Jane Austen Girl (34 page)

Disappointment shot through him. Nothing stayed the same. The rest of the world was beginning to discover Lake Perdue, the quiet little town that had been his refuge in the years of traveling from one big city to another.

The light turned green. He put his foot to the accelerator and continued along Main Street, dodging the potholes and passing a car and then a truck. He didn't know either of the drivers but he lifted a hand in greeting anyway. Here everybody waved. Will pictured himself cruising down Sunset Boulevard, waving at every car he passed. He shook his head and smiled to himself for the first time that day.

Tom Dillon, an old friend and now a town deputy sheriff, stood just ahead in the middle of the street, directing traffic for the parade. Will rolled down his window and lifted a cautious hand in greeting. The two had been buddies in high school until they’d had a falling-out just before graduation. Will hadn't forgotten it.

Tom apparently had. He grinned and yelled, “Hey, Will, man, how's it going?”

“How ya doin', Tom?” Will threw back, a cool note in his voice.

Tom blew his whistle and motioned a lane of traffic forward, shouting over his shoulder, “Come on out to Clarence's when you get a chance. Buy you a beer.”

With a half nod and a wave, Will swung off Main onto McClanahan for the First Baptist Church. He checked his appearance in the mirror and then glanced up, just in time to see a stop sign ahead that hadn't been there the last time he'd been home.

Brake lights flashed as the car in front of him rolled to a stop. Nothing short of a miracle would allow him to miss it. Tires squealed, rubber smoked against asphalt as the Ferrari plowed into the back of the stopped car.

The air bag exploded, preventing Will from going through the windshield.

He slammed a palm against the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a closer look at what he'd done. The brand-new Ferrari now sat with its nose tucked under the ancient relic in front of him.

The car was the color of his aunt Fan's grasshopper pie. It appeared to be a good thirty feet long, sporting twin pointed extensions just above each taillight. He recognized the make—a Cadillac Sedan de Ville. Had it been a convertible, it would have looked a lot like something Batman drove.

With another muttered curse, he climbed out of the car, pulling his leather bomber jacket close against the February chill. He cast a glance at the damage and decided it might not have been as bad as he'd thought. A few scratches maybe if they were careful about separating the two cars. Not worth calling the police.

Lips pressed together, he limped across the pavement to the other driver's door. A woman. He should have guessed. Judging from the antique she was driving, she probably hadn't been on the road in fifteen years.

Will knocked on the window and leaned forward. The woman sat there, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. Alarm stabbed at him. What if she was hurt?

Before he could complete the thought, the car door opened, barely missing his nose. The woman slid out of the front seat, sidestepping him until they stood a good four feet apart. Focusing to the left of his shoulder, she asked in a frigid voice, “Was there a problem with your brakes?”

The question sounded innocent enough but her tried-and-convicted tone rankled Will. He took a step back and arched a brow, taking in the wool cap pulled so low on her head that she appeared not to have any hair, the round glasses that seemed to dwarf her small face, the scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked under her chin. From the way she'd mummified herself, he could barely see where the hat ended and the scarf began.

“Hey, I'll be the first to admit this was my fault. But you were barely moving, you know.”

The woman kept her eyes averted and appeared to be searching for words. Her response, when it finally came, was calm and reasonable. “McClanahan wasn't exactly made for drag racing.”

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and stared at her, his eyes narrowed. Something about the woman seemed familiar. Only he couldn't see her well enough to figure out what. He stepped back and frowned at her. “Do I know you?”

The woman hesitated. Then she quickly pushed past him and slid into the car to shuffle through some papers she pulled from the glove compartment. “I have an appointment in a few minutes so if you don't mind, I'd like to get this over with. I assume you have insurance.”

Will couldn't remember the last time a woman had given him the cold shoulder. Maybe he'd gotten spoiled, but her attitude ticked him off. “I do,” he snapped. “And I'd rather not get the police involved in this. I've had a pisser of a day, if you'll pardon the language. Your damage is minimal. I'll take a chance on mine. I'm late for something myself.”

Her eyes widened. “If you could please give me your company's name.” She kept her gaze on the notepad in her hand, pen poised in midair.

“Better yet,” he said, his voice softer now, “how about if I just pay you for the damage? We could make a reasonable estimate, and if it's more, you can get in touch with me later.”

“I'd prefer to keep this within the law.”

“I wasn't suggesting anything illegal.”

“Convenient. You're interested in convenience.” She nodded impatiently. “All right. We'll do it your way.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.” He turned and made his way back to the Ferrari, deliberately taking his time. Reaching for the wallet inside the glove compartment, he pulled out a wad of cash and counted out several large bills. That ought to do it. He doubted the whole car was worth that much.

Favoring his right knee, he ambled back to the woman's car and leaned inside to hand her the money along with a few insurance papers. “It's all there. With a toll-free number. I don't imagine you'll need it, though. This should cover it.”

The woman glanced down at the money and shook her head.

“I made what I thought was a generous guess,” he said. “If it's too much, keep the rest for your trouble.”

“Fine,” she said, looking suddenly angry. With surprising strength, she yanked the door closed, leaving him staring at her through the window.

He took a hasty step back and then grimaced when a pain shot through his leg. Suddenly he realized he hadn't told her he'd disconnect the two cars himself. It would need to be done carefully, just right in order to. . . .

He reached out to pound on the window just as she fired the old clunker, jerked it into gear and surged forward.

Speechless, Will stood there watching as she floored the heap and roared through the intersection at a speed that couldn't possibly be described as a snail's pace.

*

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Nashville:
Part One – Ready to Reach

Inglath Cooper

Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

CHAPTER ONE

CeCe

I’ve been praying since before I can ever actually remember learning how. Mama says I took to praying like baby ducks to their first dip in a pond, my “please” and “thank you” delivered in a voice so sweet that she didn’t see how God would ever be able to say no to me.

Mama says my praying voice is my singing voice, and that any-body listening would know right off that the Father himself gave that voice to me. Two human beings, especially not her and one so flawed as the man who was supposedly my Daddy, would ever be able to create anything that reminiscent of Heaven.

I’m praying now. Hard as I ever have. “Dear Lord, please let this old rattletrap, I mean, faithful car Gertrude, last another hundred miles. Please don’t let her break down before I get there. Please, dear Lord. Please.”

A now familiar melody strings the plea together. I’ve been offering up the prayer for the past several hours at fifteen-minute intervals, and I’m hoping God’s not tired of my interruptions. I’ve got no doubt He has way more important things on His plate today. I wonder now if I was a fool not to take the bus and leave the car behind altogether. It had been a sentimental decision, based on Granny’s hope that her beloved Gertrude would help get me where I wanted to go in this life.

And leaving it behind would have been like leaving behind Hank Junior. I reach across the wide bench seat and rub his velvety-soft Walker Hound ear. Even above the rattle-wheeze-cough of the old car’s engine, Hank Junior snores the baritone snore of his deepest sleep. He’s wound up in a tight ball, his long legs tucked under him, his head curled back onto his shoulder. He reminds me of a duck in this position, and I can’t for the life of me understand how it could be comfortable. I guess it must be, though, since with the exception of pee and water breaks, it’s been his posture of choice since we left Virginia this morning.

Outside of Knoxville, I-40 begins to dip and rise, until the stretch of road is one long climb after the other. I cut into the right hand lane, tractor-trailer trucks and an annoyed BMW whipping by me. Gertrude sounds like she may be gasping her last breath, and I actually feel sorry for her. The most Granny ever asked of her was a Saturday trip to Winn-Dixie and the post office and church on Sundays. I guess that was why she’d lasted so long.

Granny bought Gertrude, brand-spanking new, right off the lot, in 1960. She named her after an aunt of hers who lived to be a hundred and five. Granny thought there was no reason to expect anything less from her car if she changed the oil regularly and parked her in the woodshed next to her house to keep the elements from taking their toll on the blue-green exterior. It turned out Granny was right. It wasn’t until she died last year and left Gertrude to me that the car started showing her age.

What with me driving all over the state of Virginia in the past year, one dive gig to another, weekend after weekend, I guess I’ve pretty much erased any benefits of Granny’s pampering.

We top the steep grade at thirty-five. I let loose a sigh of relief along with a heartfelt prayer of thanks. The speedometer hits fifty-five, then sixty and seventy as we cruise down the long stretch of respite, and I see the highway open out nearly flat for as far ahead as I can see. Hank Junior is awake now, sitting up with his nose stuck out the lowered window on his side. He’s pulling in the smells, dissecting them one by one, his eyes narrowed against the wind, his long black ears flapping behind him.

We’re almost to Cookeville, and I’m feeling optimistic now about the last eighty miles or so into Nashville. I stick my arm out the window and let it fly with the same abandon as Hank Junior’s ears, humming a melody I’ve been working on the past couple days.

A sudden roar in the front of the car is followed by an awful grinding sound. Gertrude jerks once, and then goes completely limp and silent. Hank Junior pulls his head in and looks at me with nearly comical canine alarm.

“Crap!” I yell. I hit the brake and wrestle the huge steering wheel to the side of the highway. My heart pounds like a bass drum, and I’m shaking when we finally roll to a stop. A burning smell hits my nose. I see black smoke start to seep from the cracks at the edge of the hood. It takes me a second or two to realize that Gertrude is on fire.

I grab Hank Junior’s leash, snapping it on his collar before reaching over to shove open his door and scoot us both out. The flames are licking higher now, the smoke pitch black. “My guitar!” I scream. “Oh, no, my guitar!”

I grab the back door handle and yank hard. It’s locked. Tugging Hank Junior behind me, I run around and try the other door. It opens, and I reach in for my guitar case and the notebook of lyrics sitting on top of it. Holding onto them both, I towboat Hank Junior around the car, intent on finding a place to hook his leash so I can get my suitcase out of the trunk.