5. Maria
Maria
There are times when I could kill my father. Not literally—I love him too much to harm even one hair on his head—but metaphorically? Oh yes!
Right in the middle of our conversation, instead of calling me Louise, he forgets and calls me Maria.
I could have screamed. Luckily though, our new friend didn’t seem to notice and carried right on chatting about the area; the local town of Coyote Creek Falls, and the wildlife in the area—deer, foxes, coyotes of course, and occasional bears passing through.
Still, it passed the time, and it did make me worry a little less about who the hell he was or where the hell he might be taking us to.
In fact, I think that might have been what he was trying to do. Make us feel okay, I mean.
He’s a big guy, and Papa’s old. He could snap Papa like a twig, and then what?
But like I say, he seems like a good guy, and the lady at the gas station and diner seemed to think he was alright, so I’ve decided to place my trust in him.
What else can I do? On top of which, I have to admit a certain feeling, when he looks at me with those hazel eyes of his.
Intense—burning even. I can’t help wondering what it would be like to…
but no, I must keep control of myself. We’re on the run, not on some schoolgirl vacation.
And now? Now here we are even more in the back of beyond. The road we’d started on at Martha’s had soon given way to narrower, more winding ones, as we’d headed upwards in the mountains themselves, and by the end of our fairly short journey, had become barely more than a track.
I’d kept careful notice though, memorizing each turn at every junction. I feel certain I could find my way back if I had to. If I was able to, of course.
The place itself seems okay. A double gate lay open with a fairly new signpost suspended from a wooden pole spanning above the gate to welcome their customers: Coyote Motor Servicing & Repairs Est 2023.
The yard itself is large, flat, asphalted. Plenty of room to park and turn vehicles without having to worry about hitting anything. A big, barn-like workshop lies at one end, with space for at least four vehicles inside by the looks of things.
At the other end is a large, timber-framed, chalet-style house. Everything neat and tidy, even down to the carefully stacked log pile lying ready for next winter.
Sounds of banging coming from the workshop cease as we pull up, and a man comes out.
Well… I say a man. More a giant. I’d thought Regan was big, but this guy towers over him.
He has muscles on top of his muscles. He also has long, reddish-brown hair and a big, bushy brown beard that looks like you could get lost in it for a week and still not find your way out.
Regan introduces him as ‘Abe’ and explains he’s one of the three founder/owners of the place.
Between the two of them, Abe and Regan get my car off the tow truck and parked in a corner out of the way to cool down, and then Abe disappears back into the workshop.
A short time later, the banging recommences.
“You’ll have to excuse Abe,” Regan smiles at Papa and me. “He’s a man of very few words. Talented mechanic, though. Come and meet Grant.”
He leads us to the other building and we head inside to what appears to be a modern reception area, with a kind of trade counter going on at one end, and a bit of a customer waiting area at the other.
Again, it’s all very clean and tidy, and the AC provides a welcome contrast from the growing heat outside.
A slightly older, military-looking man comes through a door into the room we’re in.
He’s maybe not quite the size of Regan, but he’s no violet either, and what he lacks in bulk he looks like he more than makes up for in sinews and sheer strength-of-will.
He gives me a feeling of power under strain.
Like a bridge across a river with too many vehicles on it—more than it was designed to take, but not so many to cause it to fail…
yet. Unlike Regan, he doesn’t seem so inclined to smile.
“We’ve got a couple of guests for the cabin.” Regan explains.
“Why can’t they stay at the hotel?”
“Because it’s an hour’s journey from here, and they don’t know the way, and they don’t have much money, and you know how much they overcharge there.”
The new guy, Grant, looks Papa and me over slowly, thoughtfully.
“It’s just for one night, Grant.” Regan adds, and the older man relaxes, his shoulders visibly lowering, and his jaw softening into more of a smile and less of a scowl.
Immediately I warm to him. I catch a glimpse of the other side of that power he holds.
A protective side. What he does, he does for the collective good of his friends.
Of that, I feel sure. Even though he clearly isn’t keen on us being here, I can’t help but like him for that.
“Yeah, sure, why not? Pleased to meet you, Miss… err..?”
“This is Louise Smith, and her father, Mr. Smith”
“Call me err… Robert.” My father ventures, casting a quick furtive glance at me as he does so.
I sigh inside again. Let’s hope he never has to lie about anything important.
He’s terrible at it. His body language and obvious discomfort at telling something that’s not true are totally obvious.
Ah well… perhaps it doesn’t matter so much, up here in the sticks.
“Robert… right.” The man offers his hand to us, and we shake.
“Is there bedding?” he turns to Regan with this.
“Not sure. But leave it to me, I’ll check straight after lunch. These two have been driving all night, so they could probably do with a rest.
“Oh, we’re fine, really,” I say, only half swallowing a massive yawn that makes Regan laugh and even Grant smile.
“Yeah, right, so I see,” Regan smiles. “Lunch first, then you can go lie down and get an hour or so’s rest, okay?”
“Well—”
“Good, that’s settled then,” he continues, smiling. Why don’t the two of you grab your stuff and I’ll show you where the cabin is.”
Lunch is very much a utilitarian affair, and obviously designed to fill an energy gap without the men having to stop work for too long.
Apparently they take it in turns, and today being Regan’s turn, he heads into the kitchen and I offer to give him a hand, whilst Papa sits on a bench in the yard, enjoying the sunshine.
Regan starts with the iced tea. He throws a couple of scoops of loose, black tea-leaves into a large metal teapot and adds boiling water, then leaves it to steep while slicing bread for sandwiches.
Once the bread has been sliced, he returns to strain the tea from the teapot into a large, stainless-steel carafe, after which he stirs in some honey—which he says the men prefer to sugar—and then finally tops up with ice water.
Sandwiches are pastrami on rye, which Regan explains is a firm favorite with all three of them. Papa loves his pastrami on rye too, so that works out well.
Lunch itself is consumed at the big, farmhouse-style kitchen table. The men each have their obvious places, and Papa and I pull up chairs where there’s a space, of which there are plenty, the table being big enough for ten, rather than just the five of us.
Regan and I do much of the talking, with Grant occasionally chipping in to add details or correct Regan on minor errors and discrepancies.
Abe seems content just to listen along without contributing.
Papa tells one or two stories about his youth, which the men listen to and smile along with politely.
And, of course, it’s in the middle of one such anecdote that he twice mentions Brooklyn and then again uses my real name, Maria, instead of Louise.
I should have known. I should have changed the topic, or warned him not to speak.
But to be quite honest, whatever I’d done, sooner or later Papa would’ve given us away.
“I thought you said your name was Louise?” Grant looks at me sharply, his expression not exactly hostile, but demanding of an answer, nonetheless.
I sigh. Better come clean. Partially, anyway. I’ll tell them about the marriage, but not about the mafia side to it. Nothing ever improves when you include the mafia.
“It’s like this,” I explain. “Back in Brooklyn there was this man—a wealthy man—but I didn’t love him…”
I told them all about Tony, and the loan, and the marriage, and about receiving the text from him that he’d sent me instead of his secret girlfriend, Camila.
I didn’t mention the death threats. I didn’t want to freak these men out.
I just said that Tony’s family was incredibly wealthy and quite powerful, so I’d decided just to make a run for it, and we’d used assumed names and pretended we were from Chicago to cover our tracks.
“But what I don’t get,” said Regan, after listening to our story. “Is what you’re going to do about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… okay, you’ve run away from them. But what are you going to do next? I mean… you can’t exactly go back, right? Not without facing these guys, which you say you don’t want to do. So, what are you going to do?”
“I…” I falter. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
In truth, we don’t really have a plan. We’d just got in the car and ran, as much on instinct and adrenaline as anything else.
Now, sitting here in this comfortable kitchen with these three men, in the middle of the mountainous wilderness of West Virginia, my story seems… not very well thought through.
“I don’t know.” I confess. “It was all very spur of the moment. But we can’t go back.”
“Well, for now anyway, go and rest. You’re safe here with us tonight in any case. We can talk about it again later, after dinner.” Regan tries to reassure us.
Abe finishes his sandwich and knocks back the remainder of the tea in his glass.
“I got work to do,” he says, and heads for the door. His strong body brushes past me, and I shiver inside, out of what? Fear? Excitement? All that strength in one man. I don’t know how to feel about it.
“Me too,” Grant follows him out, leaving just Papa, Regan and me. Papa looks worried, but Regan just smiles.
“Don’t worry,” he says with a reassuring smile, laying a strong hand on my arm, giving a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Between us, we’ll think of something. Now… go get some sleep.”
I turn to go, my arm still warm from his touch.