Covet - Verb. Yearn to possess (something, especially something belonging to another)
A vicious rain lashed against the sedan. The windscreen wipers operated double time to keep the view ahead clear. The road blurred before me as mascara stung, smudging under my eyes. I wiped away tears and took one last deep breath before pressing harder on the accelerator.
One day ago, three words had shattered everything. Until now, I hadn't had the chance to think, much less grieve over my change in circumstances. Reality finally began to bite when I shifted my car into gear and onto the open highway this morning.
I needed money and fast.
My life waited for me; friends, college, and the future. The cross-state journey had taken five hours longer than expected, and the roads and highway signs were unfamiliar. As I sifted through crumpled receipts on the passenger side for Lucille's address, my belly groaned in protest when passing the last interstate services before entering the town of Benton.
A diner came into view, shrouded by an alpine forest. A Ford Bronco and a red Chevy pickup lined the perimeter of a derelict lot; singled out by an illuminated neon welcome sign that flickered in the dark. Despite a commitment to reach Lucille's before all light became lost from the sky, my stomach was not a democracy. My belly made the sound of a dying whale, and in a moment of indecision, I expelled a stressed breath and pulled off the road—to hell with it. I needed to eat.
I cut the engine in the parking lot; the downpour outside eased into specks. The crisp night air bit at my bare arms, causing a shiver of goosebumps as I stepped out.
All vehicles had local plates, making the rounded peaches on mine appear foreign. A bell jingled as I pushed open the door. Grilled meat and fried onions cast a smoky haze above me as a single waitress hurried back and forth. Cracked leather booths lined the windows with five remaining customers. Taped to the pay phone in the corner was a hand-scribbled out-of-order sign.
The waitress sidled up on the seat beside me, whistling a tune of her own making, and produced a notepad and pen from the apron fixed around her waist. "What can I get you?" she asked, her pen poised to capture my order.
"What's good?" I asked, casting a look over my shoulder. The diner had seen better days, stuck somewhere in the nineteen-fifties, and not in a retro fashion.
She frowned. "None of it, but people don't come here for the experience or my advice. Sal will fix you a burger."
"Fine by me," I replied.
The waitress scribbled down my order on her notepad before tucking it back into her apron. "Coming up then," she said. Rounding the counter, the waitress hung my order on a row of suspended clips, and then stopped to refill the mugs of an elderly couple who held hands across their booth.
The waitress was in her mid-sixties with a back-combed mass of red curls that failed to disguise the thinning hair on her crown. Thick orange lipstick amplified her ruddy complexion in all the wrong ways. The name tag on her uniform read 'Pamela.'
She reappeared beside me a few moments later, placing a napkin and a steaming cup of coffee that I had yet to order. "Are you passing through?"
"Short summer stay. I'm back to college in the fall." After sipping the drink, I reached for the sugar, poured and stirred. "I used to visit as a kid; I didn't think I'd ever return."
"I said the same thing once." Her steely blue eyes misted over. "Certain things keep you coming back, doncha think? Creamer?"
I shook my head. People clanked cutlery onto plates as they finished their meals. Booths emptied, leaving one customer with his back to the rest of the diner and a baseball cap tugged low.
Pamela slid the local newspaper across the counter. As I skimmed through the pages, the Benton realtor's listings inside contained no properties similar to Lucille's, yet, all the marketed offer prices were way under value. Something needed to give because I needed to sell Lucille's for at least fifty thousand dollars in cash.
A bell tinkled. Pamela weaved to the kitchen hatch, winking at the chef while clicking her tongue. His apron and off-white t-shirt didn't mask his protruding gut.
I demolished the burger as he spied on me. Pamela scrubbed a stain on the countertop that was going nowhere fast, and as she did, she cast a glance my way. "Can I get you anything else?"
I glanced down at my wristwatch. "Only the check, please." The unpacking could wait until morning. Not wanting to get lost, I needed to reach Lucille's before losing sight of the coastal road. Digging into my bag, I handed my credit card to Pamela with an appreciative smile. She took a moment too long to read the name etched in plastic.
Ignoring the man in the baseball cap who now waited to settle his bill, she asked, "Are you Lucille's granddaughter?"
She scanned my face. I had the same telltale scattering of dark freckles across the bridge of my nose and twilight corkscrew curls; my ancestry was a blended mix of Irish and Caribbean. I was about to answer when Pamela nodded, confirming it for herself. Her face melted into a smile, which turned up one corner of her mouth. "You've got her genes."
"Estranged granddaughter," I added for her, draining the last of the bitter liquid before standing. I wasn't mourning a woman I no longer knew. All death was sad, but time eroded memories of her and Benton, leaving only the needle-like sting of the life I'd up and fled this morning.
The rag she wiped the counter with paused. "Don't pee on my back and call it rain, honey. That's not the way she saw it."
"You knew Lucille Delane?" With my attention piqued curiosity got the better of me. My father painted a picture of a reclusive alcoholic unsuitable to be in the vicinity of his only child. At no time did he ever recall her with the fondness that emanated from Pamela's voice.
Pamela's demeanor warmed further. "There isn't a soul in town who didn't. "
There was no telling the tales Lucille had spun about the whereabouts of her immediate family over the years. But, Pamela served her words with another genuine smile, and I was too close to burning out after the long drive to delve further. I returned the warm gesture before standing, heading to the door, and setting off for the final stretch to Lucille's home.
Pamela called from behind me. "Take the first exit onto the coastal road, and drive safe."
I exited the diner. Low-lying marine fog descended in a blanket around my feet. In the next hour, I'd have a ten-yard view at best.
This morning, among the usual utility bills and junk mail of pizza delivery flyers, coupons, and credit card offers, was the second of three eviction warning notices. Probate would take one grueling summer month to get the money I needed to rid myself of Antoine.
I clicked the key, the sedan flashed in the shadows, and I climbed in. I started the engine, turned the heat to max, and pulled onto the isolated road. The radio switched to a country song about weeping guitars and missed opportunities. Blind corners became death traps as I flipped my fog lights on and leaned forward, fiddling with the radio station.
In my peripheral vision, an image suddenly darted, cutting in front of the car. Eyes flashed, and my heart stopped. I screamed, slamming the brakes as a sickening thud hit the hood.
Every warning light on the car's dashboard now blinkered red. The engine continued to tick over as smoke from under the hood rose and dissipated into the air.
It looked like a man—but bigger.
My chest clenched as my lungs begged me to take the deeper gasp they now burned for. Steadying the rattle in my hands, I shut off the ignition and grappled with the belt restraint until it unlocked.
I opened the car door but couldn't move because my legs became rooted into the floor like spring bulbs waiting for winter frost to thaw.
Headlights glinted at the far end of the road, and a red truck slowed to a stop behind me. Their door opened and shut, and the thump of heavy boots crunched on the gravel road as they approached.
The driver rapped on the glass. "Are you okay?" When I failed to answer, the chill of the night air once again greeted my skin as the door opened wider.
Locked in a thousand-yard stare, I mentally pleaded with him to check the extent of the damage caused.
Before I could get my words out, he exhaled, and I smelled coffee.
"It was a deer," he said.
My eyes stayed trained on the gaps in the trees. "Did you see it?"
The man stood in well-worn jeans, a navy hoodie, and a baseball cap. Shock didn't register on his face the same way, but the answer to my question never came.
"Mind if I take a quick look?" he asked.
I shook my head. The stranger moved to the hood of my car and surveyed the damage. More silence followed.
"You must have hit it moving because your bumper's torn to shit."
My chest caved further. In my mind's eye, I only saw dollar signs I didn't have. The man returned and passed me a business card. The embossed print read 'Benton Motors.'
"I'm Paul. I could tow it in the morning to my brother's garage?"
I looked back at him. "Can we check for what I hit?"
He shook his head in disagreement. "Best leave alone. Rattled animals can become aggressive."
"But it looked like a man!"
"Wasn't," was all he said.
"So you did see it?" My voice peaked and cracked. Flashes of inky blackness and deep-set eyes refused to vacate my thoughts because he had to be wrong.
"Happens around here," he replied, still holding my door ajar.
My eyes widened. "Not to me!" Back-to-back traffic and honking car engines were my versions of a regular drive, but deers the size of line-backers were not.
The man's eyebrows rose, and he actually chuckled. "Doesn't change what it was—an animal."
The stress of the move may have finally broken me. I swallowed around the thickness in my throat. "Happens all the time, you say?"
When he nodded, my heart struck a regular beat for the first time in minutes.
"Business is good—always. This is one reason. Benton has winding forest roads and ocean views. It's a wonderful place to settle down—you've already met the wildlife." He flashed me a smile that encouraged one of my own.
"I think I hate your wildlife."
"It probably hates you, too." His grin widened. "I can drop your vehicle off to you by the end of next week with any luck." He produced a pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket. "Write your address and phone number down."
I jotted down my first name, Lucille's address, and cell. The man made a call as he circled to inspect my car again. Afterward, I handed him the paper and pen. His gaze flitted between me and the words written.
"Lucille's old place? You a relative?"
For a moment, he stared through me as if I were fictional. To avoid a repeat of my earlier conversation, I simply hummed an agreeable response and said, "Granddaughter."
My words slapped him out of whatever spell he was under, and he smiled. "That's on the ocean highway. I'll drive you."
Rummaging through my bag for my cell phone, I texted Carolyn back at home in Georgia, letting her know his truck's license plate. I promised not to call on the first night because she refused to fuel my homesickness until I settled. But, this turn of events trumped my earlier pledge, and I was not sitting in this wreck until sunrise.
"I'll be selling once probate completes if you know any madman that wants to buy a shanty house on a receding bluff?"
"You'd sell?" Paul stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "It's not so bad here, and we'll all be long dead before that bluff recedes any further. I'm sorry to hear about Lucille. Were you two close?"
"No." It would be a lie to call it anything else. His hand steadied me as I climbed out of the car. Paul swiveled his baseball cap back to front, allowing me to take him in for the first time. Thick, sandy bedroom hair curled around his ears, and within his hazel eyes were the sweetest threads of caramel. I mean, his jawline alone was enough to make me pregnant.
My thoughts came into focus; I recognized him.
"You were at the diner."
He smiled. "It's the only one in town, and I'm a terrible cook. My brother and I have the same routine every Sunday: We drive to the diner, order the same meals—two burgers and two fries—and joke about our lack of cooking skills."
We headed for his truck. "Where is your brother?" I hadn't clocked anyone with him earlier, and the passenger seat was vacant through his windshield.
"Lately—always busy. Let's get you seated before you find the floor first."
Once inside, I shivered as the AC further chilled my skin. Back home, it would be hotter than six hells even after sundown, but that scorching weather front had yet to make it this far north.
"Are you cold?" He reached forward before I answered, turning off the AC and upping the heat.
"It's supposed to be summer," I replied.
Paul's grin stretched wide as he ran a hand over his stubbled chin. "Tell that to Benton. You'll acclimatize. I guess Georgia makes Benton look like permafrost."
My eyes narrowed, backtracking our conversation; I'd never said where home was.
He must have noticed my sudden silence because he added, "The peach is on the plates."
Of course, it was. I summoned a weak smile while Paul cranked the engine and headed toward the ocean. As we drove, streetlights periodically shone on his face. I flipped the business card over.
"I don't have the cash to pay you for a repair." I glanced at him, but his total concentration remained on the road.
"I don't remember asking you to." He hesitated before adding, "The diner needs a server, but Sal, the owner, is a little peculiar. Or, the garage needs an office hand; we can cut a deal if you're interested?"
No way did I want to spend extra time with Sal, who had a vested interest in how I ate food. But, with no alternative, I saw little choice in the matter because I needed to be able to get home. "I'm only here for one month, there's no way I can stay longer, but I could work the cost of the repairs if you let me?"
"It's settled then. The house is up this road."
A wave of nostalgia washed over me when Benton Ridge came into view. A perfect half-moon canopy painted white covered the gap over the creek with a narrow pedestrian walkway alongside the trusses. Beams crisscrossed on either side. Paul floored the gas, and the vision blurred as the truck roared to life.
Paul made a sharp right turn, and the sea became visible through the broken flash of trees as we hurtled past. I fished the keys out of my bag that the probate lawyer FedExed me over a month ago. Without a clue what to do with them, Antoine forced my hand instead. If no one claimed, the local authority would put the house up for auction, absorbing any proceeds—I wouldn't see a cent. The money was Antoine's.
"This is it." Paul parked, cut the engine, and exited the truck. He walked around to my passenger door.
The structure appeared no different from how I remembered it. A blue moon hung above grass-covered bluffs. It reminded me of bygone summers, blazing sunsets, and dried sea salt hair, running against the wildness of the waves until the skies became starlit.
Paul studied the scrap of paper in his hands.
"Dana," he said, testing my name out loud. "Welcome home. We'll see you on Monday."