Page 3 of Beauty and the Grease
She exits the truck. She has on a stiff work jacket and well-worn cargos. I’m not judging. Her pants aren’t coffee stained in all the wrong places. I watch in not a small amount of awe as she points a clunky remote control at the truck, which lowers a beam that connects the tow to the car. Then the front wheels lift. She finishes by securing the car with sturdy straps at several points.
She appears in front of me as if watching her wasn’t just short of amazing. “Where are you headed?”
I scratch the back of my neck, trying to avoid looking at her directly. But I can’t miss the fitted T-shirt beneath her jacket. It looks soft. She looks soft, in a good way. Good. She looks good. “My company is running a retreat at some place on a lake.”
“Lots of lakes around here.”
“Yeah. I’ve got the address in my GPS.”
“Is it much farther?”
I shrug. “Maybe ten miles? Twelve?” Honestly, I lost track. I should have never peeled off the main road, but Lisa called and I figured back roads would be safer given I expected a tough conversation. Then I lost GPS signal. Not like I would have heard the directions over Lisa’s yelling.
She clears her throat. “I should probably ask, are you okay?”
I almost laugh. Okay? Hardly.
“I mean your head. Your neck. Did you get whiplash? Bonk your noggin?”
“Oh. No.” My hand goes to my forehead on instinct. “I’m okay.”
“Well, let’s head out.”
I look at her.
“Get in the truck,” she says.
Oh. Right. I can’t drive my car.
“Unless you have someone else to give you a lift. Maybe one of your coworkers at the retreat?” She looks hopeful for a second, like maybe she can leave me here. Stranded.
“Nope.” I move past her to the passenger side of the truck, er, the Beast, she called it. “Just take me to your place. Your, shop, I mean.” I’m on the other side of the truck now so she can’t see my flaming red face.
This is the worst day of my life. Wait, no. Not even close. Coincidentally, that day also involves Jenny.
She hoists herself into the driver’s seat like a pro.
“How long have you been living out here?” I ask.
She starts up the truck and eases us forward. “About a year.” She smacks a button on the stereo and a loud pop song blasts out.
I shut up and let her drive.
After five minutes, a sign noting Derby’s town limits comes into view. Older homes line the road. Nothing fancy,but well-kept and tidy. A church and a boat rental shop pass by. Then a downtown strip with a few restaurants, an optometrist office, a florist. At the corner, an old brick building displays the Jenny’s Auto logo on a large, shiny sign. The script is like a 1950s diner or something, but looks new.
She expertly takes the corner wide and parks behind the shop. A fence encloses the lot and stretches back a block with room for parked cars and a driveway leading into the repair facility.
Neither of us gets out. Suddenly, being in a hurry feels less important.
“This really is a coincidence?” she asks. “You on the side the road like that?”
“I swear.”
“How did you find my shop?”
HowdidI find Jenny on a random road in a part of the state I’ve never driven? A questionI’dlike answered. “The insurance company said they’d contact roadside assistance. They called you. Or whoever answered the call.”
We sit there some more as a sheen of soft rain pelts the front window. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring,” she blurts. “What happened?” She claps a hand to her mouth. “Don’t answer. It’s not my business.” She lunges for the door.
