6. Cords and Clips
six
Cords and Clips
“ G oodness. It is mountainous.” Erika presses her fingertips to her lips as my truck begins the steep climb toward Black Mountain. “It’s… insanely beautiful up here.”
I point to the east, at the massive mountain that disappears into snow-laden clouds. “That’s Kentucky’s highest peak. Black Mountain.”
My chest tightens.
Something inside me goes as cold as the snow that blankets the roadside, as the words come out.
“People die on these roads up here all the time, Erika.” I cut my eyes at her.
My best friend’s client sits in my truck in awe of the scenery.
My warning appears to fall on deaf ears.
I’ve known her Aunt Josephine for years, but still—she’s as much a stranger to these mountains as she is to me.
She has no idea how dangerous they can be.
“That’s why I couldn’t let you come up here in that Beetle. Josie’s car’s fine for summer driving, but not in winter, not here anyway.” The idea that she would have popped Fisher’s in her navigator and headed to the next town on the highest point. Clueless.
“Is this coal mine country?” she asks, still wide-eyed, her gaze flicking back and forth from me to the countryside. She’s from Chicago—she’s eating up the rugged, forested Cumberland Mountains.
“It was, back in the day—long before our time. In the 1940s, the coal mines employed thousands of men. All the other businesses supported their families and the mines. But now, fewer than a thousand people work the mines.”
She turns toward me. “So, what keeps people here now?”
The answer comes out without thinking. “A sense of place. Belonging. Roots. These are the Cumberland Mountains, home to Daniel Boone National Forest. You’re in one of the most storied… historic parts of America. People who are born here end up staying here.”
Erika’s face lights up. She’s peering at the winding highway ahead, but soon her eyes are back on me, almost sparkling in the morning sun.
And this time, unexpectedly, I’m struck by the light freckles that dot her nose and cheeks, the faint scent of gingerbread wafting between us as she all but whispers, “I’m not sure why, but I was meant to come here, I think.
This is where I’m meant to be—at least right now. I feel it.”
“You’re in good company. This is the birthplace of Loretta Lynn and Dwight Yokum and Blue Grass music.”
“Tell me something—”
“If you don’t know who those icons are, I can’t help you.”
She rolls her eyes only to have them meet mine again.
Our gazes join as I wait for what’s coming.
“You said something earlier about the town meeting and a vote. What were you talking about?”
“There’s a town meeting next week to decide how we’re going to pay for a new fire truck.”
“Oh.”
“Disappointed?”
“No. I just—I guess I hoped it was for something else.” Her chin lifts in contemplation. “Doesn’t the county or city take care of firetrucks? Through taxes?”
Watching her pretty face change with each thought, consequently I’m focused on her, not the wheel, and I make an effort to pull my gaze back to the road. “Not here. All we have is a volunteer fire department. It’s not supported by taxes.”
“Let me guess. You’re part of it?”
“Everyone is one way or another. Anyway, some jackass state inspector comes in from Frankfort earlier this year and decides we’ve got to have a larger capacity firetruck, or we lose our rating.”
Her brows pinch tight. “What rating?”
I feel a growl coming from my chest. “It’s about property insurance. Bottom line is, if we can’t buy a bigger fire truck by the end of January, everyone’s property insurance is going through the roof.”
A confidence leaks from her voice as she stares out her passenger window. “It sounds like you need a fundraiser.”
A chuckle bubbles free. “You could say that.”
“Damn.” I let out a whistle as we pull up to Fisher’s Freight, seeing the ocean of vehicles in the parking lot. It looks like a convention.
Erika’s eyes scan the packed two-acre parking lot. “It’s bigger than I expected.”
“And crowded. But then again, it’s Saturday. In December.” A twinge of guilt hits me that this place is so packed with business. I’m proud Blitzen isn’t massive parking lots and corporate franchises, but it sucks for Bob that his weekend customers are probably all shopping here instead of at home.
“Where are we going to park?” She’s peering from one side of the truck to the other.
“You can walk, right?” I look over my shoulder, backing my truck into a space about as far from the building as we can get. What the fuck? Am I going to drive around for thirty minutes, like a vulture, trying to steal a parking space from some old couple?
“Where do all these people come from?” Erika asks.
“From all over this part of the state and western West Virginia.”
She lifts a brow curious for more information. “Have you ever heard of Harbor Freight?”
She shakes her head.
“Sam’s Club? Walmart? Costco—Bass Pro Shop?”
“Of course. I grew up in a suburb not Mars. They were just called one of the above names, not Fisher’s.” She shakes her head at the sound of the foreign franchise.
“Think of Fisher’s as the answer to all of those in this part of rural southeastern Kentucky. If your town doesn’t have it, Fisher’s does. Whatever it is. From a rifle to scotch tape to a five-gallon jar of pickles. Or a flannel jacket.”
With the truck stopped, Erika grabs her door handle and tosses a look over her shoulder encouraging me to come on.
“Is this excitement?” I have to ask.
Long, dark—almost black locks of hair flip behind her as she jumps from my truck and moves to walk ahead. “Of course it’s exciting. Everything new always is.” That coil of confidence winds from her throat through a devilish grin she pauses to throw my way.
A thump or two knocks at my chest as I race to catch up to her.
“I mean, I can’t commit to the five-gallon jar of pickles, but who’s to say it won’t be an impulse buy. That, and my wardrobe’s low on flannel.”
Isn’t she proving to be the eager little beaver who’s game for anything. Right this way . I gesture forward behind her, shaking my head at the acres of cars before us. She’s funny. It takes me by surprise. And for a second, I’m not sure who’s in charge between the two of us.
The thought is fleeting when we enter every grown man’s nightmare—shopping through a crowded store on their day off.
“Kourt. Fancy running into you here.” I don’t get a smile with the greeting as we walk into Fisher’s.
Apparently, being taken by surprise is the order of the day. Great.
“Morning, Quinn.” I muster a mannerly nod.
Standing right in the entry, her eyes drag over Erika. “It’s just a great day, I’m sure.”
What do you want me to say, Quinn?
“Heard your girls played a hell of a game last night. Surprised… to see you here.”
“Mamma dragged me with her. She wants one of those blow-up snowmen for the yard.” And, she keeps glaring at Erika.
Cutting my eyes at the innocent Chicagoan at my side, I make the introduction. “Erika, this is Quinn Greely. Quinn, Erika Amherst.”
Erika nods, smiling politely at the woman who’s glowering at her. “It’s very nice to meet you, Quinn.” There’s that genuine thing Helen mentioned. Erika means it.
She’s classy.
Quinn shifts a little and darts her eyes back up to mine in an accusing glare.
Jesus.
“Quinn coaches girls’ basketball and track at Willow Creek.”
“How exciting.” Erika says with more sincerity, then tilts her head back to meet my eyes. “I’ll leave you two to it. I’m going to find the extension cords.”
She grabs a shopping cart and rolls away, leaving me alone with Quinn.
“So, she’s why…”
“No. She’s just a friend. Not even that. An acquaintance.”
“I know about you and friends.”
Is there a fire retardant anywhere nearby? “Quinn, listen… I’m not—”
She shows me her palm to dismiss me, and I notice her long, fake fingernails. Something I never liked. It’s not the fake thing, it’s basketball. How could you legit play or coach with those things? It’s painful to think of.
She snaps, “I don’t want to hear it. I was just one of the trophies you collect.” She nods in the direction Erika went. “Guess she’s next.” Quinn storms away.
I let her go.
What. The. Fuck. I’m not about to settle down with anyone.
Quinn Greely’s the perfect example: you see a woman for a few months, and she can’t wait to change your bachelor status—as if it’s a crime for a man to live alone and date.
I just broke it off with her and she’s still calling herself part of my collection.
Oddly, that’s exactly what she wants to be.
I didn’t use her. We had a good time. If I used her, she used me. I always made sure… fuck. She was a consenting adult who told me she didn’t have time for a relationship either.
“Got ’em!” Erika surprises me with a basket full of extension cords in every possible Christmas color combo and length. “Did you find your clips?” Something shiny catches her attention and she looks away from me. “Have you seen all these decorations?”
She’s a kid in a candy store.
“Not yet.”
Erika’s gaze catches Quinn, who’s easy to see, a head taller than any other woman in the place, pushing her shopping cart briskly away. “Was that your girlfriend?”
“No.”
Erika dips her head. “Oh, sorry. Guess I mis-read.”
“Clips, this way.” I turn us away from Quinn and down a random aisle. Any aisle.
“Kourt!” The second most patronizing voice I could hear today calls out across the store. This one is a baritone, and a bastard.
What the fuck?
Is it old home week at Fisher’s? Half of Blitzen and then some are here.
I look over my shoulder to the voice, seeing Ellis Andrews striding my way. Christ.
“Who you got here, McShotty?” our head football coach asks, his eyes about to pop out of his skull as he drinks in the woman at my side.
None of your fucking business.