Page 2 of Daddy's Little Liar
Hopping in meant hopping up a short, three-step ladder attached to the side of the enormous tractor, but Georgia did it. She comforted herself with the knowledge when it came to rural murderers, one rarely thought of women, and one rarely used tractors. Chainsaws, yes. John Deere, not so much.
Georgia settled gingerly on the buddy seat beside the driver, and the farm vehicle lurched into motion. They clipped along at a pretty decent twenty miles an hour, bouncing in and out of every ankle-killing rut the weathered dirt road offered. The pain in her ankle didn’t feel any better now that she was off it, in fact, it got worse. Her whole leg seemed to throb along with the rumbling vibrations of the tractor. Grabbing her knee and locking her jaw, she tried to take her mind off the worst of it.
“Thank you for the ride,” Georgia said.
“No, problem.” The other woman smiled. “I’ll drop you at Dad’s. Best mechanic in town.” She snorted. “Only mechanic in town, for that matter.”
At least they had one.
“I appreciate it. Hopefully, your dad can fix my car, so I can get back on the road.”
Her snort becoming a sharp bark of laughter, the older woman said, “He’s not my daddy, honey. I said Dad, as in, Dad’s Garage. It’s the name of his mechanic shop.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry. He’s good, and he won’t cheat you. Guaranteed.”
For two miles, they bumped along in semi-companionable, semi-awkward silence. Georgia held onto her leg, trying to cushion it from the worst of the jarring. She kept hoping the pain would get better, but with every new bump and jostle, the opposite kept happening. Her jaw tightened, and her mouth clenched. When the tractor hit a sizeable pothole, she raised her foot off the floor, but the agonizing shocks that radiated all the way to her knee had her sucking air and even rocking a little.
The other woman noticed. “Want me to take you to Doc Johnson first?”
“God, no!” Georgia caught herself and quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that. I just…” Can’t afford the gas for this trip, much less the car repair. “I-I’ll be fine.”
A doctor was so far beyond her budget, she couldn’t bear to think about it. Besides, she was trying to be hopeful, and right now, her optimistic soul was rooting for a loose coolant cap or hose as the source of all her problems. A quick rest was all this silly sprained ankle needed. Once she got to town, she’d climb down out of the tractor and just… walk the pain right off.
She refused to look at the swelling that was turning her trim ankle into an orange-sized abomination. As long as she didn’t look at it, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as her gently massaging fingers and the residual pain were telling her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said again, firmly this time, stubbornly, without stumbling, so they both might believe it.
“Suit yourself.” The lady farmer cast her leg a practical if dubious stare. This was farm country, though, and in farm country, people minded their own business.
The rest of the rumbling, bumpy drive into Solstice Springs was done in silence. Georgia did her best not to wince, gasp or groan as the throb in her leg got steadily worse, and the lady farmer did nothing more than caster and her leg knowing tight-lipped looks.
Her phone was dead, so Georgia had no idea of the time, but the sun was well and truly gone by the time they reached town. The sky was a bruise-like indigo going on Indian ink, and not a star could be seen because all the streetlights were on. All six of them lined up in a neat row along the only commercial street, bisecting this tiny town. The welcome sign planted beneath the first streetlamp put the established date at 1886 and the population at 296. Tacked beneath that figure, however, was a hand-written change on a square of plywood. The baby-blue paint read: ‘297! Congratulations, Donna Jo and Earl!’
Six city blocks made up the sum and total of the rural town—post office, feed store, gas station, and grocery. A bookstore doubled as a coffee and sandwich shop. A quilt shop advertised sewing lessons every Thursday, and on Saturday mornings, the Stars and Garter Sewing Circle welcomed anyone and everyone to come ‘stitch a square.’
Then there was Dad’s Garage, which looked like a fifties-era gas station, complete with the original blockish Texaco gas pumps still out front and all the old motor oil advertising signs hanging on every available inch of wall space not currently occupied by either a window or a door. It had a single repair bay, and thankfully, the door was still up, and the neon in the window was flashing ‘Open.’
“You’re in luck,” the farmer said as the tractor rumbled to a stop out front. “Looks like he’s home.”
“Thank you so much,” Georgia said, grabbing her purse. She opened it, knowing she ought to offer something, but her relief when the woman waved against payment was equal parts humbling and shame-filled. She didn’t have any money to spare. She almost never carried cash, and there was just enough on her debit card to fill her gas tank two more times. It would get her to her interview, then home again. That was about it.
“Put your money away,” the older woman said firmly. “You don’t owe me a dime. Just take care of that foot and have yourself a good night.”
“Thank you,” Georgia said again and slid down out of the cab as carefully as she could onto her good leg. She really, really, really didn’t want to put weight on her ankle, but there was no help for it. She limped backward to give the tractor room enough to move on without fear of it running her over. The second her ankle had to take the worst of her weight, though, she knew this wasn’t something she could just ‘walk off.’
She’d hurt herself. She’d really hurt herself, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it in the middle of nowhere with a broken-down car.
As the lady farmer drove away, Georgia physically braced herself to endure, mentally wedging herself into those stupid, metaphorical, big-girl panties again, and made her way to the garage.
She glanced through the open bay doors. The place was brightly lit and fairly clean for a working mechanic’s shop. Shelves full of car parts in varying stages of newness lined both the back wall and any surface flat enough. Every available inch of wall space was covered with something, turning the garage into what looked more like a museum dedicated to auto mechanics, with everything from old calendars to motor oil advertisements to a 1920 Rolls Royce sale’s slip hanging on the walls next to a black-and-white picture of the car.
There were pin-up girls everywhere. Lord, there were pin-up girls—on posterboard and old magazine papers, lacquered to cuts of wood to stave off wear and tear, and even on sheets of metal. Some looked new, while some looked as old as the World War II mottos they extolled—Lady Luck in a black bikini, riding a bomb; a girl in a very short GI-brown skirt, sitting on a suitcase while removing her panties; another, in the skimpiest fireman outfit ever to come out of the 1940s, sliding down a pole. Standing in the doorway, surrounded by auto parts and the reek of rubber, leather, and oil, she felt very much an intruder in what had all the bearings of an old men’s club.
The old-time misogynistic décor didn’t offend her. Rather, she was fascinated. She loved historical things, and the pin-up girls were pretty to her eye, not demeaning.
Limping a few steps inside, she got a closer look at one near a closed door leading into the office. Her smile soon matched that of the playful, curvy, and fully—if not revealingly—dressed redhead grinning back at her. This whole shop was an ode to days long past, and these pin-ups through the decades didn’t seem at all out of place, interspersed as they were among old bills and thank-you notes from past customers.
