What if this latest fiasco turned out to be even more disastrous than his fruitcake?
CHAPTER 2
NATE
Nate Henderson white-knuckled the steering wheel as the ancient Toyota Camry hit another pothole and the entire chassis rattled as if it might break off in chunks and litter the asphalt.
He was grateful Susan had lent him her extra car, but based on the way it clattered and creaked on the battered country road, he might’ve been safer taking the bus. Or a bucking bronco.
Rolling his shoulders a few times, he tried to relax.Remember your resolution, Nate.Focus on the positive.
Through the dusty, chipped windshield, he admired the thick veil of pine trees on either side of the winding road. He cracked the window, letting in a rush of cold wind that smelled like Christmas. Air that crisp, sweet, and refreshing didn’t exist in San Francisco. At least, not in the parts of the city he frequented.
He still couldn’t believe his luck. When Susan told him he’d be heading to Poppy Creek for a few days to experience the kind of Christmas he’d only ever seen in movies, he’d made her repeat herself three times. Random acts of awesomeness didn’t happen to guys like him.
The Camry’s engine stuttered, and smoke spilled from the hood.
Great. Guess his dose of good luck just ran out.
He coasted toward the side of the road, stalling in a patch of dirt. The car’s engine released a shuddering sigh, as if thankful for a chance to rest. “Don’t worry, old girl. You did your best.” Nate patted the dash before he climbed out of the driver’s seat.
What now? He doubted looking under the hood would do any good. Susan didn’t own a tool kit, even if the car stood a fighting chance, which it clearly didn’t.
He lugged his duffel bag out of the back seat, then grabbed the bouquet of red and white carnations from the footwell. He’d wanted to give Beverly roses as a token of thanks for her hospitality, but he couldn’t afford them on his piddly salary as a part-time security guard. At least the carnations looked festive.
Nestling the flowers on top of the duffel, he slung the bag over his shoulder.Time to walk. It would be nightfall in a few hours. And according to the sign he spotted a ways back, Poppy Creek was still a ten-mile trek. Far, but doable.
The biting breeze cut through his thin coat, and he shivered. Tugging the collar tighter around his neck, he glanced at the darkening sky. Gray, ominous clouds swarmed overhead, forecasting an impending storm.
When it rained, it poured.Literally.
Thunder cracked in the distance.
“How are you going to put a positive spin on this scenario, Mr. Bright Side?” he asked himself, his words escaping in a puff of white.
He dug his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, fingering the cool ceramic button that served as a faithful reminder—a token that got him through the tough times. With a deep, determined breath, he braced himself against the wind and headed toward town. At least the walk would get his blood moving and keep him warm.Hey!Would you look at that! He’dfound a silver lining after all. He was getting pretty good at this positive mindset stuff.
After a quarter mile, the rumble of an approaching vehicle came from behind. Relieved, Nate stopped and stuck out his thumb. No reason to trudge ten miles in the freezing cold—and potential downpour—if he could hitch a ride.
He waited for the car to stop, but the silver Bentley cruised past him, slow enough he could spot the beautiful brunette behind the wheel staring straight ahead with a strained expression he recognized. During his two-week stint living on the streets of San Francisco, he’d witnessed the uncomfortable mix of guilt and forced obliviousness more times than he could count. While he didn’t particularly like what the expression represented, he understood the impulse: If people ignored him, they wouldn’t have to face the complicated reality of his existence. Or his humanity.
In this case, he was tempted to give the brunette in the Bentley a free pass. As a general rule, he wouldn’t advise single women to pick up strange men on the side of the road. But when he glimpsed her large diamond-studded bumper sticker in the glow of her retreating taillights, he suddenly felt a little less understanding.
If he can’t pronounce Proust, then cut him loose.
“Clever,” he mumbled with a sarcastic eye roll. Even though he knew the correct pronunciation—proost—the pretentious rhyme rubbed him the wrong way. He’d rather walk ten miles in the rain than hitch a ride with a snob.
He trekked another quarter mile before he heard a second vehicle coming from behind. The classic Ford pickup with a faded red paint job immediately pulled over.
A guy in his midthirties rolled down the window. “Hey! Is that your Camry back there?”
“Yeah. Apparently, it couldn’t handle the mountain roads.”
The guy leaned across the bench seat and swung open the passenger door. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride. We can come back for your car tomorrow. It’s going to pour buckets any second. Are you headed into town?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Nate hopped inside and set his duffel on his lap as another crackle of thunder echoed above them.
“I’m Luke Davis, by the way.” He flicked on his blinker and eased back onto the road with caution, despite being the only vehicle in sight.
