One
Blasting Michael Bublé’s version of “Silent Night” as I sped down the street in an icy winter wonderland probably seemed incongruous, but I was in an exceptionally good mood.
Who wouldn’t be when classes at the community college were officially finished for the semester? Finals were done. Grades submitted. Endless infernal staff meetings in the bag.
I was finally free—for a month or so, give or take some faculty enrichment days.
I’d cracked the windows on my wholly-inappropriate-for-this-climate Toyota Supra sports car to let in the cool late afternoon breeze, and I’d put the heat on low to offset the chill. I was driving a little too fast for the fat flakes streaming down from the sky and accumulating in frosty slush along the side of the roadway. Playing my music a bit too loud for the quaint small town I was headed toward full bore.
Crescent Cove, was it? I’d never been here before. Oh, I’d heard of it, considering I lived fifty-plus miles away. But this place was postcard bucolic, a speck on the map, and I tended to like to hit the highways where I could go faster.
Thirty miles an hour was not fast. Nor was my risky thirty-six.
I didn’t even know why I’d driven this far out today. I was all too used to Central New York’s changeable weather. Snowstorms didn’t usually slow me down, but the sleet gray clouds warned we might be in for a prolonged event.
So much for enjoying my freedom in my sweet impractical beauty. I’d just do a U-turn and head back—
Suddenly, a truck backed out of a driveway, and I hit the brakes far too hard. My tires shrieked as I aimed right for the curb—and the ditch hidden by the thick layer of white layered on top of it.
My horn rang out as did my particularly colorful stream of curses. Wheels spun. My knee jabbed hard into something, and for a second, my vision wavered.
Had I hit my head? Or had the belt tightened just enough to send my ribcage upward into my skull?
Could’ve been either one.
Michael kept singing as I shut my eyes against the pain in my leg. I could probably walk it off. All in all, I’d gotten off easy. My poor baby though. I didn’t want to see the damage.
Actually, I didn’t want to deal with any of the crap that was now in my immediate future.
Next time? I’d circle my own block when I wanted to get my jollies in my almost-new car during the winter.
A sharp rap on my window had me opening my eyes and biting off a sigh. A guy wearing one of those hats with buffalo plaid flaps over his ears pressed his face up against the glass as I turned down the volume on the music and then lowered the window halfway. “You okay, fella? I didn’t see you there as I was coming out.”
I cocked a brow. Considering the non-neutral color of my car, I completely believed that. “I’m okay, thanks. You?”
I didn’t know why I asked that. He hadn’t driven off the road, I had. Because of him. And also because I’d recklessly been doing thirty-six.
This was why I so rarely colored outside the lines. It never ended well.
“Fine, fine. You got yourself some trouble here.” He edged back to look at my crumpled fender, nose down in the ditch. “Want me to call Dare at Kramer and Burns Custom? He’ll get you fixed right up in a jif.”
This far out, my towing company would charge me a mint to come to my assistance. “Sure. I can call him.” I tugged out my cell. “Kramer and Burns Custom, you said?”
“Have to turn down that loud music if you’re going to call.”
I ignored him as I searched Google and called. If he considered “Holly Jolly Christmas” set on low to be too loud, I couldn’t help him.
And surprise, my good mood had fled at the same moment I’d crashed my freaking car.
“Good evening, Kramer speaking.”
“Is this Dare?”
“No, this is his brother, Gage. Whatcha need?”
“Are all of you named like romance heroes?” Shockingly, he didn’t respond. I cleared my throat. “I need a tow. I was referred by—”
I glanced at the window. The man and his ridiculous hat had disappeared. However, a cop was doing a U-turn to pull up beside me.
Fabulous.
“Anyway, can you come tow me?”
“Where are you?” His voice was appreciably cooler than when he’d answered the phone.
No one would accuse me of being wise, that was for sure. Made total sense to piss off the cavalry when I was well and truly stuck.
And I didn’t know where I was.
I squinted through the snowy windshield. There was a street sign at the end of the block, but it was snowing too hard for me to make it out. Luckily, I could ask Officer Friendly.
He knocked on the window with his bare knuckles. “Had some trouble, I see.”
“So everyone sees.” When he frowned beneath the brim of his standard issue hat, I forced my shoulders to relax. “I’m on the phone with the tow place right now.”
“Tell Dare Sheriff Brooks is on scene.”
“Dare, Sheriff Brooks is on scene,” I repeated into the phone, knowing I’d aggravate the guy on the end even more. I’d probably annoyed the sheriff too.
“Gage,” the guy on the phone said testily. “Since you sound like an out-of-towner, ask Brooks where you are, and I’ll send the truck out.”
What had happened to that old adage that people in small towns were so easygoing? Probably required me not being a dick to them, but in my defense, my unscratched two-month-old car was now a mess.
My younger brother, Lennox, had warned me not to buy something that would depreciate so quickly.
Cars aren’t an investment, Cal. Especially ones with a tawdry finish like yours.
Yeah, well, I’d clearly not listened. I’d loved my “tawdry” paint job that now would need to be retouched. And hey, bright side, with this accident, I’d done all the depreciating at once.
At least it had been minor. Shouldn’t take long to fix.
“”You still there, tourist?”
I frowned. Charming guy. “Why don’t you just talk to the sheriff, rather than me playing telephone?” I attempted to hand the phone to the cop, but he shook his head and made a gimme gesture with his fingers.
I unclicked my belt and wrenched open the door, thankful that it seemed to be working correctly. The car was tilted at an angle, but with some finagling and shifting, I placed my boot on the cracked upper edge of the ditch and stepped out with assistance from the sheriff. I shut my door as the sheriff gave me my next orders.
“Tell Dare you’re near the corner of East Lake Road and Grange.”
I repeated the information into the phone and managed a “thank you” before Gage hung up on me.
Wasn’t hospitality supposed to be a thing in small towns? I was beginning to think I’d been lied to.
First, Santa Claus was real. Then, small towns are wonderful, cozy places filled with lovely people.
The sheriff stepped back and eyed me up and down as he dipped his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. “You’re not from here.”
Before I could reply to that incriminating statement—why it was incriminating, I wasn’t sure, but there was no mistaking his tone—a float on the back of a flatbed truck rolled by, complete with a inflated bouncy house-style Santa’s Workshop festooned with twinkling Christmas lights and little animated elves climbing up and down ladders. The truck’s driver blew the horn at the sheriff, and he waved, calling out a “Hey, Red, looking good,” as the vehicle continued down the street at a speed approaching my own pre-crash.