Chapter 4
I’d been right to judge Cletus by his appearance. All his outward makeover did was allow me to be catfished. Like books with gorgeous covers that make you want to read them immediately but the product inside doesn’t live up to the pretty packaging. Book catfishing is the worst.
My gaze travels over the broken-down bookmobile, smoke still curling in wisps from the seams of the hood. Okay, maybe there are worse things.
I look around at my surroundings, trying to find any landmarks that will jog my memory about how close I am to Turkey Grove. Maybe I can walk the rest of the way and see if the mechanic at the service station can get Cletus up and running again.
Although with the road blocked, getting him running again will solve only one of my current and dire problems. Until the Department of Transportation clears the boulders, there’s no way that I know of to make it back to Little Creek.
I glare at Cletus, then swing open the driver’s door with more force than is needed. Even though I know it’s futile, I turn the key in the ignition, driven by a mounting desperation and the ill-fitting feeling of irony.
Nothing happens. Not so much as a single click of the starter.
I twist the key again. “Come on,” I encourage through gritted teeth.
As expected, Cletus isn’t suddenly resurrecting from the grave like some kind of vehicular Lazarus.
I sigh and let my arm lower in defeat.
My brain swings around and slaps some sense into me, reminding me that hello, you had cell reception just a few minutes ago, dummy. You can literally call for help.
Right. No need to jump into the deep end of the drama pool.
I pull my phone back out and check that, yes, there is still at least one bar.
I tap open the maps app and note my location, zooming in and scrolling around to try and find Turkey Grove amid the green specks of trees and ridges of elevation gain.
I don’t find the hollow quickly, which means walking is out of the question.
I’m not worried about getting lost since I can follow the road, but the strappy sandals I’m wearing weren’t made for backcountry hikes, and a twisted ankle is so not what I need at the moment.
But with the day I’m having, it’s exactly what luck would dole out.
I click out of the app and tap on the web browser icon, waiting for it to load. After what seems like forever but is likely less than a full minute, a fresh search page opens. I type in towing services near me and click allow when a window pops up asking my permission to use my current location.
Another stretch of waiting, then the page changes, showing a small portion of a map with red pins and a list of the nearest towing companies. Levi’s Service Center is at the top, with a pin on the map that makes me think it’s the mechanic in Turkey Grove.
I click on the number and call. The phone rings, and I suppress saying the mantra playing in my mind out loud. Pick up, pick up, pick up. On the fourth ring there’s a click on the line, and I feel a flood of relief.
“Hello?” I jump in, not even waiting for a greeting from the person on the other end. “Hi, my name is Hayley Holt. I’m a librarian from Little Creek, and I drive the new bookmobile that was supposed to be there in Turkey Grove today.”
I pause out of politeness and because I realize I should at least give this person whom I’m assuming is Levi or Levi’s office employee a chance to respond, even though I want to say I need help and Please come and get me as fast as possible in case I lose this single bar of cell reception.
There’s a noise that sounds sort of like a grunt.
Maybe the guy on the other end has a few bolts or other mechanic-y things he’s holding between his lips because his hands are buried in an engine and he can’t talk at the moment.
I don’t know. I don’t even know how to change my dash clock after Daylight Savings, but the scenario seems plausible to me just the same so I’m going with it.
“Anyway,” I plow on, “the bookmobile broke down, and a rockslide is blocking the road back to Little Creek, which means I’m completely stranded here.
I’m so happy there’s reception or I’d really have found myself in a pickle.
But thankfully I was able to call you. Sorry, I know I’m rambling, but now that you know the situation, do you think you can tow the bookmobile to your shop and possibly get it running again?
I don’t know what the road I’m on is called, but it’s the one that leads to Turkey Grove from US-64. ”
I’ve used all the breath in my lungs to push out that run-on bit of information, so I take a moment to breathe in and refill my chest with slightly acrid air due to Cletus’s own dying puffs of smoke.
The silence stretches, and I open my mouth to ask if he’s still there before a deep, gravelly voice that doesn’t sound like it’s been used in hours, possibly even days, says, “Okay.”
That’s it. Just the one word. Two syllables. Like he’s charged by the letter and budgeting his allowance. No Oh, yes, I know where that is. No No problem, I’ll be there in a jiffy. No A rockslide? Are you all right, ma’am? Just a gruff, clipped “Okay.”
“Okay,” I answer back, too off-kilter to think of anything else to say. There’s a click in my ear, and the call is disconnected without any sort of by-your-leave.
Slowly I pull the phone away from my ear, staring in bewilderment at the screen as if it’s the Beast’s magic mirror and I can see the man I’d been speaking to through it.
Beggars can’t be choosers, and customer service is the least of my concerns at the moment. I couldn’t care less if he isn’t talkative and charming as long as he can fix Cletus and give me a ride into town so I can figure out what my next move is.
I tap open my contacts. I need to let Evangeline and Martha know what’s going on so they don’t worry when I don’t show up later today.
Just as my finger is about to touch the library’s phone number, my single bar of reception disappears, replaced with four dots and the words No Service.
I guess the magic of having any sort of reception vanished like the fairy godmother’s did at the stroke of midnight. Now all there is to do is wait.
I pull out the book that Martha had shoved into my hands and flip it over to read the description on the back cover.
I’m well into the third chapter when I finally hear the rumble of an engine and the pop of small pebbles being crunched under tires.
I grab one of the library’s bookmarks and slide it between the pages, closing the book.
A big blue tow truck rolls toward me, dust kicked up in a trailing cloud behind it.
The driver’s door protests when I open it and slide my feet to the ground to wait and watch.
I’m one hundred percent blaming the weightless feeling of relief for the full-blown grin curving the lower half of my face and the small wave I give the approaching tow truck.
Who, from this day forward, I have dubbed Sir Galahad, because he has rescued a damsel in distress like any good knight would and because I’d bet money no one else has named him yet.
Sir Galahad slows to a stop about twenty feet from Cletus.
His diesel engine drowns out the soft chirps of birdsong and the occasional rustle of a breeze moving through the leaves.
The driver kills the engine, and a moment of loud silence stretches before an intrepid tufted titmouse lets out a high-pitched trill.
The tow truck’s door opens, and I begin moving forward with a greeting at the ready on my upturned lips.
A pair of steel-toed work boots plant themselves on the ground, visible beneath the bottom edge of the door.
My gaze travels up, past the white-lettered decal with LEVI in blocky font, over the handle protruding from the side of the door.
Said door swings closed, and I freeze. Gaze—frozen.
Ready greeting—frozen. Heart? Yep, that’s frozen in my chest too.
The man standing before me is . . .
Oh, for hootenannies’ sake. I manage to blink, though that doesn’t do much good. The man is still there. Still massively looming, towering like an oak masquerading as a mere mortal male specimen.
I’ve never really thought about the differences of tall when associating the description with a person.
I’m an average height for a woman, a modest 5’5”.
Most men are taller than me by at least a few inches, but then there are those athletes in sports such as basketball, swimming, and volleyball who are known for their impressive height and dwarf anyone standing next to them.
Nuh-uh. Even they would feel miniature in this man’s presence.
And it’s not just his height. It’s his breadth too, with shoulders that would make a lineman from a professional football team jealous. All at once, adjectives flood my mind. Huge. Immense. Enormous. Substantial.
I swallow past a lump in my throat and push my gaze up.
Yeah, no. His face is not an opposite from the rest of his body.
Not a soft or reassuring place to land. The hard lines that form him continue, although they are hidden beneath a scruffy layer of thick facial hair.
A slash of his lips peek through between the coarse hairs, a straight nose rises above, followed by a pair of amber eyes so light they almost look like liquid gold, though in a piercing and sharp way.
The melting this pair of eyes could cause is not in the romantic swoon connotation.
It’s more a don’t-touch-if-you-don’t-want-to-get-burned warning sign.
More adjectives march their way to the forefront of my brain. Danger. Peril. Threat.