Twice in a Lifetime (8 page)

“Tommy, wait…”

But he was already moving. He rounded the table and was outside, the door slamming hard behind him, a loud crack in an otherwise quiet afternoon.

C
LARA BACKED OUT
of the driveway, ground the truck’s stick shift into gear, and started back toward the bank. Though she knew it was pointless, she looked up and down the sidewalks, peered between houses, and glanced in all her mirrors, hoping for a glimpse of Tommy. But he was nowhere to be seen. Once again, despite the best of intentions, things between them were a mess.

How does this keep happening?

The night before, Clara had lain in bed, staring up at the ceiling as the hours slowly ticked past, thinking about what she might do to patch things up with her son. In her heart, she knew that Naomi was a terrible influence on Tommy, that if he continued to be with her, she could lead him down a dark path. But so far, her warnings had fallen on deaf ears. So instead of trying to push Naomi farther away, Clara had decided to bring the girl closer. She imagined that if they spent some time together, eating dinner, sitting on the porch, or going to the movies, the tavern owner’s rowdy daughter would eventually slip up and do something to finally show Tommy that she wasn’t worthy of his affections.

But when she’d extended the invitation to Tommy, he had taken it all wrong. Clara supposed she only had herself to blame; after all, every other time she’d talked about Naomi, she’d dragged the girl down. Her son was young, immature, and hotheaded; he took the mere mention of his girlfriend’s name as a threat to their relationship.

And so he’d stormed off, putting more distance between them.

Clara turned onto Main Street. Wind whipped through the open window and stirred her hair. When she pressed on the accelerator, she felt the truck sputter before doing as she asked. Normally, Clara would have grumbled about the continuing decline of her vehicle, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

“Since when doesn’t he like Lucille Ball?” her mother had joked after Tommy’s angry exit.

Somehow, Clara had managed a smile. But she could see that Christine was as confused and worried as she was.

Still, she hadn’t said another word about Tommy, even though she wanted to ask her mother for advice. Not after what had happed the night before.

While she had been lying in bed, trying to figure out what to do about Tommy’s infatuation with Naomi, Clara had heard a noise in the hall. At first, she assumed that it was her son, returned from God knew where; he hadn’t been home when she’d gone to bed, another reason for her frustration. Thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek, Clara had cracked open her door to discover that the source of the sound was her mother.

Christine was in the bathroom. She had turned on the light, the bulb flickering slightly, but she didn’t move, just stared at her reflection in the mirror. Clara figured it was just like when she had stared into the pantry; somewhere along the way, her mother had forgotten what she was doing. But this time, instead of coming to Christine’s aid, she shut her door, careful not to make any noise. Over time, Clara had come to the conclusion that whenever she intervened, when she steered a conversation back toward its original destination, brushed away her mother’s forgetfulness, or simply did something for her, more of Christine’s pride was chipped away. After all, it wasn’t as if her mother didn’t know that her mind was slipping. To burden her further, to tell her of her troubles with Tommy, wouldn’t be right; so instead, Clara kept it to herself.

The closer she got to town, the busier things became. People walked Sunset’s sidewalks beneath a bright, clear afternoon sky, many of them returning from lunch. When she stopped at the town’s lone traffic light, the truck’s engine sputtered and the steering wheel shuddered in her hands. Within a matter of minutes, Clara would walk through the front door of the bank.

And right back into another of my problems…

Ever since her meeting with Eddie, Clara had been walking on eggshells. Standing at her teller window, she forced a smile on her face and tried to act as if nothing was wrong; it was rare that she succeeded. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep from glancing at the door to Eddie’s office, wondering when he was going to come out, saunter over, and make another unwanted advance, expecting her to go along with it. The consequences of refusing him terrified her.

But so far, surprisingly, Eddie hadn’t done a thing.

He greeted her just as he would any other employee, awkwardly remarking on this or that, a little innocent small talk before retreating to his office. But Clara knew that it was all a ruse. Someday soon, Eddie Fuller was going to repeat those terrifying words he’d uttered in his office.

He was going to propose marriage.

But when it happened, what was she going to do? If she refused him, Clara knew she could lose everything. Tommy, her mother, all of them would suffer. Giving in to Eddie would be hard, but it was a small price to pay for—

Clara was startled by a loud bang from beneath the truck’s hood. Immediately, clouds of hissing steam billowed out, making it impossible to see. The pickup sputtered and then slowed; it was all she could do to pull over in front of Freeman’s Bakery, where the engine finally stalled.

Clara trembled. This was the last straw. It was all too much: her problems at work, with her mother, with Tommy…It had been building since Joe’s death, an accumulation of troubles, like grains of sand that had become a mountain too steep to climb. And so, right there in the middle of Sunset, the afternoon sun shining brightly, she put her face in her hands and cried.

Drake stifled a yawn as he drove into Sunset. He had followed the road that led west, skirting the winding river, hemmed in by thickets of trees occasionally broken by an abandoned field. Slowly, the landscape had become dotted with ramshackle houses. The first signs announcing the coming of town were a relief. Up ahead, Drake noticed a few taller buildings, a church steeple, and a rusty water tower. He took it all in but wasn’t impressed. It was like countless others he’d been through over the years; in the end, it was just another dot on a map.

“This is the place you were so dead set on?”

Amos yawned so hard his eyes shut; he’d slept like the dead for hours, stirring only when Drake gave him a good shake. “It ain’t without charm.”

Giving the town a closer look, Drake could see some of what the mechanic was talking about: a woman held hands with a young boy of about three and the two of them sang as they walked down the sidewalk; resting against his broom, a shopkeeper cleaned his glasses with his apron; flowers bloomed in window boxes up and down the street, their colors brilliant in the sunlight. In a way, it reminded Drake of Hampton, the Missouri town he’d settled in shortly after leaving home.

Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all…

Driving past the post office, Drake pulled the Plymouth over in front of the Sunset Hotel.

Amos looked at the weather-beaten sign with confusion. “Why are we stoppin’ here?”

“To get a room.” Seeing the other man’s frown, Drake added, “Don’t tell me you’re already thinking about leaving.”

“I hadn’t planned on spendin’ the night, that’s all.”

“Well, too bad. I’m bushed. You might not mind sleeping all wedged up against the window, but my neck is killing me. I need a bed.”

Amos opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but didn’t. Instead, he glanced over at the side mirror, looking back the way they’d come.

“What’s the matter?” Drake asked.

“Nothin’…” the mechanic answered with a shake of his head.

“Look, we spend the night, get rested up, have a bite to eat at what passes for a diner around these parts, and then get back on the road.” Smiling, he added, “Who knows, maybe we can even scrounge up a little action. There’s got to be someone in Sunset who thinks he’s got a fast ride.”

Amos nodded in agreement, but Drake could see that his thoughts were elsewhere. The two men got out of the car.

“Go grab us a room,” Drake said. “I’m going to stretch my legs, take a look around.”

The older man took a couple of steps toward the hotel but then turned around, reached inside the car, and grabbed his jacket. Before Amos finally went inside, he paused and took one last look back up the road.

What the heck has gotten into him?

Drake stifled a yawn as he squinted up at the sun, enjoying the feel of its heat against his skin. He nodded politely to an older couple as they walked by; the man touched the brim of his hat in friendly greeting. He was just about to go for a walk, to maybe ask around for a good place to eat, when he heard a loud bang. Across the street, on old pickup truck wheezed over to the sidewalk. Steam billowed out from under its hood, a familiar sight in Drake’s line of work. Seconds passed. Drake figured that the driver would get out and take a look, but the door stayed shut.

Then he noticed a woman sitting behind the wheel.

She was crying.

Drake looked up and down the street. He expected to see someone coming to her aid, but surprisingly, he seemed to be the only person who’d noticed. He thought about ignoring her, about going back to the hotel and helping Amos unload their things, getting a bit of rest. After all, it wasn’t his problem. But something, an unfamiliar feeling, wouldn’t let him turn away.

“Aw, hell,” he said, and started across the street.

Clara gasped in surprise at the sudden, unexpected sound of knocking on the truck’s roof. Her head flew out of her hands to find a man she didn’t know standing at the window. He leaned casually against the truck, wearing an easy smile. He looked tired, his dark hair mussed and his cheeks peppered with stubble. Looking into his brownish-green eyes, Clara felt something stir inside her, like the unmistakable flickering of a flame, small but undeniable.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep, his eyes narrowing in an expression of concern.

“I was…I was just…” She struggled to answer, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Do you need any help?”

“With what?” Clara asked, her head still muddled.

The stranger smiled. “With your engine.”

“Oh, that.” She had so many troubles weighing down on her that, for a moment, she hadn’t been sure what he meant. She felt embarrassed by how she must look and didn’t want to impose on him. “No, its fine…I’ll just…” she stammered.

“It’s no bother. Let me take a look.”

He reached inside the cab, his arm brushing against Clara’s leg, sending a shiver racing across her skin, and gave the hood’s release a yank. She could only stare as he walked to the front of the truck, waved his arm through the still billowing steam, and raised the hood.

Clara was dumbstruck. She didn’t know what to say or do. Who was this man? Why was he doing this? Should she get out of the truck? Should she tell him to stop, insist that she would take care of it on her own? But then again, what was wrong with accepting his help? She was more knowledgeable about fixing things now than she had been when Joe was alive, but she knew she couldn’t repair the truck’s engine, nor did she have the money for a mechanic.

Feeling helpless, Clara stuck her head out the window. The stranger had moved back to her side of the car, tinkering under the hood. He reached into his back pocket and removed a handkerchief; she noticed the corded muscles of his forearms. When he leaned back and wiped his brow, she quickly pulled her head back inside the truck’s cab, not wanting to be seen. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw that her cheeks were flushed.

“Here’s the culprit.”

Clara had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed the stranger return. Once again, he startled her. She found him holding a broken hose, both ends drooping limply.

“These things can take a heck of a beating, but there always comes a point when they give out,” he explained with a chuckle. Looking over the old truck, he added, “You’re lucky it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Thank you,” Clara told him, genuinely meaning it, before quickly turning away. There was something about his eyes, about
him
, that made her feel a little self-conscious. “I’ll call the garage and see if they have a replacement.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” the stranger said.

Stepping away from the car, he looked back up the street. Clara followed his gaze to the Sunset Hotel, where an older man stood on the sidewalk turning around in confusion, as if he was trying to find someone. The stranger put two fingers in his mouth and gave a short but loud whistle; his companion saw him, waved, and trotted over.

“I wondered where the heck you’d gotten off to,” he said when he arrived, a little out of breath. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he added politely to Clara.

“We still have any radiator hoses in the trailer?”

“Maybe a couple,” the older man answered, scratching the back of his head as he glanced under the pickup truck’s hood. “But what with how hard it might be to find ’nother one, I don’t know if we oughta—”

“Go get one,” her rescuer said.

“Now just hold on a second, Drake. What happens if we—”

“We’ll make do, Amos,” he said, his voice rising a bit. “She needs it more than we do right now.”

Amos looked over at Clara and forced a thin smile. Sweat beaded on his forehead; he wiped it off with the back of his arm. “All right, then,” he grumbled before sauntering back toward the hotel.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Clara said. “I don’t want to put you out.”

He smiled easily. “You’re not. Amos is something of a worrier. He hoards parts like they were made of gold. I practically have to beg for a new fan belt.”

“Why are you traveling around with parts you can spare?”

“I race cars for a living,” he said. Holding out his hand, he introduced himself. “My name’s Drake. Drake McCoy.”

“Clara Sinclair.” She gave him her hand, so small that it almost disappeared inside his; when he let it go, he left streaks of grease behind.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized. He turned his hands over in the bright sunlight. “Sometimes I wonder when they were last well and truly clean.” Drake grinned. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said it quite like that. You’re going to think it’s been years since I took a bath.”