Chapter 1 #2
I thought Midwesterners were supposed to be the nicest folks on the planet. Not today, apparently. Today they were portly, salty bus drivers with coffee stains on their shirt who communicated in a variety of grunts and sighs.
I turned to face my pile of luggage. Then I glanced down at my shoes.
They were beautiful pointy booties. Even I knew these shoes were a silly choice for a travel day.
Admittedly, they probably made me look a tad high-maintenance in context.
But they were my lucky heels, and I needed all the luck I could get making this trip.
With no plan in mind. No friend to help on the other end.
Not even a key to enter the front door to my so-called estate.
The lucky heels felt like my way of telling the universe I was ready for it to have my back.
Light the path. Send me a sign. Whatever it needed to do to help me out of this mess.
So far, it wasn’t working.
Now staring down at my mound of bags from this towering heel height, I sensed a bigger challenge.
I straightened my spine and shook out my shoulders.
You’re Alison Fucking Bennet.
One thing I learned from an ashram visit in India a few years ago was how to eat the metaphorical elephant: one bite at a time. Thankfully, the elephant I was attempting to devour had spinning wheels and sturdy handles.
Oh yes, I was Alison Fucking Bennet, and this pile of baggage was getting moved.
I dragged and carried my luggage piece by piece, a few feet at a time.
Across the crosswalk to the opposite corner, where I waited, of course, for the light to change each time, respecting traffic and pedestrian laws.
There were basically no people and no cars on the road other than one old truck—but no way was I going to invite more bad karma because of poor roadway etiquette.
I brought each piece inside the store the bus driver had directed me to and stacked them in the corner near the entry. The effort left me a little breathless. But all in all, my personal trainer, Tomás, would be proud.
Former personal trainer, I reminded myself as I blew a piece of hair out of my face.
The bell over the door that I had just plowed through no less than a dozen times settled from the disruption.
I took in the store, hunched over my bags to catch my breath. The familiar twang of an overemphasized Southern accent of a country song rang out overhead.
The store was quaint, with three rows of grocery shelves. Not curated in the least, but neatly and efficiently stacked and arranged. Refrigerated sections lined the perimeter.
What a small town called a general store, we called a bodega in the city. And this city girl knew you could get just about everything you needed at a bodega. Hopefully, even a ride.
My gaze landed on the checkout counter. A twentysomething guy with excellent bone structure wearing an anime T-shirt stared at me from behind the register. His jaw hung open, and the stick of a lollipop poked out one side. Finally! Someone who might be able to help me. Or at the very least, get me.
“Hi. I need to hire a car to get me to my cabin. It seems my rideshare app is having a hard time connecting. The bus driver said you might be able to help me?”
“Rideshare app? Yeah, no, those haven’t caught on around here.”
Was this some kind of inside joke? At my expense?
Well, twelve years in an all-girls boarding school taught me all I needed to know to remain the picture of poise, especially when being made the butt of a joke. My mean-girl deflecting armor was dusted off and ready to repel.
“Okay, how about a cab company? There must be someone I can call. This is a touristy town after all, right?”
“Yep, we do have cabs available, but . . . not usually for same-day service this time of year.” At least he was sympathetic. “You’re a bit early for the tourist season, I’m afraid.”
He was sweet, but my simmering panic had reached the lip of the metaphorical pot, and I was dangerously close to spilling over the edge.
Did this place just not want visitors? Between the bus driver and this, the universe was screaming, “Keep out!” Well, I didn’t have a choice. I was here. This had to work.
I took a deep breath to compose myself and returned a smile to my face.
“Listen. My life in Chicago took a wrong turn. I just rode several unpleasant hours on a stinky, rumbling tube of sadness. I am new to town. I have all these bags. I need to get to my cabin. Take a hot shower. And figure out my life. Please tell me there is another way there other than hauling it all by myself, on foot, in my lucky heels.” That last part squeaked out of me as I held back tears. Damn these tears.
“Miss Betsy!” the clerk hollered toward the back of the store. Then back to me with kindness in his eyes, he said, “Betsy might be able to help you.”
“What is it, Eric?” a female voice from the back of the store shouted back.
“There’s an out-of-towner. Needs a ride,” Eric replied.
“An out-of-towner?” huffed a short, stout woman with cropped steel-gray hair full around her face and a no-nonsense air about her. Her hands settled on her hips.
She reminded me of the L.L.Bean version of the headmistress at my secondary boarding school. Like Dr. Everstone, Betsy had a steadiness to her that I immediately knew got stuff done.
She looked at Eric.
“Told ya,” Eric said to Betsy with a shrug.
She blinked a few times.
“Cabs have to be dispatched from Holly Bend, a few towns over, and during the off season they aren’t readily available.” Her tone was brisk, direct, punctuated—yep, she and Dr. E were soul sisters for sure.
I sighed in defeat. Deep breaths. Do not lose your shit in front of small-town Dr. E.
“Um . . . okay . . .” It was taking a lot of effort to stay calm. Keep my composure. Poise. Strength.
I needed to pull myself together and trigger the natural problem-solving skills that a woman like this probably won awards for.
All my mind could come up with was, “Any suggestions for what I should do?”
“Where you headed?” asked a deeper male voice from across the store.
I hadn’t noticed another customer.
Maybe a driver?
Suddenly, it felt like my luck was changing.
Mystery man stepped out from the aisle. And . . . Oh. Yes. He. Did.
He was tall—six foot something—which did things to girls like me.
His lean frame had the kind of build that meant he was no stranger to outdoor activities.
He was dressed practically—button-up, dark jeans, a brand of shoe ideal for stomping around the woods.
There were definitely no designer labels on this guy.
“I—uh—I . . .” My brain flatlined. I blamed Eau de Greyhound and the grueling pack-mule expedition from asphalt to doorstep I had just completed.
I had to tilt my head to look at his face.
A classically handsome face, it turned out.
Clean-cut. His light brown hair neatly styled and combed into place with a natural, effortless look.
His piercing blue eyes—bright, clear, full of inviting warmth like the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Turks and Caicos.
Enhanced by the light blue of his shirt.
He held a basket lightly loaded with items from the store.
I cleared my throat. “A cabin. On the lake. To my cabin on the lake.”
My left hand instinctively pushed my hair lightly behind my ear. My flirty move.
Except my hair felt damp—immediately ew.
And oh God, now I was questioning my natural deodorant’s ability to mask my Herculean journey.
I must look—and smell—awful.
“Oh, hey there, Jake. This out-of-towner is looking for a ride,” Betsy said. Then to me, “What’d you say was the address?”
“Oh, it’s on Lakeside Drive.” I looked at my phone, breaking eye contact with the gorgeous stranger.
Wait a minute . . . stranger! He was a strange man in this nowhere town, lurking behind canned goods just waiting around to offer desperate women rides?
“Jake, you driving the old Ford today?” Betsy asked him.
He nodded with somewhat of an aggressive clearing of his throat. Now I was analyzing his every move.
Betsy said back to me, “You’re in luck. Jake here lives on the lake too, and he has a truck big enough to haul you and your belongings over there.” Betsy’s tone was warmer. Probably from basking in the satisfaction of another problem solved.
I turned slightly and leaned closer to Betsy for some private counsel. “Um . . . I don’t know this man. Is it safe to accept a ride from him?” I hoped she caught my woman-to-woman side-eye.
“Oh honey, Jake is as safe as they come around here. He’s the town vet,” she said, as if that automatically cleared this blue-eyed, broad-shouldered tall drink of water.
I blinked.
“Folks trust him with the lives of little fur babies every day. I think he can handle getting you and your . . . necessities to your cabin safely.” Betsy started to walk away. “And you can’t block the entrance like this.”
The man cleared his throat. “I’m Dr. Jake Elliot.” He extended his hand. “Sounds like we might be neighbors since there aren’t too many houses on that side of the lake. I’d be happy to give you a lift. And I assure you, I’m perfectly harmless.”
“Perfectly harmless” was definitely something a serial rapist would claim.
But there was an innate friendliness to him.
A gentle, down-to-earth vibe that made him seem approachable and upstanding.
Despite his dashing good looks that could melt the panties right off a less guarded gal, Dr. Elliot did seem harmless. Thoughtful, even.
His grip was strong. Confident. But careful. Like he was grasping delicate flower stems.
“Alison Bennet.” I figured since he’d said “doctor” I should keep it formal, but then I backpedaled. “You can call me Ali . . . Are you sure about the ride? I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything. I do have a lot of stuff.” I gestured to my stack of bags.
“No worries. Happy to help,” he said, looking me directly in the eyes. Oh, and those eyes. I could sink right into them like a warm bath and luxuriate in the silky . . .
No! No! No! I silently chided myself. Not the time, Ali.
“Miss Betsy, you think they might use this to wheel out her bags to Jake’s truck?”
I peeled my eyes away from Dr. Jake Elliot and immediately rolled them as I took in the forklift—or was it just a hand truck?—that Eric wheeled from the back. Its suggestion felt unnecessarily judgy.
“Good thinking, Eric!” Betsy shouted with a clap.
“It’s really not that much!” I cracked.
If they wanted to be dramatic about it, then so could I.
“I’ll have you know, I got the total number of bags down to eight—okay, yes, they are on the larger size. And most are overstuffed. But it’s still less than ten. Trust me, this”—I pointed to the hill of designer leather—“is progress.”
I exhaled, releasing the tension that had been building over the past few minutes. Who was I kidding . . . the past few days.
Three sets of eyes blinked back at me. Okay, here is where they reject me. I revealed too much too soon. Let the polite extrication commence.
“No biggie. We’ll get it loaded in the truck and then we can head out,” was all Dr. Jake Elliot said as he and Eric started to stack my bags onto the cart.