Chapter Eleven
If Don Corleone could take a bolt of lightning striking his friend as a personal insult, then Leanne was absolutely allowed to take this flat tire as one.
Standing on the side of a nearly deserted stretch of Illinois highway, hands on her hips, she glared at the back passenger side of the Lincoln Continental, certain it had betrayed her.
Which, honestly, it had.
The tire was fully deflated—pancaked, useless.
She gave it a swift, pointless kick, the toe of her pump thudding against the rubber.
The black smudge of dirt left behind on the creamy leather of her shoe added insult to injury.
The dusty heat shimmered off the road, and a trail of sweat slid down her spine.
Of course, this would happen.
They hadn’t even reached Iowa yet, and already this trip was veering wildly off course.
Two broken pay phones, two missed calls to her husband.
And, of course, the purpose of the trip itself—searching for a mysterious mother who had disappeared into thin air with no trace in sight—suggested chaos.
A flat tire on a stretch of highway where there was literally nothing but road and land for as far as she could see, seemed entirely appropriate to their voyage into the unknown.
Nora climbed out of the passenger side, her book still clutched in one hand, sunglasses perched on her nose. She closed the door and leaned against it, calm and composed, arms crossed over her chest.
“Looks like we’ll have to change it,” Nora said flatly—like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Leanne gritted her teeth.
Where the hell was Dean when she needed him?
He was the one who always knew what to do in situations like this.
Even as he disappointed in other areas, he was good in a crisis.
A man with backup plans and the appropriate tools tucked in the trunk.
She was the one with pearls and a manicure.
The one who’d never driven more than a few miles beyond the suburbs without someone else behind the wheel or within reach of a phone.
She blew out a breath.
“I don’t know how to change a tire,” she admitted, the words tasting half defiant, half defeated. “I’ve never had to.”
“Seriously?” Nora raised her eyebrows over the top of her sunglasses.
“Now would not be a good time for you to point out my shortcomings,” Leanne snapped.
Nora frowned, then bent down and set her book carefully in the back seat, then straightened and cracked her knuckles. “Good thing Dad showed me how, then.”
Leanne stared at her for a beat. Leanne should’ve felt ashamed. Instead, as her daughter stepped forward, calm in crisis, unfazed by the blistering sun or the ruined plans, she felt…something else.
Pride.
Admiration.
Along with that bittersweet ache that comes with realizing your child might already be braver than you ever were.
Leanne held out her hand. “I’ll hold your sunglasses.”
“Deal,” Nora replied, handing them over like a torch.
Leanne watched Nora head to the trunk and begin to take things out. She had asked her husband a couple of times to show her how to change a tire—usually after a long drive or an ominous crunch on gravel. She’d voiced her concern plainly: What if I run over a nail? What if I’m stranded somewhere?
But Dean always waved her off. Reinforced the idea that she was never far from home. That she was safe.
And yet—he’d taught Nora?
The contradiction stung, even as she was grateful he had, or else they’d be screwed right now.
“All right,” Leanne said as Nora approached the flat with a jack in one hand and a tire wrench in the other. “Maybe you can show me how to change a flat while you’re at it. And I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“Sure, Mom.” Nora smiled. She wasn’t gloating, but she was proud. Proud of knowing something her mother didn’t.
Leanne didn’t take it personally. She wanted Nora to feel confident. Her daughter had always been a little cautious when it came to her own brilliance. And suspicious of compliments—especially from her mother.
Every time Leanne praised her, Nora brushed it off with You’re only saying that because you’re my mom.
But Leanne saw her daughter as having a once-in-a-lifetime kind of mind. A force still forming.
Nora set the jack and the wrench down next to the car. “Let’s go get the spare.”
This time the two of them went to stand behind the trunk together. The full-size spare lay there under a thin layer of dust.
Nora grabbed one side of the spare and tried to lift it. Apparently, it was heavy because she didn’t even get it high enough to rest it on the edge of the trunk opening.
Leanne hesitated to step forward, not wanting her daughter to think she didn’t believe she could do it. Then Nora glanced up and mouthed an exaggerated “Help.”
Leanne placed her hands on the other side of the tire and braced her knees to lift.
“On three,” Nora instructed.
Between the two of them, they managed to get the tire out and set it on the roadside like a moon rock. Nora rolled it along and leaned it on the car just beyond the flat.
“Let’s get started.” Nora looked at Leanne. “First, you have to loosen the lug nuts before you jack it up. Otherwise, the wheel just spins.” Nora made a looping gesture in the air with her finger and then by her temple with her tongue sticking out.
Leanne laughed, watching closely as her daughter loosened one nut and then stepped back and gestured for her mother to do the next. Leanne’s hands felt clumsy, but she followed Nora’s instructions and got not one but two nuts off before Nora jumped back in.
Together, they cranked the bumper jack until the heavy Lincoln lifted just enough for the flat to dangle slightly off the asphalt.
They worked in a rhythm that felt natural. Nora positioned the iron, and Leanne helped with the nuts. The spare was fitted in its place, the nuts hand-tightened and then fully secured with the wrench once the car was lowered again.
When they finished, Leanne stood up, brushing dust from her skirt and catching her breath.
“Well,” she said, “that wasn’t so bad. Thank you.”
“You did it.” Nora gave her the kind of smile that Leanne wanted to fold up and save in her wallet forever. A smile infused with respect and even pride. “Now if we get another flat, you can change it all by yourself. If you want.”
Leanne gave a tired laugh. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
They drove the next few miles on the dummy spare—just wide enough and safe enough to get them off the shoulder—and exited toward a flyspeck gas station where they could get a new tire installed.
A single bell rang overhead when they pulled in.
The young man working the pumps leaned into the window and said, “Mechanic’s out for lunch. Be about forty-five minutes.”
He pointed across the road toward a low-roofed diner, the sign half lit, advertising “Hot Sandwiches & Cold Pie.”
“Well,” Leanne said, eyeing the building. She held up her hands, blackened from changing the tire. “Shall we trade tire grease for grilled cheese?”
Nora chuckled. “Sure, if they have milkshakes.”
As they ate their sandwiches in the diner—egg salad for her, grilled cheese for Nora—Leanne watched the men who came and went at the gas station, trying to guess who the mechanic was.
But as she and Nora made their way back across the street and then the sunbaked lot to the station, she admitted she wasn’t sure if the man had come back at all.
“He’s back now,” the attendant said, waving a hand. “Told him to take care of your tire already. Should be done in a jiff.”
“Thanks.” Leanne gave him a smile. It wasn’t until they climbed back into the Lincoln and pulled onto the road that she glanced at the clock. Almost three hours gone. Damn it. She wondered if they’d make their next motel. Or if they’d have to give up and get a different place.
They drove in silence for a bit, dust curling behind them on the highway.
Nearly an hour later—Nora asleep with her head tipped against the window—Leanne realized something was wrong. Not with the car this time but with where they were.
The mile markers looked unfamiliar. The terrain wasn’t right. They were headed west, yes—but not toward the coast.
“Oh, no,” she muttered aloud, pulling over to check the map. Her stomach twisted.
They’d taken the wrong highway. Somewhere near Des Moines, they’d veered north. They’d been driving in the wrong direction. For an hour.
Between her mistake and the tire, they were five hours behind.
Rather than arriving in Los Angeles tomorrow night, they were more likely going to be getting there two days from now. Double damn it.
The next two days on the road, between Leanne’s panicking over her mother, being unable to reach her husband, and Nora’s sulking about missing the majority of the festival, the car ride was silent and sullen.
By the time the Lincoln rolled into the neon-lit lot of the Pink Flamingo Motel, the dashboard clock read 12:57 a.m. and they’d not exchanged a word in at least eight hours.
The sign flickered VACANCY in hot pink cursive. The building itself was stucco—faded blush with turquoise trim. Plastic flamingos dotted the patchy front lawn, glowing ghostly under the lights.
Neither of them said much, dragging their exhausted bodies from the car as if they weighed a thousand pounds each. They checked in with the night clerk, who had pink curlers in her hair and a black-and-white TV flickering behind the desk.
“Any chance you’ve seen an older woman with a dog?” Leanne asked.
The clerk glanced up, squinting her eyes. “Can’t divulge the identity of our guests unless you’re law enforcement.”
“Understood, but she is my mother. I’m looking for her.”
“Not since I started my shift this afternoon. Can’t say whether she was here before that. I was out sick.”
Leanne nodded and muttered a thank-you, trying not to let her frustration show. Only because of her sheer exhaustion did she not bang her hand on every door of the motel to see if her mother opened one of them.