Page 10 of Crossroads Magic
I couldn’t remember a turn off. “There’s signage?” I asked hopefully.
The man grimaced and shook his head. “It’s the only westerly turn-off this close to the Crossing,” he added. “You can’t miss it. And the road only goes to the Crossing.”
Clearly, Ihadmissed it. But I kept my teeth together and pushed the bag of chips a bit closer to him. “How much?”
He took my five-dollar bill and rang it through a grease-stained cash register, and handed me my change. “Why on earth would you want to go to Haigton Crossing?” he asked. “At this time of year?”
“My mother lives there,” I told him. “Lived there,” I corrected myself.
“Sorry,” the man said automatically. But clearly, he was fixated on what, to him, was a bizarre destination. “They say things about the Crossing.”
“They do?”
He nodded. “You’re not staying long, are you?”
I thought about the car rental, which would add a daily charge to my credit card. “Not long at all,” I told him.
“That’s good,” he murmured, his gaze distant.
I tilted my head at him. “Why?”
He stirred and shook off whatever thoughts he’d been having. “Nothing,” he said, and gave me a broad smile intended, I think, to reassure me. “Chilly time of year to be travelling. Take it easy on the backroad, there. I don’t think it’s been plowed.”
My heart sank. I had very little experience driving in snow, but what I’d learned since leaving Syracuse this morning was that it was a lot like driving on beach sand—andthatI had done a lot of. But unplowed roads? That could be more challenging.
The agent who’d rented me the car had argued that I should get a four-wheel drive. Perhaps that was why. I’d assumed he was simply trying to rent me a more expensive vehicle.
I gave the mechanic a small smile. “Thanks for your help.”
“Merry Christmas!” he replied.
I paused, the bag of chips in mid-air. “I guess, yeah,” I replied. Christmas Day was only a week or so away. “Same to you.”
I went back to the car, moving carefully across the packed-down snow. My boots, I had discovered, were useless on snow. They had no tread. But they were the only closed-in shoes I had.
Ghaliya had her window open, and another man, also in overalls, was bent over the car, chatting with her.
It’s okay. He’s just trying to get her number out of her, and Ghaliya isn’t interested. The thought came to me as clearly as if someone had whispered the words into my ear.
I went around to the driver’s side and got in. The man instantly straightened and patted the roof of the little silver car. “Well, nice chatting,” he told Ghaliya. He was young, with the good looks that youth gave everyone. But in twenty years, he’d have a fat face, grey hair and a thick neck.
“Yeah. Good to meet you,” Ghaliya replied.
I started the car and she wound up the window quickly. “Damn, it’s so freakingcoldhere.” She already had all the buttons of the jean jacket closed, and she hugged herself and put her boots right under the heater vent under the dash.
I handed her the chips. “We’re just not used to it.” I got the car going and checked the road in either direction—no cars to be seen at all—then pulled out in the direction we’d come into town from. The Ford gave a little shimmy in the back, a slight wiggle, as it had done from time to time on really well-packed snow. But the road out of town was well plowed.
Nevertheless, I drove slowly, because I didn’t want to miss the unmarked turn off that was “unmissable.”
“We passed the turn off?” Ghaliya guessed, and tore open the chip packet.
“Apparently, you can’t miss it.”
“We did.”
“Yep.” I kept my eyes on the verge on the other side of the road, looking for signs of a turn off.
I nearly missed it again.
