed the smell of smoke and an orderly hightailing it down the hall.

  Katy Thompson looked worse than Amanda had ever seen her. The designer, color-wheeled clothing was gone. Her naked lips wrapped around a cigarette. She wore plaid stretchy pants with a floral sweater and slip-ons. No hose.

  “Ma’am.” The hospital worker halted in front of her mother. “May I remind you, again, this is a no smoking facility?”

  Not wanting to get in one of her mother’s quarrels, Amanda hid behind a magazine rack and waited for the storm to blow over.

  “Yes, Bryan, you may.” Like an amused high schooler, Katy took another long drag and blew the smoke in artful swirls.

  “I’ll have to ask you, again, to please refrain from smoking. You are welcome to utilize our outdoor receptacles.” Bryan had a slight lisp. Pleath, sthmoking, retheptacleth.

  “All right.” Katy puffed deeply, nodding.

  “And, as we’ve discussed several times today, you must put the cigarette out immediately or I will be forced to notify… security.” His frustration formed a beautiful hard s.

  She fizzled the butt in her makeshift coffee cup ashtray and smiled sweetly. “Those are the magic words.”

  “Really.” His disgust gave him a lecturing tone. “You are endangering our patients. Other families. You should have more respect.”

  “And you should realize your patients are in plenty of danger already. A little second-hand smoke isn’t going to make one iota of difference. But as for me”-she rubbed her temples-“you do not want to encounter me on a nicotine low. Now, that’s dangerous.”

  Bryan stomped away and disappeared around the corner, warning, “I’ll be back to check on you.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Katy called to the empty corridor.

  “Hi, Mom.” Amanda came out from her hiding place.

  “Oh, honey.” Dark circles marred Katy’s porcelain complexion, as if the deep blue from her eyes had leaked down to tender skin and stained it. She appeared ten years older since the last time Amanda saw her.

  The day they left Houston for Potter Springs. When her daddy held her in his strong arms and he cried. He’d smelled like Old Spice and humid summertime and he whispered in her ear, “I love you, baby girl.”

  Amanda blinked the memory away, fighting to keep herself together. She pulled from her mother’s thin embrace. “How’s Daddy?”

  “Holding on. You know your dad.” Katy sat down again on the bench seat. She twisted a stir stick as she spoke.

  “Can I see him?”

  Her mother checked her slender Rolex,
the hot sparkle of diamonds out of place in the astringent room. “Not yet. We’ve got a while before they’ll let us back in.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. One minute, he was working on the car, and the next I heard a loud crash. He knocked his tool chest over when he fell. It was early, just past breakfast. I wasn’t dressed yet.”

  This was not a revelation. Amanda’s mother, barring any critical social engagements, sometimes stayed in her cashmere robe and slippers until well past the noon hour.

  Amanda nodded and moved a magazine so she could sit closer.

  “And he just lay there, on the garage floor.” Katy wrapped thin arms around herself, as if the cement from the garage had chilled her too. “Wrenches and metal things all over the place. Splayed out like he’d been run over, looking at me. For help. He couldn’t talk.” She ran her hands through golden blonde hair. Grease smudges spoiled her French manicure. “The look on his face. My God, if I live the rest of my life, I never want to see that look again.”

  “Is he going to be okay?” Amanda repeated her question. She’d first asked it hours before, frantic on the phone after Mark told her the news.

  Katy, between uncharacteristic tears, had told her she didn’t know, but to get to Houston as soon as possible. That she might not get to see her father alive again if she didn’t hurry.

  So she had, knowing as she turned the minivan’s key that she’d made a deal with the devil. Steve Boyd, through circumstances outside his control, had sold her the metallic green beast.

  Crying as she crossed the county line, Amanda was unsure if her tears fell for her marriage, her father or the loss of her car. Maybe all three.

  “The paramedics said it was a heart attack,” Katy explained. “A failure. Blood pressure, poor diet, obesity. Your father hit all the high points.”

  “Who knows? Maybe this’ll be the wake-up call he needs.”

  “Sure it will.” Katy rubbed the back of her neck, stretching from side to side. She squeezed Amanda’s hand. “Thanks for coming. Was the ride all right? Did your car make it?”

 

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