Page 5 of Truth or More Truth
Shockingly, Melissa doesn’t protest my act of chivalry, and we walk the rest of the way to baggage claim in silence. When we find the right carousel, I leave her there and head to a nearby payphone. There’s no reason to use up the battery and minutes on my cellular phone if it’s not necessary.
I reach the phone and realize I have no idea where I’m supposed to call. I doubt it will do much good to call the hotel where the wedding party is staying. It’s miles from Leslie’s small hometown, and nobody will be there until later today anyway. Randall and Wendy are flying from Milwaukee, where they’ve been celebrating their first Christmas as a married couple with her family. Diego Sanchez—my friend, client, and Ash’s boss at the Diego Sanchez Foundation—is flying from his winter home in his native Dominican Republic. I have no idea when Ash’s mom and sisters will arrive there, and I hope they weren’t supposed to be on the same flight from Chicago as Melissa and me. It should’ve occurred to me to check on that when we were at the gate.
Leslie and Ash are already in Arkansas, and they’re staying at Leslie’s parents’ house. I decide that’s where I should call, but I can’t remember her dad’s name. Hopefully there aren’t any other Becketts in Oakville, Arkansas.
Thankfully, the operator is helpful and connects me to the number of the Ernie Beckett residence. A woman answers the phone.
“Hi,” I say. “Am I speaking to Leslie Beckett’s mom? This is Bobby Jacobs.”
“Oh, Bobby! Hi there. Do you need to talk to Ash?”
“That would be great. Thank you, Mrs. Beckett.”
“Please call me Helen. I’ll get Ash for you.”
When Ash comes on the line, I tell him what’s happening and then ask, “Your mom and sisters weren’t on our same flight, were they?”
“No, they got here yesterday.”
“That’s good. How long is it going to take us to drive there?”
“That’s a question for Leslie. Let me get her.”
Leslie informs me that with stops, it should take us twelve tothirteen hours to get to Oakville. “There are several routes you can take,” she explains, “but I’d stick with one that’s interstates all the way, because there’s a chance of snow north of us this afternoon and evening. You might hit it in southern Illinois, but if you stick to the main roads, you should be okay. I don’t want you getting stuck in the snow on some little backroad in the Ozarks.” She tells me which highways to take, and I jot notes on the small notepad I keep in my pocket.
When I hang up, I’m about to make another quick call when I spot Melissa struggling toward me with a garment bag hanging off one shoulder and a larger suitcase in her other hand. I rush to help her and relieve her of everything but her purse.
“Thanks,” she says. “I may have overpacked.”
I chuckle. “You think?”
She glares at me, even though I was simply agreeing with her statement.
“Did you talk to them?” she asks.
As she leads the way to the parking shuttle while rolling my small suitcase, I recount my phone conversation.
She asks, “So you’re telling me we might have to drive through snow?”
“Sounds like it.”
Melissa gives me an assessing look. “Have you ever driven in snow?”
“I have not.” I’m a Southern California boy, through and through. I travel a lot, but I rarely rent a car, opting instead for taxis and other car-hire services, so I can work while riding.
“Have youseensnow?” she teases.
“Only at the movin’ picture show,” I say with a ridiculous country twang.
When she giggles, I decide I love the sound and want to hear it again.
“Seriously?”
“No,” I admit. “I go skiing several times a year.”
Melissa raises an eyebrow. “You ski?”
“What? I don’t look like I’m capable of skiing?”
