I was out of town a mile or so, and the same distance from home. The water cascaded
down the windshield in sheets. A shiver ripped down my naked, wet arms. I turned off the car’s
air conditioner and ignition. How long would it take for someone to pass by and help? Throw out
a cable, and it magically hooked where it needed and pulled me out?
Oh, cars came. And passed. Nothing that resembled a large truck with a winch or push
bars to give me the slightest nudge I needed. I sighed. More rain poured. Never the patient one, I
got out, locked the car, and began to walk home. How long could it possibly rain, anyway? This
was Texas, not Seattle, Washington.
It actually took only minutes for water to collect in the soles of my shoes as I pondered
the probability and forecast of a monsoon. And less time for the weight of the rain to form
clumps in what used to be my wispy bangs. Even my eyelashes were unable to withstand the
pelting of the rain, and my eyes strained to stay open. I was cold, wet, and looked down to find
that my shirt now clung to my skin like a cheesecloth.
A bright-orange car passed. The water from the tires sprayed mist that covered my entire
body. It was useless to try to do anything about it. I took another step, my feet sloshing with
every motion forward. Bright, appalling brake lights that glowed from the rear bumper lit the
now monochromatic scene before me. My eyes fluttered against the elements and squinted to
figure out what it was doing. Reverse lights blinked, and slowly it backed up to where I dripped
on the side of the road.
The window lowered to halfway, and I peered inside to see a man hunched forward,
speaking in elevated sound. “Need a ride?”
The question was absurd. Of course I needed a ride. The thing was, I didn’t need to be
killed by agreeing to a ride. Crime television taught me lots of things. Not getting in a car with a
stranger was one of them. Albeit, a nice-looking stranger. His smile, when he asked, was the
kind I’d get if he’d just taken my order at Starbucks. Not a leering one like the weirdo who wants
to shove you in his trunk once he’s given you a sniff of chloroform. Still, I couldn’t be sure, so I
declined.
“No thanks. My house is just up the road.”He persisted. Like a gentleman or a serial killer. It was hard to tell when buckets of water
were being poured upon you. “Really, I’m not a creep or anything. It’s pouring. I can give you
ride.”
I got close enough to smell the coconut air freshener.
Again, my lifelong training of female survivor kicked it. For all the naïve girls who just
wanted to get out of the storm. Forge ahead, stay alive. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks for the
offer.”
He hesitated. “Okay, well, I hope where it is you’re going isn’t far.”
I smiled. Water dripped from my chin. “It isn’t. Thanks for stopping.”
He shook his head and waved before moving forward.
I watched as the lights trailed out of sight. I just saved my own life. Or denied myself a
chance not to get a stupid cold. I’d never know.
I walked the rest of what felt like two miles hunched over, covering my chest with my
wet hand, in the pouring rain. Each step thinking the storm would slack off. It didn’t. I passed
houses with their inside lights on, and watched through their windows as people were going
about their time eating, watching television, or one window where a cat was watching me. He
probably was being reminded that’s why he was an inside cat.
A left turn on Miller and two more houses to go. A blister was beginning to form on my
big toe as it took the brunt of the travel, shoved forward in what used to be my favorite brown
flats. I looked down at the stained dark color and wondered whether they’d ever look the same.
When I looked up again, I noticed that bright-orange car. A spoiler on back, shiny hubcaps, and a
black line down the body of it. I looked at the house where it found itself parked in the driveway.
It was my house! What in the world was it doing parked in my driveway? Well, my mother’s
driveway. This killer was persistent and clairvoyant, it seemed.
I went around to the side door and fished for the key from underneath the mat. Mom was
a genius to leave it in the most inconspicuous place. I looked in the window before turning the
lock. Trying to see the man. At this point of being soaked to the bone, I couldn’t imagine I’d be
too tempting to murder. The bigger mystery was what he was doing here.
I shoved open the door and crossed my chest when I felt the air conditioning bite at the
water standing on my arms. Mom never ran the air conditioning. Oh my gosh. The thought
plowed me over. Maybe he was one of those types who found out someone died and he stalkedthe place for a few days, saw no one else lived there, and he moved in. I looked around for
something to defend myself. Nothing. Why was my mom such a minimalist? No iron skillet. No
rolling pin. Had I been able to get my hand in my wet pocket, I may have checked and found
nothing there too. Before I raided the fridge for a jar of pickles to club him with, he appeared in
the doorway.
“You? What…who…”
“I think I should be asking the same thing,” I said, mopping the water that still leaked
from my stringy hair. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
Still with that Forest Gump look, he exclaimed,
“Chelsea! Of course it’s you. I didn’t
recognize you—
” His eyes moved down my body.
I covered my front, realizing I was a peep show in my white tee shirt.
“You look different not in pigtails and braces.”
Lord, my full-on anxiety stage of life. And Mom kept it prominently displayed on our
mantle. She had my 8x10 third-grade picture next to my cap and gown wallet-sized one.
I fidgeted with my hair. Not much better than ponytails at the present moment. “Okay.
But who are you?”
He ran and pulled a kitchen towel from a drawer. Funny he knew which one. How long
had he been squatting here? He handed it to me. “I’m Patrick.” He held out his hand for me to
possibly shake. I looked, still stuck in the moment, and continued to sop water from my skin.
“Okay, well, I’m Patrick.” He shoved his hand back in his jean pocket. “I’m the chef at your
mom’s restaurant.”
“The chef?” Mom had a chef—er, rather the main line cook, Mr. Newton. He’d
sometimes accidentally leave his teeth soaking in a cup by the employee restroom. I guess it
made sense now that he might’ve not lived long after I moved away. Mom did get him a stool to
sit on to help ease his back when he had to stand long hours.
“Yeah, I…well, she hired me about six months ago.” He went and grabbed some paper
towels and began sopping up the water that puddled around me.
“Okay, but why are you in our house?”
He looked up from where he was kneeling. “It’s a long story, actually.”
My Review of TO HAVE AND LET GO (Women of Boone County, #2) . . . HERE
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