Page 90 of Two Wrongs

Bess rolls her eyes. “This might be a foreign concept to you, but there’s this thing called patience. Try finding some. She’s going to call me, and I’m going to work my magic. When I see an opening, I’m going to try and lure her back. You need to be ready with some romance novel-worthy groveling.”

“And how do I do that?” At this point I’m willing to try anything.

“Ask Dolores. She’s got all the classics. And by classics, I mean Nora Roberts.”

“Well, I was planning to see her after I talked to you.”

“Tell granny D I said I’ll see her later. And, Griffin—“ she calls out to me as I start to turn away, “try and have some faith. She loves you and won’t be able to stay away either.”

36

Wren

After a rough night’s sleep at theMotolodge,I get back on the road. Since I left late yesterday, I have all day today and part of tomorrow left to drive before I make it to my Aunt Hattie’s house. That’s a lot of time with my own thoughts.

Not that I can hear myself thinking over the rattle coming from under the hood of my car. I rub the dashboard and try to sweet talk it into continuing to work. Five years married to a mechanic and here I am driving around in a car on the verge of possibly exploding, and I don’t have the first clue how to check what might be wrong with it.

I know enough about cars to know that when the needle moves into the red end on the temperature gauge that something is wrong. Well, that and all the sensors lighting up with engine warnings, and all sorts of other hieroglyphics. Around noon, I pull off the road hoping my car will somehow, miraculously, work right after I scarf down whatever passes for food at the gas station. I mean, it’s essentially unplugging it, right? It worked with my ancient computer at the insurance office.

Thankfully, I manage to find a large traveler center so maybe my dining options will hopefully be better than a greasy fried burrito or a stale donut. I waste as much time as I can stomach. Somehow I let myself believe it just needs some time to reset.

“Please let it be long enough,” I pray on my way out to my car.

Smoke trickles out of the edges of the hood. I might not know much about cars, but I know they’re not supposed to smoke. I unlock the car, reach under the dash on the driver’s side and pop the hood. That trickle of smoke becomes a plume. I start to reach for the cap where most of the smoke is coming from, when a callused hand latches on to my wrist.

“Don’t grab that,” he yells.

I pull my hand back. “I need to make it to Florida.”

“Then you better get a bus ticket or start walking, because this thing isn’t going to leave the parking lot,” he says.

A laugh bursts free. I can’t hold it back. All of the stress, the sadness, the fucking unfairness of my entire goddamn life sends me into the hysterical kind of laughter that earns you a padded room and a special jacket.

I straighten up and wipe the tears from my face. I’m not sure if they’re sad tears, or from laughing. “Of course not. That would be too easy. Any idea what’s wrong with it?”

I’m not sure how knowing will change anything, clearly whatever it is would need to be fixed. That means I’d either need to stay here and wait for it, or come back and get it. Neither option appeals to me. The only way I’m going to be able to move on and put all of this behind me is if I cut all ties to Harriston, except for Dolores, Bess, and Donovan. The car is just a vestige of my old life, and it’s kind of poetic that it chooses to go up in flames.

The helpful stranger waits by the open hood for several minutes without saying anything. My last question just hangs between us. After he’s apparently waited long enough that he thinks it’s safe, he pulls a rag from his back pocket, screws off a cap, and grunts. I wonder if communicating like a caveman is a common trait of mechanics. Oddly, it makes me miss Griffin more.

I shake off the errant thought, and focus on what the stranger is doing. He looks at a few more things and then straightens up and steps away from the engine. “I’d have to check it over more, but my guess is your radiator is cracked. Depends on how long you’ve been driving around with it like that, but you may have engine damage.”

“How much would it cost to fix it?” I ask. Even though part of me wants to just get rid of the car, my practical side knows that I don’t have new car money.

He shrugs. “Could be a few hundred, could be over a thousand. I won’t know until I get some more time with it.”

“I’m sorry—“ he extends his hand, “—I’m Gerald. I own the only auto shop here in town. I’d be happy to look it over for you. It’s not going to be fast though. I’ve got three cars ahead of this one.”

Using a scrap of paper from my purse, I write down my phone number. “My name is Wren. Sorry, I know an old receipt isn’t the best method of record keeping.”

He shrugs. “My desk is pretty much covered in client information written on old receipts, grocery lists, and if I’m lucky sticky notes.”

“Of course it is,” I grumble.

He ignores what he must think is a really random comment. “I can tow your car to my shop, and we’ll get it in as soon as we can. I warn you, it’s probably going to be at least two or three days just to get it in the bay. And then, who knows what I’m going to find or how long it’s going to take to fix.”

I take a deep breath. It’s going to be expensive to fix, I know it. Even if it’s just the radiator, there’s his labor, parts, and of course either hotel fees while he’s fixing it, or a return bus ticket to come back and get it. My fingers twitch, and I have to stop myself from grabbing my cellphone to call Griffin. It only took a few weeks for my first instinct to become turning to him to save me.

“Take a look at it and call me,” I say.

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