Page 41 of Truck You

“Clara is renting me a room. The rest of my things from Cincinnati arrived yesterday, and I need to unpack. Is that okay with you?”

He nods but doesn’t say anything else. He turns his attention back to the racecar they’ve been working on all week and acts like I’m no longer there.

I roll my eyes and try not to let my frustration get the best of me. I don’t think I’ll ever understand that man.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to Clara’s house. Everything takes about fifteen minutes to get to in Beaver. The only things within the limits of the village are a small grocery store, the smallest post office I’ve ever seen, Frank’s Frosty Kreme, a gas station, a doctor’s office, the community center, and, of course, Mrs. Engle’s hair salon.

The small village doesn’t even have a bank or an ATM. I have to drive the twenty minutes to Jackson every time I need cash.

According to Clara, there was a small bank in Beaver in the 1950s, but someone robbed it. They closed it down and one has never opened back up.

This antiquated village brings new meaning to small-town life.

I pull into Clara’s driveway and smile. The house sits off the road at the top of a small hill surrounded by open fields. The driveway is lined with birch trees, which she says are her grandma’s favorites, and there are three large oak trees next to the house. One in the front yard that shades the entire front of the house, and two in the backyard.

It’s a pale yellow, two-story, three-bedroom house with white shutters. There’s a swing on the front porch and empty flower beds waiting to be replanted when spring arrives. It’s cute, and I’m happy to call it home for the foreseeable future.

* * *

The momentwe arrive at the Oktoberfest, someone stops Clara and won’t stop talking. It’s one of the older women who clearly loves to gossip and has an opinion on everything. If it were me that got stopped, I would have ended the conversation before now, but Clara is being too nice.

Deciding to let her talk, I excuse myself to walk around. Clara gives me an apologetic look and mouthssorry.

The first few booths I pass are selling handmade items—knitted socks and scarves, and quilted blankets. Two booths down, I glimpse Grams and make my way over to say hi.

As soon as she sees me, she rushes out from the booth to give me a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you, dear. Did you come alone?”

I shake my head. “I came with Clara. She got held up talking to someone. I think it might be her boss or something.”

Grams gives me a knowing smile. “That’d be Mrs. Hoffman, the principal of the high school. That woman sure can talk.”

“I noticed.” I glance around her booth and my eyes widen as I take in all the baked goods and jars of jam. “Oh, wow. Did you make all of this?”

“Of course, dear. Been baking nonstop for the past two weeks, and I started canning the jams this summer as soon as the fruit was ready. Chase produces it all for me. He’s quite the farmer. But I don’t suppose that’s the grandson that interests you.”

I snap my eyes to her. “What do you mean?”

Her smile turns mischievous as she slides her arm through mine. “Oh, I do believe my youngest grandson is smitten with you. Although that damn boy is too stubborn for his own good. He’ll deny it if you ask him. But my Mac likes you all the same.”

Even though I doubt the truth of her words, they make me all warm and fuzzy inside. I want Mac to want me. More than I probably should.

Wanting to change the subject, I pat her arm and turn my attention to her baked goods. “So, any of these recipes up for ownership debate?”

She harrumphs, and it makes me chuckle. “Now don’t you go listening to the Kochs. All my recipes are mine. Ain’t nobody stole a damn thing. That family is riddled with jealousy, and jealousy is like a raging fire. Once it takes hold, you’ve got to let it burn itself out.”

“I can’t imagine it’s a healthy reason to fuel a rivalry between two families.”

“No, it certainly is not.” Grams smiles up at me. “Let me bag you up some of my chocolate peanut clusters. They’re Clara’s favorite.”

I gladly take the candies as a gift, stuff them into my purse, and say a quick goodbye before I glance around for Clara, but I don’t see her. Hopefully, that means she got away from Mrs. Hoffman.

“If it isn’t my favorite female racecar driver,” Tanner Koch’s voice has me turning around.

“I’m pretty sure I’m theonlyfemale racecar driver you know,” I say with a forced smile.

“That’s why you’re my favorite.” He grins.

I roll my eyes. “Tanner, that is not a compliment.”

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