Late to the Wedding Page 7

  “All right, no pie. Got it.” His dark eyes grew serious, his hands raised in a surrender gesture. “Why do you have to be such a pill all the time?”

  “Because the love of my life–the man I am meant to be with–is about to marry someone else.” She let the sound of tears creep into her voice, not caring that it drew the attention of people in line for the fried pies. Not caring that her makeup was threatened if those tears overflowed.

  “Every second we stay here–or anywhere else for that matter–is another second I’m in danger of losing him," she said. "So pardon me for not jumping at the chance for pie.”

  Without waiting for his reply, she turned and marched to the car, slamming the door shut with unnecessary force. Her fingers jerked the seat belt into place, her mind racing with angry thoughts. How could she be so stupid as to trust some stranger with the most important trip of her life? A man who was so obviously irresponsible, so completely the opposite of her own life philosophy.

  The Sedan roared to life as Brian turned the key in the ignition. He maneuvered through the grassy parking zone, bounced onto the gravel road with impressive speed. Clearly, he was taking her pleas seriously.

  The awkward silence between them seemed to last ages. Finally, he glanced in Evelyn’s direction with a gaze she could feel beneath her closed eyes. “I guess maybe I lost sight of why you hired me in the first place," he began. "No chance you’ll accept a formal apology is there?”

  She shrugged in response, still chaffing from the emotions she had unleashed at the fairgrounds. After a moment with no reply and no eye contact, she heard him release a long breath; his cheeks puffed out in a sigh of frustration, visible from the corner of her eye.

  His words surprised her, since they only had to tolerate each other’s company for a few hours longer. Why had he bothered to apologize for the sake of a day's driving time? Unless ... no, that was nonsense. She pushed the thought out of her mind, substituting the enormous fee he planned to charge her as reason enough to be polite to his customer.

  The car’s speaker system came to life with a buzz that gradually lessened in the wake of radio reception. Evelyn closed her eyes again and kept them firmly shut. Maybe if she stayed this way long enough, he would assume she’d gone to sleep.

  A familiar melody traveled through the speakers, the classic Beatle’s song, “I Want to Hold Your Hand”. The band’s British accents crooned the familiar lyrics, bouncing in and out of staticky interference.

  After a moment, she heard a man's baritone rumble in the chorus, an unfamiliar sound. Brian's voice was joining the song. Fingers tapping the beat on the steering wheel, his voice rising to the top half-way through the chorus. Except his was wildly and–no-doubt deliberately–off-key, the words a tongue-in-cheek version of the original lyrics.

  “I want your gourmet ha-am," he sang, "I’ll put it in a pa-an… ”

  Her mouth twitched, an alarming symptom of weakness. Do not give in, a voice warned somewhere inside. Her defenses, the safety of silence, threatened to break down at the sound of him twisting the song’s sentimental meaning.

  “Your cooking give me hi-ives,” Brian continued, dropping his voice to soft croon.

  Unable to help herself any longer, Evelyn snorted a laugh into the open. An unladylike sound that she resisted, but it was too late. Now that the door was open, the sound of laughter escaped. She shook her head in protest, as if to rebuke the offending scenario.

  Brian grinned. “Hey, look at that–I knew you had one of those hidden somewhere.”

  “One of what?” she asked, in between a choking, giggling sound she tried to disguise as a cough. Confused by the statement as much as his playful expression at this moment.

  “A smile,” he answered. “It’s nice, suits you perfectly. In fact, you should let it make an appearance more often.”

  She blushed at this compliment. His gaze lingered on her face with a smile as she let herself study his features. The curve of his jaw, where a scar showed faintly in the morning light, the hair rumpled from a restless hour's sleep in the car.

  Evelyn jerked her eyes away, shifting her stare to the road ahead. "I smiled before," she reminded him. "You just didn't notice. Eyes on the road, after all." Through the windshield, a scene of untamed pastures along either side of the road, a blanket of yellow and red merging from the rows of sunflowers and poppies.

  “Different isn’t it?” he asked. “No sky scrapers to block the clouds, or neon signs flashing advertisements every few seconds. It’s sort of unnerving, actually.”

  Part of her agreed, the contrast of the city’s movement making this place seem lonely and desolate. “This is like some of the nature paintings I’ve critiqued. Stuff with names like “Wild Flower Fire” and “Meadow Dreams”. Funny how the color seems more intense in real life.”

  The thought that flashed through her mind was not of "Sun Poppies" or any of the paintings from last year's nature mood theme. It was her and Jared plunging into the swimming pool at the party, the anger that blistered her core like burning heat at that moment.

  “So explain to me,” said Brian, “just how does someone become an art critic anyway? Because it’s always seemed like one of those made-up professions to me. Like fashion consultant or design coordinator.”

  “It’s no different than a book or movie critic,” she said, with a shrug. “Or a food critic, for that matter. Which probably explains your prejudice,” she hinted, a meaningful smile curving her mouth. “Classic artist versus expert–can’t stand each other, but can’t function apart.”

  “Not true. I savor a good challenge; it’s the reason I face off with my instructor every time we do free style cooking.”

  She could picture this without too much difficulty. Brian as the cocky star student, always going the extra distance, whether anybody required it or not. Maybe a little bit like herself, whenever the editorial staff for Modern Canvas Quarterly gathered for its monthly meetings. The “Ladder Hog”, her co-worker’s sometimes called her, both in the boardroom and at the water cooler–the location signifying whether it was spoken in jest or hurled as a snide insult.

  “I guess we have something in common, strange as that seems,” Brian said, as if reading her thoughts. “The whole art-as-a-living thing.”

  She shook her head, conscious of a strange but not unpleasant warmth infusing her veins. “It’s not the same, trust me. My typical dinner is pre-prepared Caesar salad, or microwavable soup. The kind of thing you can hold in one hand while you type with the other.”

  “That used to be me,” he said, edging the car across a rural bridge. “Fresh out of college and I had a gig with this advertising firm. I’d be up working ‘til midnight, eating Chinese takeout from a box in front of the fridge.”

  “So what happened?” She struggled to envision him as the serious young intern, clean shaven with a crisply pressed shirt and tie. Although it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad look for him, with his rugged build and broad shoulders. A thought best banished before it surfaced as a crimson flash in her face.

  Talking to him was definitely more dangerous than silence. In her romantic state, who was to say what kind of thoughts might pop into her mind, without Jared here to ground her?

  “Late night TV changed me,” Brian grinned. “I saw this documentary thing about the best barbecue joints across America. It gave me midnight cravings, but it also planted an idea–why not plan a road trip around the different location’s food establishments?”

  “And you actually did it?” she asked. Imagining an impulse akin to the ones that drove Jared.

  “Yeah, about two years later. A buddy of mine threw in some cash and we hoofed it all the way from New York to Kansas. It was the first time in a long time I’d felt passionate about something that wasn’t in a skirt or a sports field.”

  The enthusiasm lighted his features, channeled intensity as his fingers gripped the steering wheel.

  “It sounds more like you were a budding travel writer or
something," she answered. "How did you know it was the restaurant life you wanted?”

  “Because I wanted to spend as much time in the kitchen, as the dining room.”

  He flicked the turn signal as they approached the route back to the main highway, a line of oncoming traffic visible in the distance. “A couple of the chefs were nice enough to give me tours and let me sit in on the process. It’s like a whole separate world; a playground for adults, where it’s okay to make your own rules and break everyone else’s in the process.”

  “You know, the crazy thing is, my favorite place turned out to be in New York," he continued. "This little sandwich and bakery combo over on Dunmore Avenue–”

  “–Leopold’s Deli,” she finished, her skin prickling with the coincidence. The brief connection like an electric spark as their eyes met. “I love that place,” she added, dropping her gaze to the dashboard in an effort to maintain nonchalance. “The Panini bread is practically a staple in my lunch menu.”

  “When you’re not eating from a can,” he reminded her, mock disapproval in his voice.

  “Maybe I should just grow my own produce,” she said, drawing the farm lady’s vegetable guide from the depths of her handbag. “A souvenir from our friend at the fair.” She held up the glossy cover, with its picture of fresh veggies and canning equipment against a stark white background.

  “Nice,” he said, giving it a quick glance. “Better keep it in a special place. A memento so you’ll always remember our trip.”

  Something about the phrase ‘our trip’ made her blush. The implication that they shared a special bond from spending the past twenty four hours or so together wasn't a notion she needed to dwell on. Those were hours she couldn't afford to remember, much less explain later to someone like Jared.

  Time to stop now. Evelyn pretended to flip through the gardening book’s pages, glimpsing images of diced green onions and crisp celery; platters of cherry tomatoes and chopped lettuce, with carrot shreds as a garnish.

  The radio still droned in the background, filling the gaps of silence between them. At least it was a peaceful silence, unlike the hostility that had marked the first part of the journey. She found herself unwilling to break it with the sound of her voice. She was almost relieved he didn’t need to ask for a location on the map or anything else that would spark more conversation. If she didn't know better, she would suspect that she almost missed that experience.

  Ridiculous, she told herself, humming along with the radio’s Cher song. As if you could form an attraction to someone you just met. She had met Jared at three different events before she accepted his dinner invite. Her philosophy on relationships as careful and organized as the shelves in her apartment’s closet. Her friends liked to joke about it, one or two of them threatening to set her up on a blind date just to enjoy the look of horror on her face.

  But this was different, wasn’t it? The unusual circumstances creating a sort of dependence on each other, a kind of instant intimacy. And–in technical terms–making Brian her rescuer, whose real role was to make sure she had a chance at true love. A thought that helped her banish the niggling worry, her smile sliding back into place. Her tense muscles beginning to relax to the music, and Brian’s fingers tapping the steering wheel to match the rhythm.

  When Virginia had given way to Tennessee's road signs, Brian checked the gas gage with a suspicious eye. “Tank’s getting low. We better stop at the next convenience store.”

  Easier said than done, since the business districts were spotty through this section of the state. Miles passed with only the occasional residence to break up the landscape, a town’s welcome sign appearing after a half-hour's drive like a mirage in the desert. Evelyn craned her neck to read its faded lettering.

  “Plain View. What kind of name is that?”

  “An honest one,” Brian said, leaning closer to the windshield for a look at the sparsely populated district. “Good thing a quick stop for gas and grub is all we need,” he said, pulling the grumbling Sedan into the convenience station, which shared a parking lot with Handy Henry’s Auto Shop.

  Approximately five businesses were visible in an intersection that Evelyn assume constituted the downtown area. Faded advertisements for business’s that vanished after the fifties, metal lawn chairs parked beside screen doors with open signs tacked in place.

  Evelyn fixed her makeup in the mirror to the women’s restroom, fishing through her purse for a miniature comb to tame her rumpled hair. A change of clothes would have been more welcome than anything, but she would have to stretch these a little further. Right now, she only needed to be presentable; before she reached Kingsley, she needed to transform herself into perfection.

  Spritzing some raspberry fragrance on her neck to hide the scent of perspiration, she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and checked her reflection one last time. With a sigh, she pushed open the restroom door.

  In the gas station, Brian waited by the counter, holding two cups of coffee.

  “A little pick-me-up for the last leg,” he explained, handing her one. His eyes flickered over her freshened appearance with an unfathomable look. “I remembered you took yours black at the café, so I ordered the same here.”

  “Thanks.” She curved her fingers around the Styrofoam cup, wondering why she was shivering slightly. A reaction to the cool temperatures in the convenience store, no doubt.

  The Sedan’s interior was hot and sticky by contrast from its few moments parked in the sun. Brian slid behind the driver’s seat and jammed the key in the ignition. Turning it only to have a sharp click, click, click noise respond, instead of the engine’s usual coughing. He gave an awkward chuckle, his glance cutting nervously in Evelyn’s direction.

  “What is it?” she asked, watching anxiously as he tried it again with the same results. And again.

  She remembered the clunky metal bucket sounds from the Sedan's engine, the rumbles from its depths–had that been a sign of this coming disaster? The old feeling of panic seeped through her, muscles tensing in her neck and shoulders. Her fingers crossed against the worst possibility in a childish last ditch effort to ward off yet more bad luck.

  “What a break,” said Brian, his mouth forming a tight grin. “I think we’ve just broken down.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Could’ve happened when you had the fender bender,” Handy Henry mused, his head deep inside the Sedan’s engine. “But could've been potholes. I see lots of potholes shakin' things loose. Engine's built to take a beatin', but only so much. Probably jolted the wires, is why they separated."

  He emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. "It was just a matter of time, seeing as how your battery is more or less shot. See those fine cracks in the casing?" He tapped the black battery box. "It's been on death's doorstep for awhile.”

  Brian looked uncomfortable, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Right," he answered. "I’ve been meaning to replace that for a couple months now.” He shot an apologetic, almost pleading glance in Evelyn’s direction.

  For once, she didn't reach automatically for a stinging retort. Maybe that brief moment of camaraderie in the car had softened her, or maybe she was simply too tired. “How soon can you fix it?” she asked. Daring to hope the mechanic would say “immediately”, despite the business hours posted on his sign, suggesting he was close to closing time.

  It had been a long, hot afternoon of waiting for their turn behind a Cadillac with a muffler complaint and an Oldsmobile’s oil change. Evelyn had turned the pages of dusty magazines faded by sunlight, the tips of her fingers avoiding the brown stains of tobacco here and there. Brian had drummed his fingers on the torn vinyl arms of his chair, eyes wandering hopefully from the waiting area to the glass window framing a small piece of the garage’s inner workings.

  “Well, let’s see…I’m fresh out of batteries, wouldn’t you know. But I’m expecting a shipment tomorrow–should be here sometime around seven in the morning.”

  Evelyn’s eyes sank close
d in resignation.

  The next voice that spoke was Brian’s, a sort of subdued gruffness in his tone. “Is there a place nearby we could stay?” he asked. “A motel maybe? Or cab service to the nearest room rental?”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing around here,” said Henry, closing the Sedan’s hood. “That is, there used to be a motel, but it burned a couple years ago. The owners didn’t see much reason to rebuild.” He tossed the greasy rag in a nearby waste basket.

  Evelyn was floored. “No motel? But–but where do tourists stay?” A question that drew a chuckle from the mechanic.

  “They don’t ma’am, to be frank. Plain View is a town that lives up to its name, and what you see out these windows is pretty much what you get. Next big town is Dresden, and there’s a whole lot of nothin’ in the thirty miles between’.”

  This was too much. Surely this much bad luck couldn’t be meant for one person; the cosmos must have made a mistake in divvying up its coincidences and random twists of fate for the week.

  “Look, you folks seem like you’re having a hard time,” guessed the mechanic, with a nod towards their wrinkled and dirty clothes. “Why don’t you ask old Felix at the café if he can fix you up with something? He’s been known to do the same for other strangers in a jam.”

  “Thanks,” said Brian. Touching Evelyn’s elbow, he guided her past the pile of oily car parts and towards the bright sunlight outside.

  “What are we going to do?” Her voice rose, propelled by panic rising in her throat. “Maybe he’ll park the car outside and let us sleep in it at least–”

  “Where? On the street corner?” Brian answered. “There’s not exactly a parking lot at Handy Henry’s.” He pushed open the cafe’s door.

  The cafe was tiny, its interior a throwback to the fifties diners she’d seen in movies. Dust filtered through the sunlight, making her sneeze as she settled into a corner of the booth. Brian flagged down a waitress and ordered something–Evelyn didn’t listen to the words, only the sound of his voice.