Читать книгу A Coventry Wedding - Becky Cochrane - Страница 9

As much as she wanted to cut Sam’s ego down to size, she reminded herself that she needed his help. Before she could explain, he held up a hand to silence her. “First things first,” he said. “Dehydration is always a possibility in this kind of heat.”

She’d been sweating buckets, and her throat was parched, but he was crazy if he thought she was going to accept some kind of drink from him. She didn’t need the voice of Prudence to remind her that was a sure way to end up as the victim on a segment of America’s Most Wanted.

She watched while Sam reached inside a cooler in the back of his spotlessly clean extended cab. It was hard to believe this was a mechanic’s vehicle. She’d expected stained rags, empty cigarette packs, and crushed beer cans. Maybe that was just her mechanic, whose nickname was Hog. She’d gotten to know Hog only too well because of her unreliable SUV. She should have sent him a wedding invitation and gotten a little of her hard-earned cash back in the form of a toaster. Actually, if there was any justice in the world, Hog should buy her a commercial-grade range. She wondered if the mechanic would miss her and her frequent checks. She’d probably paid for some little Hog’s braces. Or more likely, Mrs. Hog’s breast augmentation.

The bottle of Ozarka water Sam held looked so cool and clear that she could almost feel the liquid sliding down her throat. There was no reason not to accept it since the seal around the nozzle hadn’t been broken. She’d never wanted water so much in her life as she watched him uncap the bottle and fill a red plastic cup. Then he set it down in front of Sue, who took a couple of indifferent laps before clambering into the truck, looking back as if to say, We all understand whose needs come first here, right?

Sam drank the water that remained in the bottle, tossed the water from Sue’s cup toward a patch of sand, put the bottle and the cup in a plastic bag, and tied the bag. Then he brushed off a miniscule smudge left by Sue on the truck’s seat before he turned back and said, “Sam Revere. What can I do for you?”

The easy and honest response was to say January Halli and let him assume Jandy was her nickname. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Jandy Taylor.”

What was wrong with her? Even though Taylor had been the name on her birth certificate, it hadn’t been her name since she was four and her stepfather adopted her.

She shook off her self-recrimination, gestured toward Grandpa’s pickup, and said, “Something’s wrong with my truck.”

Victim! Pru warned. Don’t let him think there’s no one else you can call to help you. Don’t give him the impression you’re an easy mark. And don’t let him think you’ve got enough money to pay a big repair bill.

There had been a few times in her life when she’d lied to her mother just to avoid a confrontation, but she was usually honest. She hoped the lies she began fabricating along with her fake name were provoked by weariness and thirst. She hated to think that in addition to having a schizophrenic tendency to hear and be controlled by voices inside her head, she was turning into a pathological liar.

“My husband’s been out of work for five months, but he finally got a job in”—she paused momentarily to search her brain for a city, any city—“Dallas. I stayed behind to sell our trailer, and now I’m on my way to join him. I’ve got enough to pay for a tow somewhere. After that, my husband can take care of everything.”

Sam seemed a little amused as he looked across the parking lot at the pickup. “You’ll probably be stuck waiting for parts. Maybe several days. That truck was new when Ford was in the White House. Saturday Night Live still had its original cast. Fleetwood Mac was still an obscure British—”

“I get it,” she interrupted. “That’ll be my problem. I just need you to tow it in.”

“I could look at it,” he offered. “Stay,” he ordered Sue, who was sniffing the inside of the tow truck and paying no attention to either of them. As he walked toward Grandpa’s truck, he paused to toss the plastic bag in a garbage can, noticed that the dog wasn’t the only one who’d stayed, and called, “It’s worth checking out, right? Maybe it’s not as serious as you think.”

She glared at his back. Once again, he assumed she was stupid. She looked at Sue and said, “I hope he continues treating you better than he does other females.”

In answer, Sue shook her ears. A trail of saliva left from her drink of water ran down the seat, leaving a satisfying blemish on Sam’s clean truck.

By the time she got to Grandpa’s pickup, Sam had the hood up. She got in and turned the key. Of course, there was no horrible noise. The stupid truck hummed. Typical. Cars never made the same noises for mechanics—

A sudden clanking broke the silence, and Sam stuck his head around the hood and motioned for her to kill the engine. When she did, he stepped over to the window.

“Yep,” he said, “that’s definitely a problem.”

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

He stared toward the engine with a thoughtful expression and finally said, “Sounds like it could be your rotary beater.”

“My…my what?” she asked.

“I could be wrong, but you definitely shouldn’t be driving—”

“Isn’t a rotary beater a kitchen utensil?”

“Same principle,” Sam said. “Where do you think they got the name?”

She noticed he had a little bit of a drawl. She narrowed her eyes. She’d been willing to go along with his fake coin toss because she could admit—at least to herself—that inexperience would make her an inadequate dog owner. But now he’d gone too far. She’d been in this situation before, with men like Hog who gouged her for hundreds of dollars in car repairs with a don’t-you-worry-your-pretty-little-head-about-what’s-wrong attitude. That was why she’d unloaded the SUV on the man in Palm Springs in the first place. She was sick of being taken advantage of because she was a woman with a bum car. She was sure that no truck part had the same name as something she’d seen Aunt Ruby use to beat eggs. In fact, she’d used a rotary beater herself, although it had been a while. Did this Sam Revere person think she was stupid about cars and kitchens?

“Then again, it could be your defibrillator,” Sam added.

After a stunned moment—defibrillator!?—he must also think she’d never seen an episode of E.R. or Grey’s Anatomy—she looked down at his hands. Just as she’d suspected, the nails were nicely cut and no more stained by grease than his hands or clothes were. He clearly wasn’t a mechanic. But if he only drove the tow truck for Revere Auto, why didn’t he just say so? Why make up fake engine parts? Had her inner pathological liar sought and found its soul mate?

She knew all too much about tow truck drivers from Greer v. Wilkes d/b/a We-Haul-It (Los Angeles County Small Claims Court). Sam was about to discover that he wasn’t dealing with a neophyte in the ways of rip-off artists.

“Actually, if you’re going to Dallas, this is your lucky day,” Sam was saying. He slammed down the hood. “Revere Auto is in Coventry, Texas. That’s where I’m headed. It’s an hour or so west of Dallas. I can practically deliver you into your husband’s arms.”

You had to pick Dallas, Pru chided. And you must need glasses. It’s Coventry, you imbecile, not convent printed on the side of the truck.

The name Coventry seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t imagine why. She knew next to nothing about Texas.

“I’m not sure my husband would want me riding so far with a man I don’t know,” she said. The lies were almost automatic now, but there really was no reason in the world for her to go all the way to Dallas to be ripped off. Especially not with Grandpa’s truck.

Sam shrugged and said, “You can call him. Give him my business name and tag number. Or I can tow you back to Tucson. Or you can call somebody else to tow you somewhere. Makes no difference to me. I’ll be glad to stay with you until someone else comes to tow you.”

“That’s awfully nice of you,” she said sweetly, “since you cheated me out of a dog and couldn’t be bothered to offer me a drink of water.”

“Haven’t you ever watched a movie on Lifetime Television for Women? Never take a drink from a stranger.”

Since his words merely repeated her own thoughts, she decided to ignore him and focus on her truck dilemma. Tucson seemed like the best choice. At least she’d be heading in the right direction. If a city offering no job, a sterile new apartment, no wedding, five hundred disappointed wedding guests, and a hostile mother could be considered a place she wanted to go.

She sighed. She’d feel better after a night’s sleep. Once Sam located a garage for the pickup, she could manage to find a motel, a phone, a bathtub, and a bed without his help.

Before she could suggest as much, Sam said, “If it’d make you feel safer, there’s a gun in my glove box that you can use if I try to take advantage of you.”

She couldn’t decide if he was teasing her or not. She’d always heard Texans were gun-crazy.

“Is it loaded?” she asked, attempting to sound nonchalant, as if she handled firearms every day of her life.

“I have no idea,” he said. “It doesn’t belong to me. Since I don’t hunt—hunting is stupid when there’s Kroger—I don’t do that manly gun thing.”

A window in her brain opened and she saw the light—or else she was overdosing on sunshine. He was the kind of man who got all sappy about an abandoned dog. It was possible that his fingernails had been manicured. The cab of his truck was spotless. He didn’t seem to be interested in females unless they were canine. He watched Lifetime. Plus the more she looked at him, the more his appearance improved.

Sam wasn’t a looker like Hud. He was just a regular guy. But his brown hair was shaped in a cute, short cut. He had a little stubble that gave him a scruffy appeal. And if she wasn’t sure he was laughing at her, she would have liked the way his eyes danced with humor. He might think she was dumb, but he really wasn’t at all threatening, even if he was pretending to be a mechanic. Her brilliant deduction: Sam Revere was gay.

Then again, the hair peeking over the collar of his shirt gave her pause. Hud was ordered by the suits at Sweet Seasons to keep his chest shaved. His character was forever removing his shirt, and apparently the show’s viewership of teen girls and gay men liked their soap studs with hairless chests. Did the presence of chest hair mean Sam was straight? Things would be so much clearer if he was wearing one of those ball caps with an equality symbol on it, or a necklace with rainbow rings. Or if he was sporting a big sticker on the back of his tow truck with some slogan like “I Don’t Even Drive Straight.”

Since the lack of a wedding ring meant nothing, she decided to test her theory and asked, “What about your wife? Would she want you driving”—she had no idea how far it was to Dallas, but at the very least, they had to get through New Mexico—“hundreds of miles with a strange woman?”

“You don’t seem that strange,” he said. “And I’m not married.”

Gay. She was sure of it.

She relaxed and thought things over. Why not go to Coventry, Texas? She had no reason to rush back to L.A. She had money. She could get Grandpa’s truck fixed—by someone who knew more about engines than Sam—then drive back to California at her leisure. Instead of feeling like she was in the middle of a disaster of her own making, she could consider this the getaway that Hud had urged her to take. An adventure. For a few days, instead of being Stan and Carol Halli’s disappointing daughter, January, or Hud Blake’s friendless fiancée, Jane, she could be Jandy. The name made her sound like someone fun, almost jaunty. Being Jandy for a few days could make her a more interesting person.

The decision was made. From that moment on, she would maintain her carefree Jandy persona. She would introduce herself as Jandy, even think of herself as Jandy. When the truck was fixed, she could go back to L.A. and her identity as Jane Halli feeling rested, rejuvenated, and ready to set a new wedding date.

And with enough time and opportunity, she might even talk Sam out of the dog. Or she’d become resigned to the idea that a dog was the last thing she needed.

“How much will a tow to Coventry cost me?” she asked.

“I was on my way there anyway. Maybe you could buy a tank of gas to make up for the extra weight.”

She frowned and said, “That dog probably weighs almost as much as I do.”

He laughed. “I wasn’t talking about your weight. I was talking about the weight of your vehicle.”

“Oh. Right. Fine. I’ll go inside the rest stop and call my husband while you load the pickup on your tow truck.”

“Technically, it’s not a tow truck. It’s a rollback,” he said.

Suddenly he knew the right name for everything. She just smiled, grabbed her purse and her useless phone, and headed inside to use the bathroom and get something to drink. It was none of his business if she didn’t really have a husband—or anyone else—to call.

By the time they were on the freeway, Jandy felt quite a bit better. Just being in motion helped. She tried to remember the last time she’d taken a road trip anywhere. When Hud had vacations, they usually flew to his sport resort of choice: Utah and Colorado for skiing and snow-boarding, Grand Cayman or Cabo for snorkeling or surfing, and places where he could play or watch golf while she shopped or sat next to a pool and slathered the highest possible SPF sunscreen onto her fair skin. Though she occasionally drove to Redlands to see Grandpa, most of her road time was just going to and from work. At least when she had a job.

She sighed, waiting for Pru to list all the careers she could have if she just applied herself. The voice would sound tremulous, like Sally Struthers on one of those late-night commercials: flight attendant, paralegal, welding, gun repair…

Pru’s nagging voice must have been lulled into silence by the cool air, however. Grandpa’s air conditioner hadn’t worked, which had made the drive through Arizona unbearable once the sun was high in the sky. When she’d finally used the bathroom at the rest stop, she’d used wet paper towels to give herself what Aunt Ruby called a whore’s bath, so she no longer felt quite as repulsive. It would be nice to have some toiletries and a change of clothes, but she could worry about that later.

She’d half-expected Sam to let Sue ride shotgun and make her sit behind him, but Sue was stretched out on the bench seat in the back and occasionally emitted a loud snore. After a few miles in the quiet, cool cab, Jandy realized she was struggling to keep her head up. Sam reached behind his seat to get a pillow.

“If you put this against the window and lean on it, you’ll stop giving yourself whiplash trying to stay awake.”

“Wasn’t Sue just drooling on this?”

“It’s either her drool or yours,” he said and waved the pillow in a final offer. She grabbed it and tucked it between her head and the door. She hated to admit it, but it felt wonderful. And it smelled good, too, clean like shampoo. It was a struggle not to close her eyes and just breathe, especially since there was nothing compelling about the scenery. Certainly nothing as interesting as the giant boulders at the rest stop.

“Where do you think those came from?” she asked sleepily.

If Sam said anything, she didn’t hear him. The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was dipping toward the horizon behind them. She was confused, hot, and fearful that she really had drooled on his pillow. She hoped she hadn’t also snored, but there was music playing, so maybe he wouldn’t have heard it anyway. She smiled as Paul McCartney crooned about the long and winding road.

“Why?” Sam asked, and she realized he’d already said it once.

“Why what?”

“You said that the Beatles always make you think of Barbie dolls.”

“I must have been dreaming.” She sat up and hugged the pillow to her chest. She stared out the window. “How long have I been asleep? Where are we?”

“A little over three hours. Near Las Cruces. We’ll stop in El Paso in about an hour.”

“To eat?” she asked, wondering if he could hear her stomach growling.

“That and a night’s sleep.”

“But El Paso—that’s in Texas. Can’t we just drive on to Dallas? Or Coventry? Wherever.”

He glanced at her and said, “Did you look at a map before you started this trip?”

“Sort of,” she said, wishing he wouldn’t ask so many questions. He was practically forcing her to lie to him.

“We’ve got an eight-hour drive ahead of us tomorrow. There’s no way I’m going straight through. Not to mention you look like you could use more than just a nap.”

“You always say the nicest things. I don’t know why you’re still single.”

“Just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I’m single,” he said.

She ignored him while the Beatles continued going back to that same old winding road. When the song changed, she cut her eyes at him and said, “Texas isn’t exactly the most enlightened state, is it? How did your parents handle the news that they had a gay kid?”

He stared straight ahead, looking a little surprised, then he grinned and said, “Unlike Texas, my parents are very enlightened. They handled it just fine.”

She couldn’t help but smirk. Her assumption that he was gay had turned out to be a lot more accurate than his assumption that she was stupid. She turned around and looked at Sue, who was on her back with her legs all spread out. The dog clearly had no sense of modesty or propriety—

“Wait,” she said anxiously. “What? We’re spending the night together?”

“You’re not my type, remember?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road and flashing that crooked grin again.

“I meant,” she said, her tone icy, “do you expect me to sleep all night in this truck on the side of the road?”

“No. We’ll get a couple of motel rooms. If you don’t have enough money—”

“I can pay for both rooms,” she interrupted. “In exchange for the tow. I just thought it might be hard to find a place that’ll take your dog.”

“Oh, so if someone has to sleep in the tow truck with her, you’re suddenly willing to admit that she’s my dog.”

“Technically, it’s not a tow truck,” she reminded him. She saw the shiny trails of dried dog saliva on the backseat and smiled. “As for the dog, I think you and Sue are perfect for each other.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “I’d never have called—er, named her Sue.”

“What would you er-name her?”

“Something with more panache. Something dramatic and uniquely hers.”

“She’s a dog,” Sam said. “Not America’s Next Top Model.”

“You have no imagination.”

“I’ve got plenty of imagination,” he disagreed. She noticed that his eyebrow slipped up again in that way it had.

“Puckish,” she said, wondering if that was the right word to describe his expression.

“That’s the dumbest name for a dog I ever heard.”

“I wasn’t—never mind.”

“Puckish,” he muttered. “And dramatic? I suppose you’d call her Juliet?”

Jandy glanced back at Sue with a dubious expression and said, “I don’t think so. She’s not quite delicate enough. I was looking for something more substantial. Isis. Or Natasha. Natasha’s a strong name.”

“Then she’d have to contend with moose and squirrel,” Sam said in a funny accent.

“Huh?”

It was his turn to cut his eyes at her and say, “Moose. Squirrel.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Bullwinkle? Rocky?”

“Oh,” she said. “The cartoon. I never saw it.”

“You never saw Rocky and Bullwinkle?” he asked in an incredulous tone.

“I’ve never watched cartoons.”

After a minute of stunned silence, he said, “Daffy? Bugs? Roadrunner?”

“Nothing animated.”

“Speed Racer? Homer Simpson? Ninja Turtles?” He sounded dazed.

“Nope. And before you get worked up over Disney, no Mickey, Dalmatians, or dwarves.”

“How is that possible?”

“My mother didn’t believe in watching cartoons. Or animated films. She thought it was ridiculous for a child to grow up thinking that mice could talk or dogs could drive cars.”

She didn’t add that a long-ago summer job had made her all too aware that Anaheim wasn’t really the “Happiest Place on Earth,” just a place where tourists spent a lot of money to mingle with people in animal costumes. Even the news that the freshly painted yellow submarines were scheduled to return to find Nemo couldn’t lure her back to Disneyland.

“Snoopy,” Sam said. “You must have seen the Peanuts specials on holidays.”

“Nope.” She thought about it and added, “I knew Snoopy from reading the comics when I visited my grandpa. And Foxtrot, Luann, Cathy, and Doonesbury.”

“That’s something, I guess,” Sam said, still sounding a little dazed.

“Too bad Sue’s not a boy. She could be Zonker. Or Hobbes. I loved reading Calvin and Hobbes.”

“No Great Pumpkin,” Sam mused as if talking to himself. “No Wile E. Coyote. No Betty Rubble. No Scooby…”

She let him ramble on without comment. She had more practical things to worry about, like whether gifts had to be returned if a wedding was only postponed and not really canceled. It had been daunting to write thank-you notes for a zillion presents. She couldn’t imagine having to box them up and return them.

What would the forever single Cathy do, she wondered.

That, Pru scolded, is exactly why your mother knew cartoons were bad for you. Get real.