2

I slowed the car to a crawl. Lush, white elm flanked and canopied each side of the narrow road. Lacy shadows dotted and flickered on the street.

You’re here.

Where did that thought come from? The words whispered as though something waited for me, longed for me. My heart drew forward in slow motion. A small healing seemed to take place. A deep, cleansing breath rose from my lungs.

The surreal pathway cleared after a mile. The poetic and dreamlike bubble I’d driven through vanished. A large, aquamarine building loomed on the right. The sign read Washout Express.

Yep, that’s about the size of it for me…expressly washed out.

A quaint diner-gas station combination called West House faced the Washout Express across the street.

A bell jingled as I pushed open the door. As I took a seat at the counter, a ponytailed waitress flashed me a grin, her friendly brown eyes shining. “What’ll it be, ma’am?” Her nametag identified her as Tracy.

“Cola, please. A real cola, not a diet one.” Take that, Darryl. “Make it with vanilla if you have it.”

“Vanilla, my favorite. Comin’ right up.” The AC worked overtime in that little place, and the coolness calmed me. Tracy brought my cola.

“Will there be anything else?” Tracy’s youthful openness brought me out of my stupor a little.

I ventured a conversation. “Is there a hotel nearby?”

“Lots to choose from in town.” Tracy scribbled on her order pad and then put the pencil behind her ear. “Roach motels all the way up to high dollar. What are you looking for?”

“How about something in between that, say, near here, like on this exit?” I used the straw to swirl ice around in my cola.

“On this exit? Nada.” Tracy wiped down the counter, offered to refill my drink, and answered the phone in the same breath.

While she spoke on the phone, I looked over the diner. A stack of Bibles sat on a shelf above the coffee machine. Tracy hung up the phone and looked my way.

“Bibles?” I pointed to the shelf behind her.

“Yes, we used to have church here for the truckers. That is until the owner’s wife died about a year ago. One of the drivers, Jack Weatherby, is a preacher. He always tried to come through here on Sunday. He still checks on us now and then.”

“Oh, OK.” Church in a diner? Intriguing. “Well, I think I’ll take my drink over to a booth and sit a while, if that’s all right.”

“Of course, take your time.”

A couple came in the door, and Tracy busied herself waiting on them.

I sipped on my soda while life decisions stalled in my mind. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t go to Gran’s until I could finish the repairs. Go back to Marshall? Head toward Dallas? Panic paralyzed my thinking. Stranded in a test I hadn’t studied for, I searched for an answer.

Mom. She’d be worried. I should call, but there was no use discussing what I wasn’t sure about. Too many unanswered questions ate at my tired brain, and I didn’t relish trying to explain. I opted to text her.

Mom, I’m taking a short vacation. I’ll keep my phone on but really don’t want to talk. I’m OK. Please let Mandy and Macy know.

I pushed the send button. She’d worry, but more importantly, she would pray. “Help,” was all I could manage to pray.

Tracy approached. “I just remembered. There’s a sort of bed-and-breakfast about a half mile up the road. The owner isn’t there much, but you might convince him to let you stay.” Tracy moved along to deliver her tray.

She came back in a minute. “His name is Scott West. He actually owns this diner, the washout across the street, and the B&B that his mom ran. He’s got his hands full now since she passed away. His dad had a stroke about the same time. Scott’s taking care of everybody and everything. He’d probably let you stay there, but you’d most likely be on your own most of the time.”

“Thanks, Tracy. Where can I find him?” Did I really want to do this? What was the point of running from my problems? I needed to suck it up, go home, and deal with it. My stomach churned at the thought of all the changes that assaulted me, and the changes to come. I could at least look into this bed-and-breakfast.

“He’s across the street at the Washout Express. You can go over and ask him if you like.” She gathered my glass and napkins with one hand and wiped the table with the other.

“I might just do that. Pardon my ignorance, Tracy, but what is a Washout Express?”

“It’s a place for truckers to have the concrete washed out of their beds and trailers so they don’t drip the excess on the city streets.”

“Well, thanks. I guess I’ll go and inquire of the very busy Mr. West. Nice to meet you, Tracy. I’m Bailey Brown, by the way, and you’ve been great.” She deserved a generous tip. I obliged.

Business suit and heels were probably not standard dress inside a washout facility. Nervousness jangled my brain as I reached into my purse for a mirror. Yep, my face still looked red and stressed. Whatever. I would just stand tall and be businesslike.

Confidence, Bailey. Perhaps my nose pointed a little up in the air, overcompensation for my lack of assurance at that moment.

The grimy counter to the left faced a row of equally not-so-clean chairs on the right. I tapped the little ringer on the counter.

Five minutes passed with no response, so I rang the bell again. Exhaustion began to settle on me, but my backside was not about to sit in those filthy chairs. Finally, a door behind the counter opened.

An elderly man hobbled out with a cane. He just stared at me.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. West, please.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The old man turned and went back through the door and closed it.

My feet and ankles throbbed in my heels. A crushing headache nearly blinded me. Temptation to sit in those grimy chairs nearly won. Five more minutes passed, and when the old man came back without Mr. West, my patience evaporated.

“Is Mr. West here or not?” I crossed my arms and glared at him.

“Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba!” he shouted and pointed his cane at me. “Sit, sit, sit!”

Dumbfounded, I decided to leave rather than sit in those awful chairs and wait for someone who might not come.

I grasped the doorknob. I didn’t need this. The point of my excursion was to get away from the stress, not add to it. I’d be better off at home. A young man came rushing through the door behind the counter.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” Tenderly, he put his arm around the old man and walked him to one of the chairs. He spoke quietly to him and then handed him a magazine.

“Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba,” the old man repeated, pointing his cane at me.

“Oh, hello, I’m sorry. I’ll be right with you,” the younger man said.

Moments later, he turned my way. “Please excuse my father. He’s recently had a stroke and has trouble expressing himself. He always says things in threes, and sometimes it’s hard to tell what he means. I’m Scott West. What can I do for you?” The exhaustion in his pleasant voice matched the weariness in those gorgeous blue eyes.

“The waitress at the diner said that you have a bed-and-breakfast down the road. I’m looking for a place to stay for the night. Would you be willing to rent me a room?”

“It’s more like a bed-and-bring-your-own. I’m a little shorthanded these days. I haven’t had time to do much business there. Wouldn’t you prefer to drive a few miles into Marshall and get a nice hotel?”

“I just came from there. It sounds crazy, but I need to stay on this exit tonight. I don’t need much, just a bed.” My eyes began to tear up and my face turned warm. The sound of my crazy, pleading voice alarmed and embarrassed me. The man probably thought I was nuts.

Scott tilted his head sideways and squinted. He wrinkled his forehead and then pressed his lips together. He finally broke the awkward silence.

“If you’ll give me a couple of hours to finish up here, I’ll open it up for you, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do.”

“Yes, please.”

“All right, I’ll meet you there at six.” He looked as though he wanted to ask a question.

Please don’t. My pleading eyes must have gotten the point across. “Thank you. I’ll see you then.” I reached for the doorknob, but not before noticing Scott’s father staring into space. With gentle hands, Scott helped the frail man up and walked him to the back room.

I drove home and gathered a week’s worth of clothes. I also called the locksmith. He agreed to have the locks at Pinewood Manor changed and the keys delivered to my mom.

Pinewood Manor would not be a meeting place for Darryl and Phoebe any more.

~*~

Scott West pulled up in front of Shelley’s Heart Bed and Breakfast a few moments after I did.

“Thomas Kinkaid could have used this sweet old house as a country home subject,” I said as I caught my first glimpse of the two-story home. Shuttered windows like smiling eyes welcomed me. The front porch spanned the length of the house. A row of large, inviting rocking chairs sat among an array of potted plants.

My delight in the sight of it seemed to please him. He beamed a tired smile.

“Yes, but the ‘Painter of Light’ would have needed to dim the colors. The old place looks kind of sad. Mom was the light of the place, and now she’s gone, too.” His smile faded a bit as he shook his head.

The sadness in his voice made me see the rockers as empty arms, the potted plants thirsty…definitely something missing. With the wilted flower gardens lining each side, the quaint old house seemed to mourn its mistress’s passing.

Scott looked even more exhausted than he had two hours ago, but his eyes sparkled and made me feel welcome. He took off his baseball cap and his black, straight hair tousled about his forehead. His jeans and light blue shirt made his eyes even bluer.

Scott turned back to the car where his father sat. “I’ll just be a minute, Peeps, and then we’ll go get dinner.”

“Peeps?” I stifled an amused giggle.

“His name is Paul, but since his stroke he says to call him Peeps. I call him that sometimes because for some reason it makes him laugh.”

“I wish I hadn’t upset him this afternoon. I’d like him to know that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, but I’ll tell him.” Scott unlocked the front door and we stepped inside.

Although a little unkempt, the place charmed me. Cozy, floral fabric-covered couches and chairs waited to comfort. The dark rich wood of the paneling and accent pieces shone. The fresh scent of lemon oil wafted through the rooms. A set of crocheted doilies, preserved in vintage frames, accented the fireplace mantle. Crocheted afghans added to the peaceful softness of the room.

On tables throughout the place, books lay as if waiting for someone to pick them up and spend an enjoyable respite within their pages. Novels, travel magazines, and craft books, especially crochet manuals, must have delighted patrons in the past.

“The first-floor bedroom is ready for you. The bathroom is down the hall there, and the kitchen is through that door. As I said, there won’t be any breakfast, but you are welcome to use the appliances or go to the diner.” He took my bag and showed me to the bedroom.

Vintage heart valentines dotted the wallpaper. The snow white down comforter looked like a lacy cloud. Heart shaped pillows sat on the bed in all shades of pink and red. A couch covered with pillows sat at the foot of the bed, facing Battenburg curtains over the windows. I could imagine young honeymooners sinking into this soft, simple elegance.

I could not see myself sleeping in that room.

The remembrance of my loss slammed into my chest. Dizziness weakened me. I dropped my purse and bent to pick it up at the same time Scott bent to steady me.

Our heads crashed together. Hard.

I stumbled backward onto the bed, and everything faded to black.