by Destiny Ford
He bit the inside of his cheek giving him a half smile. “Do you want to find out?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t think I have the stamina.”
“You’re younger than I am by five years.” I stared at him. His “cute Katie” revelation had surprised me, but the fact he knew our age difference left me momentarily stunned. “So you’re either making excuses,” he said with a cocked eyebrow, “or you’re scared.”
I met his eyes, and shook my head. “I wasn’t talking about physical stamina.” Drake looked confused. “I hate games, but game playing is your life. Whether it’s women or politics, you love the challenge of winning and the thrill of getting what you want. In fact, all the girls’ heads you screwed with in high school were probably the reason you decided to become a politician.”
He gave me the most somber look I’d ever seen Drake wear. “I can’t change who I am, Katie, but don’t believe everything you hear.”
I frowned, thinking he knew that piece of information about himself and had probably heard it before. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I thought you acted that way on purpose.”
He took my keys, opened my Jeep door, and gently held my hand as he dropped the keys in my palm. He moved out of my way and stood with his hands in his pockets. “Have a safe trip home. Let me know if you need help with anything else,” he said. “I’ll be back in Branson in a few days.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds. “Thanks, Drake. I really do appreciate it.” Finally I got in the Jeep and turned the key. “Have a good night,” I said, shutting the door. I backed out of the parking spot and drove away with Drake still standing where I’d left him.
I woke to the pitter-patter of rain on my windows. I love rainstorms and like them even more during the summer. The cool water is a welcome respite from the sweltering July days. I kicked off my top sheet, the only cover I sleep with during the summer heat, and stretched. I convinced myself to sit up, and then stand. Still groggy, I swayed over to the other side of the room.
I opened my window to take a deep breath of the earthy smell of water hitting dusty sidewalks, and decided to leave the window open while I took a shower. When I got out, I threw on some dark-wash jeans, a purple cotton blouse, and brushed on mineral makeup, mascara, and pink lip gloss. I was almost finished drying my wavy hair when “Forever in Blue Jeans” started playing on my cell phone. I answered. “So, I hear you’ve dumped me and moved on with Drake,” Spence said.
I closed my eyes tight and opened them again, hoping I was just having a nightmare. “Where did you hear that?”
“Where didn’t I? It’s all over town this morning.”
“Of course it is. I hope another piece of gossip comes along soon so people will stop talking about me.”
Spence chuckled. “I doubt they’ll ever stop talking about you, but I have a story that might take the focus off you for a little while.”
“What’s going on?”
“A call just came in on the scanner. A car accident was reported on Abbey Lane. I don’t have much more information than that. Can you go see what happened?”
“Sure.” I grabbed my camera and purse as I slipped on a pair of brown leather sandals. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” Spence said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
The rain had tapered off, but the roads were still wet so I was careful as I drove the eight miles to Abbey Lane. The lane was actually a long stretch of rural road that wound its way through fields and farms with an occasional house here and there. I followed the road until I saw the fire truck and ambulance.
I got out of the car and walked past the emergency vehicles. I stopped when I came to a small, white Chevy Metro with the hood smashed in like a boulder had crashed on top of it. In front of the Metro, I found the thing that had done the damage: a huge black and white cow, dead in the middle of the road. I looked from the cow, to the Metro, and back to the cow. I’d heard of people hitting deer before, at night, when it was dark and the sprightly dumb deer went dancing across the road without a care in the world. I’d never heard of someone hitting a cow, regardless of the time of day. Cows generally stay off the road unless they’re being herded there, and they move so slowly it’s not difficult to dodge them.
I pulled my eyes away from the scene long enough to get my camera out and start snapping photos. As I got a close up of the windshield, I noticed a set of holes about eighteen inches apart. The holes were both the same size and looked like someone had thrown two fist-sized rocks into the windshield parallel to each other. The holes were both in front of the driver’s seat, one near the edge of the windshield and the other by the rearview mirror.
I kept taking photos, surprised I hadn’t been stopped by the police yet. Then again, maybe they had finally decided to let me onto accident and crime scenes without a fight . . . or Hawke to intervene. I doubted it though; I wasn’t that lucky. I needed to find out what had happened and went in search of someone who could help me. I didn’t have to go far—Bobby was leaning against a tow truck.
“I should’ve known you’d show up,” Bobby said. “How’s your investigation of Chelsea Bradford goin’?” he asked with a smirk. “You figure out it was just an accident yet?”
I gave him a sweet smile in return. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He watched me for a minute trying to ascertain whether I had actual information or was just trying to bait him. Deciding on the baiting theory, he waved me off. “Eh, you ain’t found nothin’. Like I said, it’s a waste a time.”
I didn’t elaborate on all the information I had found, or how embarrassed he’d be when the real story eventually came out. Instead I gestured to the car and dead cow in front of me. “What in the world happened?”
“The fence at the Brady’s farm was down. One of the cows got out and got hit.”
“And the cow died?” I asked. “From a crash with a Chevy Metro?” I scratched my head trying to figure out how a Metro could kill something as large as a rabbit, let alone a cow.
“The Metro was goin’ pretty fast.”
Fast? It had to have been going the speed of light to do that kind of damage. “Was the driver hurt?”
“No, but she’s pretty shaken up.”
“How fast was the car going?”
“Faster than it should’ve been for the conditions, that’s for sure. You ought to talk to your mom about that. With the wet roads, she didn’t have time to slow down.”
I started to ask another question before what Bobby had said sank in. “Wait, did you just say ‘my mom’?”
“Yeah, didn’t you know?”
“Of course I didn’t!” I yelled, my eyes darting around the scene. “Where is she?”
Bobby pointed to the ambulance. “It’s like her second home.”
I rushed over. There was my mom, sitting on a bed inside the ambulance getting some scratches on her face and arms treated. “Mom! Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” She said with a wave of her hand, wincing as Annie applied a sterilizing solution. “I’m glad you’re here though. I don’t want to bother your dad at work, so you can give me a ride home.”
I looked to Annie and the other paramedics for confirmation that she wasn’t more hurt than she seemed. “It’s just scratches and bruises,” Annie answered. “She’ll be all right, as usual.”
“How did this happen?” I asked, still watching from the outside of the ambulance.
“See,” Mom started to explain, “this is why I like trucks. What in the world do the people at the insurance company think will happen when they give me a car the size of a Tinker Toy to drive around? Did you see the prints on the seat where the cow’s muddy hooves came through the windshield? If my head would’ve been a little to the left or right, I would have been smashed by a cow hoof! The insurance company should have given me a truck with a deer catcher like all the other trucks around here. Then I wouldn’t have had this problem. Anyone with a br
ain can see this wasn’t my fault.”
There was so much information in her breathless explanation that I could hardly process it. “You crashed the car the insurance company gave you to replace the truck you torched?”
She glared at me. “I didn’t “torch” it. It had a defective engine that got too hot. That wasn’t my fault either. And I’m going to call the insurance company and complain to them about giving me a proper-sized loaner vehicle.”
I shook my head. “And you crashed the Metro because you were driving too fast and couldn’t stop for the defenseless cow?”
She gave me an indignant look. “It’s not my fault the cow meandered into the road and decided to commit cowicide,” she said as Annie bandaged her wounds. “The car was so low to the ground that when I saw the cow, I thought it was a person. My first thought was, ‘why is someone standing in the middle of the road in a rainstorm wearing fur pants?’ I swerved, but it was only enough to miss a person, not a whole cow! What was I supposed to do? I’m not used to those silly, tiny European cars! I’m not French! I’m used to trucks. A truck would have stopped—or at least barreled on through.”
I didn’t point out that the Chevy Metro is an American car. “Okay, can we go back to the cow hooves? How did that happen?”
I could tell the story was going to be good because she took a deep breath before starting her explanation. “When I hit the cow it came flying at me over the hood like Superman trying to take off and failing. The cow smashed the hood of the car and you know,” she nodded her head thoughtfully, “I really think it knew what was happening. I could see the terror in its eyes and it could tell it was about to squash me. Its two front legs were out in front of its body and the legs came through the windshield.” That explained the two fist-sized holes I’d seen. “Both legs hit the seat on either side of my head and braced the weight of the rest of the cow. Between that and the windshield, I was saved. But I was pinned in the car by cow legs. The nice firemen were able to move the cow enough to get the legs out of my way. I just got some scratches from the broken glass.” She gingerly touched the bandages Annie had finished wrapping.
My mouth had fallen open way back at my mom’s conviction that the cow had braced itself to save her life. I was having a hard time getting my jaw back to a normal position. My dad would never believe this—actually, he probably would, and that was the scary part.
“Am I good to go, Annie?” she asked the paramedic.
“Yeah, you know the drill. Go to the hospital if you start feeling funny.”
“I will. See you next time!” She waved as she hopped down from the ambulance.
“Thanks for helping her . . . again,” I said to Annie.
Annie grinned. “She keeps us in business.”
“Come on!” My mom pulled me toward the dead Metro—and cow. “I’ll pose for some pictures and call the insurance company on the way back to the house.”
I drove in silence, listening to my mom’s half of the conversation with the insurance company. At some point in my mom’s life, she’d been like the rest of us and had to call the number on the back of the insurance card and wait for someone to help her. But for as long as I could remember, she’d had her own personal insurance representative to contact each time she had another disaster. They even exchanged Christmas cards.
Her representative told her that instead of sending another replacement vehicle, they’d just mail the money for her truck to her. It was a wise financial move on their part. They probably would’ve ended up replacing every loaner car they gave her while waiting for an investigation to conclude that the truck was, in fact, totaled.
I pulled into my parents’ driveway at the same time she got off the phone. “What are you going to tell Dad?”
“Same thing I always tell him. That it wasn’t my fault.” She opened the car door. “Come in and get some sugar cookies. I made them before the cow tried to kill me.”
As we walked in the house, my mom said, “I want to know more about the Crandalls’ purple pig. If they don’t find out what’s wrong, no one will buy the pig when the county fair comes around.”
“Actually,” I said, “the pig has become pretty popular. The Crandalls told me that since the story came out, people all over the state want to visit. They even decided to name it Wilbur, you know, like in Charlotte’s Web.”
My mom gave me her proud motherly smile, patting me on the back. “Look at you! Your story saved that pig’s life.” Personally, I thought Mom was giving me a little too much credit, but I didn’t contradict her.
I sat at the table while my mom went into the kitchen. A copy of The Branson Tribune was on the table. A picture of Chelsea stared up at me from the front page. I wondered if my parents had talked to the Bradfords at all since Chelsea’s death. “Have you heard how the Bradfords are doing?” I asked her.
My mom paused, but didn’t look up from her cookie frosting. “I talked to Julia when she brought back my casserole dish.”
“Did she seem okay?”
“Julia is always okay. I’ve never seen her in a situation where she wasn’t poised and refined. She did mention that Chelsea’s siblings were having a hard time, though.”
“I can imagine,” I said, nodding. “What about Julia’s husband?”
“Brian?” my mom asked, her frosting covered knife poised in the air as she thought about it. “You know, I haven’t really seen him. His company is based in Salt Lake, and he works so much that he isn’t around Branson a lot.”
That seemed strange. “His daughter just died, but he hasn’t stayed home to help his family cope with the grief?”
She shrugged. “Everyone deals with death in different ways.”
I was skeptical, but decided she was probably right. When people have to deal with a difficult situation, a lot of times they’ll immerse themselves in a project for a sense of comfort. Maybe that’s what Brian Bradford was doing with his work.
My mom went back to frosting her cookies. I picked the newspaper up, only to find ten different colored flash drives lined up like they were in some sort of portable-file-carrying-device army.
“Mom,” I said, holding the newspaper in the air and staring at the drives. “Why do you have ten flash drives?”
“What?” My mom asked in a pleasant tone as she threw a kitchen hand towel over her shoulder. She always had one hanging there, just in case there was a sudden liquid emergency. I watched as she carefully placed frosted cookies on a plate.
I pointed to the flash drives. “Why do you have ten of these?” Maybe my mom was some sort of spy and I didn’t know it. I couldn’t think of any other reason for needing that many flash drives. And if she was a spy, the naïve Catasophie I knew was a very good cover. No one would ever guess.
“Flash drives?” she asked, turning around to look at where I was pointing. “Is that what they’re called?” She took two glasses from the cabinet above her head and poured a glass of milk for each of us. “I always just ask the salespeople for the sticks that move files from one computer to the other.”
I shook my head, trying not to bang it against the table. I imagined that salespeople dreaded having to help her find anything. “Why in the world do you have so many?” I asked. “Most people only have one!”
She brought the milk and cookies to the table and sat across from me. “Well, my computer was going slow and having all kinds of problems. Sometimes when it turns on, the screen is just a mess of strange letters and things written in Japanese. The salesperson at the computer store said I could use these drives to move files from my computer to my laptop, so that’s what I’ve been doing.”
“That still doesn’t answer why you have ten of them,” I said, taking a bite of my star-shaped sugar cookie heaped with cherry flavored white frosting and red and blue sprinkles. Mom had a different cookie shape for every holiday. Since Independence Day was in July, she made stars.
“Because the sticks keep filling up, silly! As soon as one’s full, I have to get
another one. That’s why they’re all different colors, so I can tell them apart.” The logic was so astounding I choked on my cookie. “I had to color some of the sticks with a marker to tell them apart. They should really make more of a color spectrum selection for those things.” When I finished coughing, I took a drink of my milk while I held up a hand to let her know I was okay.
“Mom,” I said in a hoarse voice from the angry cookie that had been caught in my throat. “Why don’t you just delete the files from your flash drive once you move them from your computer to your laptop?”
“You can delete the files?”
This time I did bang my head on the table and left it there. “Yes, you can delete them,” I explained to the carpet, which probably grasped my statement about as well as my mom. “Come on,” I said, getting up. “I’ll teach you.”
I showed her how to save files to the laptop from the drive and then delete the files, though I had no doubt if she tried to delete them on her own, she’d probably end up deleting the files from both the flash drive and the laptop. I advised her to have me over to supervise, or do it for her. The old adage of teaching a man to fish was not always wise when my mom was involved. When we were done I stood up and walked back to the kitchen to retrieve my keys and purse.
“We’re roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire pit in the back yard two nights from now. You can bring Dylan if you want.” She stopped to level a stare at me and point her finger. “And the next time you start seeing someone, especially someone like Dylan Drake, you better tell me immediately. Do you know how embarrassing it was to have to hear who my daughter is dating from one of The Ladies?”
I put my hands on my hips, completely annoyed. “Who told you I was dating him?”
“I ran into Amber Kane at the grocery store. She said you and Dylan had been out a couple of times so it must be pretty serious.” Only in a place like Branson Falls could going out a couple of times equate a serious relationship. And we hadn’t even “gone out!” We’d had a couple of exchanges in public places. “I told Amber that surely you would have said something,” Mom paused, “but she assured me she was right. She also asked when you’re going to start going to church again.”
