Curtis waved at her from the car. He opened the back door and waited, and Lisa headed for the taxi, with Purdue trailing behind her. She let the boy slide inside first, and Curtis followed them and shut the door. He had to try it three times to get the door latch to click.
The interior of the cab matched the exterior. Foam spilled out of tears in the two-tone seat cushions, and cigarette smoke lingered in the shut-up space. The backs of the front seats were taped over with Halloween decorations. A plastic skeleton in a noose dangled from the rearview mirror.
Lisa saw the driver’s face in profile. She was young, not even thirty, with spiky blond hair that was streaked with purple and sat up like a bristle brush on her head. Two Celtic knots had been carefully shaved into the side of her skull. She was attractive, with high cheekbones, a ski-slope nose adorned with three rhinestone studs, and a slightly jutting chin. Her top was made of black mesh, and she had a long neck. When their eyes met in the car’s mirror, Lisa saw that the woman had black eye shadow painted above glimmering blue eyes.
As soon as the driver saw Lisa, she exclaimed in a breathy voice, “Oh! Oh my God, it’s you! I can’t believe it!”
The woman threw open the driver’s door and raced around the front of the Caprice. With rain drenching her, she yanked open the back door, thrust her body across Purdue as if the boy wasn’t even there at all, and gathered up Lisa into a bear hug that practically lifted her out of the seat.
“It’s me, Lisa! It’s Shyla. Shyla Dunn.”
Lisa had met thousands of readers over the past decade, and after a while, the names and faces began to blur. And yet as she stared at Shyla’s distinctive punk/New Age look, she recognized something familiar in her features from years ago, long before she became an author. She knew this woman, but it had nothing to do with her books. Their relationship went back to when Lisa was a nurse and Shyla was no more than eighteen years old.
“The hospital,” Lisa murmured. “You were a patient.”
“Yes! You stood up for me when I was just a kid. My boyfriend assaulted me, and the police didn’t care. They acted like it was my fault. You shamed them into doing something, and they put the son of a bitch in prison. That was all you, Lisa. The county attorney wouldn’t listen to me, but he listened to you.”
“Well, I didn’t give him much of a choice. That’s the only reason he got involved. Believe me, Denis Farrell has never been a fan of mine.”
Shyla hugged her again. “I’m just so happy to run into you! I moved away after all that shit went down, and I only came back to town a few months ago. So I never had a chance to thank you properly. What you did was such a big thing to me.”
Lisa found herself tearing up at Shyla’s gratitude. She was proud of being a writer, but sometimes she wondered if writing books was just her way of keeping reality at bay. She could sit in her little room and make up stories, and that meant she didn’t have to go out and face the world anymore. It had been different when she was a nurse and had to deal with reality every day.
The young woman gave Lisa another smile, with an innocence that belied the toughness of her physical appearance. Soaking wet, she returned to the driver’s seat of the cab and twisted around to stare at Lisa in the back seat. “Look at me going on and taking up all your time when you have somewhere to be. Where do you want to go? Free ride, anywhere you want.”
Lisa eyed Curtis. “What do you think? The Quality Inn?”
“Fine with me.”
Shyla shook her head in confusion. “A hotel? You’re looking for a hotel? Don’t you still live around here?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain, Shyla. I’m actually looking to lay low while I’m here. I’d rather no one knew I was in town.”
Lisa didn’t say anything more than that, but she saw an immediate shift in Shyla’s expression. The young woman’s face grew serious, as if she’d decided that fate had given her a chance to pay it forward.
“I won’t tell a soul,” Shyla said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re not here. But you’re not going to a hotel. You’re staying with me. I’ve got a little house on Columbia right across the river from Hartz Park. It’s quiet, and as long as you’re not allergic to cats, there’s plenty of room. No one will know you’re there, and you can stay as long as you need to.”
“Oh, Shyla, that’s very generous, but we don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. You protected me, so I’ll protect you.”
“I didn’t say I needed protection.”
Shyla shook her head. “You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face. Now come on. I’ve got beef barley soup in the Crock-Pot.”
Lisa glanced at Curtis, who shrugged his acceptance. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Shyla steered the strange Caprice cab out the airport road onto Highway 17 and headed north. The heavy rain and the growing darkness made Lisa feel safely anonymous as she looked out the window, confident that no one could see her. The highway was a straight shot into town, heading past miles of open soybean fields before houses and spruce trees began to pop up on both sides of the road. With each mile closer to town, her heartbeat accelerated. They passed the elementary school that she’d attended as a child. They passed the forested border of Greenwood Park. She knew what was coming next—the cemetery—and she couldn’t even look at the sprawling meadow of headstones that went on for blocks. Everyone she loved was buried there. She just stared down at her lap until they’d left it behind.
Shyla turned left at Parkview Street and drove through a quiet neighborhood to the cross street that ran parallel to the Red Lake River. Her house was on the corner, near the footbridge that led across the water to Hartz Park. It was a small blue bungalow that needed fresh paint, with a grassy driveway and detached garage. The shallow backyard was nestled with tall evergreens, and the lawn was mostly made up of dandelion weeds. The mailbox, like the Caprice, was covered in rust.
“Home sweet home,” Shyla said. “I know it’s not much. My uncle died and left it to me. That’s why I came back to TRF.”
Lisa sighed with relief. “It’s perfect.”
“Well, good.”
They all climbed out of the cab into the driving rain. Lisa noticed one wet, unhappy cat wandering across the lawn to nuzzle at Shyla’s leg. Then another joined the first, and another after that, and another after that. Shyla squatted to stroke all of them, and then she picked up three of the wet cats and headed for the garage.
“They know it’s dinnertime when I get home,” she said. “I keep their food in the garage.”
Lisa smiled. “How many do you have?”
“Well, officially ten, but word gets around in the neighborhood. I think there’s a sign along the riverbank that points stray cats to my house. Anyway, once I feed them, I can get you guys set up in my spare bedrooms and get some bowls of soup on the table. I baked some crusty bread this morning, too. I use a machine, but it’s still pretty good.”
“Thank you, Shyla.”
The young woman let the cats jump from her arms, and then she retrieved a key to unlock the detached garage. She opened the door and found a light switch.