Chapter 1 #2
Embarrassment fills me to the brim and runs over, spilling heat down my face.
“Oh, you’re right. It’s an old TV show.” I clear my throat.
This is what happens when you don’t have small talk with strangers for two years.
You end up sounding like you have a room-temperature IQ. “Tell me more about your gourd farm.”
Even in the darkness of the truck, with snow blowing across the empty road like some kind of dystopian horror, he brightens at the question. “Did you know there are over one hundred types of squash, and they are categorized as winter or summer since they can grow in various climates?”
Before I can comment on that, he continues.
“I’m working on a farm delivery service, like those weekly boxes you can deliver to paying customers, but right now I only have a small greenhouse, so I can only do about a dozen boxes each week. But one of my customers is Graham Deadwyler. Have you read his books?”
“The name is familiar.”
“He’s wicked famous. Most famous person I’ve ever met, anyway.”
Ouch.
“He doesn’t talk to anyone, ever, but he likes my squash because he’s into eating local produce. He wants to help me with my farm and always says I should follow my dreams and I think he’s right. He would know after all because . . .”
I half pay attention, happy to give a break to the weakened part of my brain that forgot how to socialize.
It’s been too long since I’ve had to converse for more than a few minutes.
I would leave my condo occasionally to run errands or go to the doctor, but always with a hat and sunglasses that hid most of my face.
Impatience thrums in my veins. I think I’ll just be a little late for the appointment with the attorney, if an hour is considered a little. I will see if Noah can drop me off at the attorney’s office after we leave my car at the mechanic, just in case he’s there by then, or someone is.
The drive to town is interminable and filled with vegetable talk, punctuated with calls on Noah’s radio.
It’s a busy night out in this storm. I count three different stranded drivers.
But Noah just gives our status and keeps talking about gourds.
At one point, he reaches behind my seat and hands me a mini pumpkin gourd as a gift, also referred to as Cucurbita pepo.
It’s the smallest pumpkin I’ve ever seen.
It can’t be more than ten centimeters wide.
I stuff it in my jacket pocket.
It’s over an hour later, after we’ve dropped off my Honda Accord at the mechanic’s, when he finally rumbles to a stop in the parking lot of the attorney’s office.
But no lights are on.
I jump out and knock on the front door, peering into windows, but there is no answer and no movement.
I get back in the truck, rubbing my hands together. “No one is there.”
“I can’t leave you here if you can’t get inside.”
Now what? Maybe I just need to get a room for the night. “Can you take me to the inn?”
The Surrender Inn is only a couple blocks down the road.
But the vacancy sign is dark.
There’s no way they are full on a night like this.
“Stay put for a sec, I’ll check it out.”
I nod. I am not complaining.
Noah returns seconds later. “They have the out-of-office sign on the door, and no one is there, but it’s not locked. Prudence might be over at the elementary school for the Valentine’s play.”
Valentine’s play. The source of the Valentine’s Eagle? Maybe the attorney has kids or something, and he’s helping out.
Anxiety winds through me. Noah’s radio crackles again. He has other people to help, other drivers stranded around town.
“No worries. I’ll stay here and wait it out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s fine.”
He scratches his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to leave you alone. I’ll come back and check on you after my next call. Or I’ll get someone out to check on you.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” Someone will show up eventually.
The snow seems to be lightening, anyway.
I brace myself as I step onto the curb, away from the warmth of the truck, offering a quick thanks to Noah before beelining toward the inn.
The tow truck lumbers down the street.
I pull at the door handle of the inn.
It doesn’t open.
Wait. He said it was unlocked. Maybe it’s just a heavy door, and the wind is buffeting against it. I tug again, harder. Then again, with all my strength.
It doesn’t budge.
Shit. Is there some trick here?
I spin around. “Wait!” I wave my hands in the air, but the tow truck is already down the block, obscured by the falling snow.
Shit shit shit.
I face the door again, glancing around for another idea.
Maybe I should have had him wait, or I should have gone with him . . . no. It will be okay. It’s unlocked. I keep trying to open it, then I try knocking.
This is fine. It’s all fine. No problem.
What about the attorney? Maybe I’ll try calling Mr. Montgomery again.
I reach for my purse and find empty air.
I pat my side more, searching. I always wear my purse strapped across my body with the pouch to the left.
It’s not there.
I blink through the snow lacing my lashes, like maybe I can see with my eyes what I can’t feel with my hands, but . . .
It’s not there.
Just when I think I’ve reached the end of this shit sandwich, I find out there’s a whole new layer of excrement.
Did I leave it in the tow truck? What if it fell out of the car back where I broke down?
The snow sputtering down from the sky suddenly picks up in intensity, blanketing the street and obscuring the view.
I have nothing on me except the coat on my back. I left my bad and my purse in the truck. How could I let this happen?
Pockets. Maybe I put something in my pockets.
I rip off one of my gloves with my teeth and plunge my hand into my pocket.
An old tissue, a penny, a hair clip, and the mini pumpkin.
Literally nothing that could help me in any way, shape, or form.
I pull my glove back on and bang harder on the door.
My breath comes quicker, puffs of steam rising from my mouth like a physical manifestation of my impending meltdown.
I cup my hands around my eyes to peer through the dark window. My teeth chatter.
I step back and eyeball the building. Maybe someone left another door unlocked somewhere. I could circle the building to the back, but it’s a long row of connected buildings and I can’t tell how far I would have to walk.
Breaking a window is out of the question. An icy gust of wind blows against my back.
Unless death is the only other option.
Think, Vivien, think!
The bobby pin.
I can jimmy the lock with it. I had to do it one time on The Other Side of Ordinary.
It was the only time my character stepped up and saved the boys, so I did all kinds of research on pin-tumbler mechanisms, wanting to get the scene just right.
I was twelve though, so that was like seventeen years ago.
Kneeling by the front door, I remove my gloves and attack the lock with the hairpin like my life depends on it. Because it might.
After working at it for ten minutes, nothing is happening except my fingers getting more and more numb by the second.
Time ceases to have meaning. All that exists is me, the cold, and this damn lock that I swear I will defeat if it takes me all night.
A white light flashes across the brick building and then settles on me like a spotlight.
I straighten. What the—?
“Ma’am, step away from the door and raise your hands in the air,” an authoritative voice rings out.