'Til Grits Do Us Part (40 page)

Adam's going to have my head for this!
I nibbled nervously on a nail, wondering if I should call him all the way in Stuarts Draft and interrupt his training seminar—or better yet, turn around and get my Yankee tail out of Dodge. Or wherever the flip I was.

But when I thought of Mom's high blood pressure and the aneurysm that eventually took her life, my pulse burned. I stepped on the gas, half wishing Jim Bob would stop the car so I could get out and scream at him. And maybe bang him over the head with one of those copper tubes.

The rain increased as the road began to slope upward, winding through forest that thickened with each serpentine turn of the gaunt asphalt. Dilapidated log cabins flashed between stands of ancient hickories and pines, some sporting old-style multiple structures with separate smokehouses and kitchens. Thin lines of smoke rose from ancient chimneys. It felt eerie, watching time turn backward, like encountering Tim on my front porch last year in his gray Civil War battle reenactment uniform.

When Jim Bob's car turned onto an unmarked dirt path, kicking up sloshes of muddy water, I hesitated. But through the trees I saw a rough cabin, and the taillights abruptly vanished. I pulled off the road and into a little thicket of pines. I stiffened as Faye's Escort, which had probably never been used as an off-road vehicle, inched down a muddy ditch, scraping slightly on the underside. My jaw jolted with a bump, and I eased between two tall pines. Wet branches pulled along the windows, lightly scraping the glass.

I cut the engine and whispered for Christie to stay. Drops pattered on the windshield, breaking the sudden, thick silence.

“Don't bark, okay? Don't do anything. Just stay,” I ordered, pulling on my jean jacket. “I'll be back in a second.”

I patted her head then eased the car door open and climbed out. Closing the door behind me with a catch of my breath. Christie watched, her furry face pressed up to the rain-spattered window and pointy ears pricked, as I slipped through wet, leafy shrubs and twigs in a dull roar of rain. The boots were heavier than I expected; I had to crouch and sort of hop, trying not to make too much noise.

I crept closer to a leaky, old, thatched-roof log cabin with sorry-looking chickens rooting and scratching under a gnarled old tree. A grizzled hound, probably deaf with age, lay stretched across the front porch in openmouthed sleep. Forest surrounded us on all sides, as far as I could see. No power lines. A crumbly brick chimney smoked like a sullen old man with a corncob pipe, and the front porch sagged.

A closed wooden shed loomed behind the cabin, and in front of the double shed doors sat the oldest, most rusted pickup I'd ever seen. Both headlights out. Bumper falling off in pieces. Its dented hood yawned partially open, propped up with a section of crooked tree limb.

The Taurus engine revved loudly, and I jerked my eyes back to the front of the cabin.

Jim Bob's sedan had sunk into a patch of mud, and he pushed the gas several times, trying to back up. But his right wheel sank deeper in a muddy groove, and dirty water spun. A sharp
clunk
, and he cut the engine.

I waited, peeking through the leaves, as Jim Bob got out of the car and bent toward the right tire, crouching and muttering under his breath. Tall and strong, with a thick build.
And a stiff right hand
.

He pushed against the front of the car with his left arm, his face obscured by the baseball cap plus a curve of the hood and windshield. He finally got back in the car and revved the gas again. Door slightly ajar.

Nothing about his gait or manner struck me as familiar. I sniffed the rain-laden wind, smelling smoke and damp woods. And an odd perfume that reminded me, with uncanny accuracy, of the heavy rose fragrance of Odysseus's bouquets.

I pushed my way through a patch of wet saplings on my hands and knees, trying to get a better view.

And there, planted all around the front steps, stood a thick smear of gorgeous rose bushes—their intense color visible even through the rain. The most beautiful dark red I'd ever seen.

Exactly the deep, velvety shade of ruby that I remembered from every single bouquet Odysseus had sent to my office.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a terrible sound, as Jim Bob swung open the squeaky door to his Taurus and got out again, digging in the back of his car for something. I strained to see him from my vantage point—sassafras twigs poking me in the side and a leafy vine wrapped around my bare shin. What did Tim say about poison ivy? “Leaves of three, let them be”? Or was it, “Leaves of three, a friend of thee?” All those Southernisms about coral snakes and storm clouds ran together in my head.

I'd probably be bleaching myself for a month from chiggers, too.

I pulled a toothy wild briar from my dress, hoping Jim Bob would hurry up and show his face. My wet hair plastered to my neck and ears, arms tightly wrapped to keep myself from shivering.

Jim Bob reached suddenly for his baseball cap and shook it off, revealing a close-buzzed head and large, shiny forehead. He plopped the cap back on his head and slammed the car door shut. Not bothering to lock the car, like so many trusting Southerners. Then without warning he whirled around—staring RIGHT in my direction.

I ducked my head behind a thick poplar. Not daring to move a muscle. A twig snapped under my boot, and I sucked in my breath. Praying, praying for God to protect me in spite of my obvious brash stupidity.

W
hen I peeked again, I saw Jim Bob's face. I blinked back raindrops, confused.

Never, in all my life, had I met Jim Bob Townshend. Not once. I held back my shivering and leaned closer through the rain-wet leaves, trying to unroll the years and imagine him a little younger, a little chubbier, or with slightly more hair. But not a single feature on his face brought back any memories. A large, blunt nose with a slight downward crook. Thin lips. A curved jaw and dark eyes framed by darker brows.

None of which brought back the slightest recollection.

But then again, Meg had warned me—stalkers could be total strangers. Most of which probably weren't playing with a full deck.

Jim Bob took a step toward me then turned back at a slight scratching sound on the porch. The hound on the porch reluctantly roused itself, scrambling stiffly to its feet, license tags jingling. Jim Bob patted it clumsily on the head and then knocked on the cabin door, the dog limping along after him.

“Pa?” Jim Bob called, rapping again with his knuckles. His
left-
hand knuckles, I noted. “Y'all right?”

His accent pitched so thickly I could barely make out the words. I crawled a few paces forward through wet leaves, teeth chattering, to hear better and then stuck my tape recorder through a gap in the trees. Praying it would pick up Jim Bob's voice.

He put his hands up. “Don't shoot! It's me. Jim Bob. I got 'em. But my axle's broke again. I'll have to fix it 'fore I git your truck started. Mebbe t'morrow.”

The door opened just a crack, and the dog snaked inside, tail bobbing. Jim Bob put his hands down. “Doggone rain. You shore y'all right, Pa?”

And he disappeared inside, shutting the door behind him.

I waited there in the rain a few minutes then slipped over to the Taurus in the mud. Mincing my way through puddles. I grabbed a leaf and wiped some mud off the license plate—a Texas license plate, not the West Virginia plates I'd imagined—and scrubbed at the numbers. Jotting them down in my reporter's notebook.

Then I leaned closer, picking at a corner of something at the metal corner of the plate.

Well, what do you know
. A fake plate. A reflective sticker of some sort with neatly printed decals to match. All covered with a grimy film of dirt and exhaust that actually made it look pretty realistic.

No wonder Jim Bob sprinted out of the post office at the first sound of police sirens.

I picked a spot away from the dark windows of the cabin and shakily straightened up, circling my eyes with my hands to keep the rain out as I leaned toward the back window. Trying to make out the shadowy shapes in the dusty seat.

Wrenches everywhere. A spare tire. Nuts and bolts, and a metal toolbox. A tire jack and old slide hammer. A fluke meter for checking electrical voltage. All mingled with a bunch of cables and auto parts.

Mechanic's tools. Including the copper tubing, which Jim Bob could easily work into auto parts to fix his dad's truck. With his
left
hand, after years at relearning his trade without the use of his right. Leaving tiny, nearly indiscernible shavings clinging to his shirt and in the folds of his pants.

My breath frosted the glass, and I slipped closer to make it out: the square shape of a cardboard box on the backseat, all covered in customs labels.

I reached through the crinkly plastic tarp, peeling it away from the broken glass, and reached for my box. I eased it through the window opening and backed away. Then I ducked and clomped my way back into the woods at a fast clip and raced toward Faye's car.

My cell phone didn't pick up a signal as I drove down the mountain in the rain and thunder, passing trailers and double-wides of all sorts huddled in the trees. Trucks with monster tires and crooked mailboxes illuminated by pulses of blue-white lightning. My soaked dress clung to my skin, muddied in large patches, and my wet ponytail hung in messy strands.

I wended my way through small towns on my way back to Staunton, rain lashing the Escort in noisy waves. My windshield wipers pumped at top speed, clearing a small space so I could see the asphalt. A skin of raindrop-pocked water danced across the surface of the road, flood-like.

As I inched around wet curves toward Faye's, I saw it in the distance: a fallen tree stretched across the road in a heap of leaves. Lightning, probably. Splintered limbs and chunks of trunk splattered across the bend in an ugly, traffic-stopping mess. Taillights from stopped cars in front of me glowed against the shiny asphalt, reflected in scarlet beads on my windshield.

I tried my phone again with no luck then turned the car around in a patch of sodden embankment and headed back toward Churchville to wait out the storm. The rain heaved, and I followed the road home by memory. Past lonely Buffalo Gap High School surrounded by cow pastures. Past the little country church and then left into Crawford Manor, nestled at the blue-gray base of Crawford Mountain.

I started to turn into Mom's familiar gravel driveway then thought better of it—in the off chance that someone tried to follow me—and pulled instead into Stella's shrubby driveway. Broken leaves and puddles littered the gravel. Her house stood dark and silent, the porch light still shining from when she'd left the house in the early morning.

I hid Faye's Escort behind Stella's yellow school bus and thick stands of butterfly bushes and grabbed my precious cardboard box. Then I opened the car door for Christie and threw my jacket over my head, racing together through the lightning flashes for Mom's house.

I hastily locked the door behind me and tried Adam again on my cell phone, dropping my damp jacket and shaking the water from my hair and dress. Leaving those horrid muddy boots at the door.

Adam's voice mail picked up, and I left a message for him and then for Faye before the signal went down again. I finally clicked the phone off and tossed it in a kitchen chair. Probably most of the county would have trouble getting signals in this storm.

I toweled off Christie's wet paws and legs to keep her from dirtying the floor then walked barefoot through the empty kitchen to Mom's old guest bedroom. The room I'd called my own for nearly a year. Now most of my photos, books, and colorful Japanese wall hangings lay in taped, labeled cardboard boxes for the move. My movements echoed against the bare walls and floors in an unfamiliar rattle, and I felt—for the first time since my early days in Virginia—like a stranger in Mom's house.

The bookshelves had been emptied. Extra towels and sheets boxed up. Curtains taken down in the library and her bedroom, leaving stark white blinds.