Potter Springs (18 page)

And she did.

“I left bacon for you on the counter.” He crouched over the coiled tubing. “There’s fresh coffee too. I got that dark roast
you like.”

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Zimmerman walked Princess on the other side of the street. The dog stopped on a neighbor’s immaculate lawn, bunched in
a triangle shape, and pooped. “Good girl!” cooed Mrs. Zimmerman. She waved at Mark and Amanda, and continued on her walk.

No doubt several other neighbors would be recipients of Princess’s little presents before the morning was out.

Amanda yawned and jammed her hands in her robe pockets, her toes curling from the cold driveway. “Maybe after breakfast I’ll
get dressed and we can head down to the dealership.”

“The dealership?” He looked at her.

“You know, the van. So I can get my … the Toyota.”

He stiffened, then concentrated on a tangle in the coil. Saying nothing.

“We’re going to, right?”

“I thought you might think it over for a few days. Before we do anything rash.”

“I don’t need to think about it. I want-”

“Tell you what.” He’d gotten the snag undone. “I’ll finish the yard, and you can go down to the dealership.” His tone was
light, conversational.

“But why don’t you-”

“Mandy,” he said gently. Squinting into the brightness behind her, he rested his forearms on his knees. “I want the van. I
like the van. And if you don’t, then maybe you need to work this out for yourself.”

“Fine.” Irritated, she accepted the challenge. She dressed quickly, poured coffee in a travel mug and drove the minivan to
Hemp’s Used Motorway. It wasn’t hard to find. After all, she’d seen the commercials a bazillion times, and knew the address
by heart.

Faded pennants strung across the sales lot like a tired fiesta. Amanda scanned the rows for her Toyota, but didn’t spot it
anywhere. Sighing, she executed a turn to a dead stop in front of the sales office. Scavengers hovered on the stairs, no doubt
tossing a coin over who’d get the next sale on the lot.

Greasy Mustache won, sliding his hand over an impossibly black pompadour. He smashed his cigarette, straightened his tie and
advanced toward the van. “Name’s Donny.” His handshake was as vigorous as his breath. “What can I do you for, little lady?”

Amanda adopted her best Katy Thompson impersonation. “I need to speak with your manager. Right away.”

“Now, now, hold it there.” Donny wheezed and held up both hands. “Lemme see if I can help you.”

“No. Thank you, but I need immediate assistance from someone in charge.” Amanda stared him down.

“Allrighty,” he conceded. “I’ll get the top man for you.” He shuffled toward the oversize windows with a shrug.

A few minutes later, a hefty man in a silver Stetson strode out the double doors, leaving them flapping in his wake. The friction
from his waddle could have started a fire. “Steve Boyd, Hemp’s used-sales manager. Can I hepya?”

“I hope so. There’s been a mistake on a trade-in. I need to get my car back.”

“Which car is that?”

“A Toyota hatchback. Red, two-door. Tan interior. My husband traded it. For this.” She motioned toward the hunter green minivan.
“Awaiting my signature. I’m afraid I won’t be signing.”

“Now, that van’s a real peach….”

“But I’m not interested in this
peach.
If you would please return my car, I can be about my business.” She dangled the minivan’s uni-key.

“Well, it’s not that easy, Mrs—”

“Amanda Reynolds. Mark Reynolds arranged the paperwork.”

“Oh, thassright. Nice guy. Not too many husbands’d do a thing like that. Get a new car for their wives, a surprise and all.”
Steve Boyd regarded her.

Amanda refrained from comment and ignored the guilt whispers. She did not owe the used-sales manager an explanation.

“Told me he’s in the ministry, and y’all needed it for the Lord’s work.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Guess the Lord don’t need
no more helpers?” Huffing, he opened the door.

She followed Steve up a short stack of stairs to an office. Shiny posters filled the walls, portraying misty forests at dawn
and determined joggers on the beach, with captions like
STRIVE
and
IMAGINE.

“Lessee here.” He filtered through papers, shuffling them like a Las Vegas dealer.

Amanda sensed a scam coming on. Steve Boyd had a loaded deck, and she knew it.

“Here we go.” He grabbed a sheet with scribbled math figures and whistled through his teeth. “Gosh, I’m almost glad you came
in. Nearly
gave
that baby away.” He chortled, shaking all the way through his belly, where cheap white buttons threatened to pop.

Amanda didn’t join his laughter. She sat on the edge of her seat and waited for the torture to end.

Skimming the paperwork, he shoved on a pair of glasses. “Hmmm. Seems there’s a bit of a wrinkle.”

“Problem?”

“A small kink.” He peered at her over plastic amber rims.

“How small?”

“Well, this here deal on your van?” He wiggled the sheets. “Was what we like to call a lock.”

“But without my signature it
can’t
be a lock,” she pointed out. “Legally speaking. Right?”

Steve Boyd rolled his eyes at the mention of legalities. “Your husband told us your Hancock was a done deal.”

“It’s not, though. Because you need me to sign and I’m not going to.”

“I’m beginning to understand that,
MizReynolds.
However, it seems”-he tapped the paperwork-“one of our junior salesmen’s already loaned out your Toyota. To some potential
buyers. A beginner’s mistake.”

“Who has it?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“Can’t tell you that.”

Steve Boyd, keeper of great secrets. And small imports with high mileage.

“Now, don’t hold me to this.” He shifted his weight in the swivel chair, which emitted a low groan. “But we
might be
able to get the Toyota back in the morning.”

Amanda noticed he didn’t say
your car.
“I should think so, since it doesn’t belong to you.”

He flinched. “We can handle the exchange then. That is, if you haven’t fallen in love with that peach out there by tomorrow.”

Aha. The classic bait ‘n’ switch. She’d learned car talk at the knee of a master, and no low-rate dealer from Potter Springs
was going to pull a fast one on Ben Thompson’s daughter. Amanda scooped up the detested key and pushed back the chair. “I
will
see you in the morning, Mr. Boyd.”

Driving home, she fought tears of frustration. The good old boy network. Jerks. Success eluded her, and she wanted to weep
in Mark’s arms. Or have him do something primal, like go beat up every last salesman on the lot.

Then she remembered-she’d left on a tense note this morning. And it was her fault. However misguided, he’d done a nice thing
in buying the van for her and she’d overreacted.

How did they ever get this far apart? She wanted to throw herself at him and start anew, to holler, “Do over!” and have the
past months erased, shaken clean like a brand new Etch-A-Sketch.

At home, Mark met her in the kitchen. He’d been waiting.Looking downright adorable, in sweatpants and running socks, standing
on the vinyl tiles.

No sense of victory graced his brow. No crude championship from his stance. He didn’t even check the driveway to see what
she’d driven back from the dealership.

On the table between them sat fresh sandwiches and glasses of milk, with cloth napkins folded just so. Some of the neighbor’s
garden mums filled a mason jar. An indoor picnic for two, ready and waiting.

“Hi.” She took the first step. “That looks great.” Tossing her purse on the floor, she prepared to tell all. To commiserate.
To love and let him love her back.

Then she noticed the ashen cast to his face.

“Your mom called while you were gone. From the hospital in Houston. It’s your dad.”

M
ark sat next to the uneaten sandwiches and tepid milk, in awe of his wife’s cyclonic fury. Since she’d hung up the phone after
a terse exchange of information with her mother, he’d never seen her move so fast. An auburn whirlwind.

She pulled clothes from the dryer, cotton tangled in denim. Her hands shook as she packed the pile, still knotted, into an
open knapsack. She dug a few things out of her larger suitcase from the retreat and transferred them to the smaller bag.

“Can I help? Is there something I can do?”

“No.” She tossed in a few books and her journal.

“Let me call the church. Get Ervin to cover my rotation. I’m coming with you.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared at
the phone. He thought of his father-in-law, Ben. Tobacco and beer, sharp eyes and wide girth. He couldn’t imagine the level
of pain it would take to fell such a giant.

“No. You stay. You’re needed here.”

“Don’t
you
need me?” He followed her to the bathroom. They both hardly fit in the tiny room, the towel bar braced into his side. The
edge of the bedroom carpet tickled his heel.

She stuffed toiletries and his toothbrush in a large plastic bag. He didn’t tell her she picked the wrong one.

“Of course I do.” She placed a dry, fleeting kiss on his cheek. “But I’ll have Mother. And I’ve got to get to Houston as soon
as possible. By the time you arrange everything with Ervin, I could be there.” She shut the medicine cabinet.

“Are you sure?” he asked her in the mirror.

“I’m sure.”

Back in the kitchen, she dug in her purse, leaving wrinkled receipts on the table. “If things change, either way, I’ll call
you. We’ll find out what’s going on. How bad it is. Later, when we know more.” She hefted the knapsack, zipper open with a
pink bra strap hanging out, over her shoulder.

Mark took the bag from her, zipped it shut and carried it to the van.

Outside, he tugged her coat closed and buttoned the top toggle. He held her a minute longer than she held him. “I love you.”

“Me too. Take care of Mr. Chesters for me.” She started the engine and pulled away. The minivan disappeared down the street,
turning out of sight.

Mark stared at the empty road, imagining himself racing down its length and reaching her. Yet, the rift seemed so wide, he
didn’t think he could ever cross it. No matter how fast he ran.

* * *

AFTER INQUIRING AT
the information desk, Amanda found the ICU waiting room on the fifth floor. Once there, she merely followed the smell of
smoke and an orderly hightailing it down the hall.

Katy Thompson looked worse than Amanda had ever seen her. The designer, color-wheeled clothing was gone. Her naked lips wrapped
around a cigarette. She wore plaid stretchy pants with a floral sweater and slip-ons. No hose.

“Ma’am.” The hospital worker halted in front of her mother. “May I remind you,
again,
this is a
no smoking
facility?”

Not wanting to get in one of her mother’s quarrels, Amanda hid behind a magazine rack and waited for the storm to blow over.

“Yes, Bryan, you may.” Like an amused high schooler, Katy took another long drag and blew the smoke in artful swirls.

“I’ll have to ask you, again, to please refrain from smoking. You are welcome to utilize our
outdoor
receptacles.” Bryan had a slight lisp.
Pleath, sthmoking, retheptacleth.

“All right.” Katy puffed deeply, nodding.

“And, as we’ve discussed
several
times today, you must put the cigarette out
immediately
or I will be forced to notify… security.” His frustration formed a beautiful hard
s.

She fizzled the butt in her makeshift coffee cup ashtray and smiled sweetly. “Those are the magic words.”

“Really.” His disgust gave him a lecturing tone. “You are endangering our patients. Other families. You should have more respect.”

“And
you
should realize your patients are in plenty of danger already. A little second-hand smoke isn’t going to make one iota of
difference. But as for me”-she rubbed her temples-“you do
not
want to encounter me on a nicotine low. Now,
that’s
dangerous.”

Bryan stomped away and disappeared around the corner, warning, “I’ll be back to check on you.”

“I’m counting on it,” Katy called to the empty corridor.

“Hi, Mom.” Amanda came out from her hiding place.

“Oh, honey.” Dark circles marred Katy’s porcelain complexion, as if the deep blue from her eyes had leaked down to tender
skin and stained it. She appeared ten years older since the last time Amanda saw her.

The day they left Houston for Potter Springs. When her daddy held her in his strong arms and he cried. He’d smelled like Old
Spice and humid summertime and he whispered in her ear, “I love you, baby girl.”

Amanda blinked the memory away, fighting to keep herself together. She pulled from her mother’s thin embrace. “How’s Daddy?”

“Holding on. You know your dad.” Katy sat down again on the bench seat. She twisted a stir stick as she spoke.