Page 6 of Bracing The Storm

I fold my hands in my lap and stare at them for a good five minutes. One song turns into three. At some point, the radio host begins to chatter about…sheep? Or maybe sleep? I honestly can’t tell.

We drive for what feels like an eternity, during which I make several more attempts at starting a conversation, yelling over the blaring music, while the guy ignores me. In the end, I just give up. Obviously, small talk (or any kind of talk, for that matter) isn’t his forte so I’m not going to waste my breath.

I kill time staring out of the window, even though I can barely make out more than the silhouettes of trees blurring into the night surrounding them. Every now and then I think I spy a house, the white-washed walls providing enough of a contrast to stand out in the darkness, but even these are few and far between.

I don’t know how long we’ve been driving for when the truck comes to an abrupt halt that sends me forward in my seat. Thank goodness I’m wearing my seatbelt. I peer into the deep darkness surrounding us, wondering why the sudden stop.

“This is it,” the guy says and kills the engine.

“You mean like?—”

I turn from the darkness to him, unsure what to do now. But his face is turned away again. All I can see is his profile, what with the dim moonlight and the lack of streetlamps. Back in NYC, a deserted street is not the kind of place one would want to frequent after nightfall. Probably not even during the day. He doesn’t seem particularly concerned though.

“Your destination,” the guy says. “Need me to roll out the red carpet?”

Do I detect undertones of annoyance? Sarcasm? I bite my lip hard as I fight the urge to call him out on his rudeness. He was kind enough to pick me up when he didn’t really have to. The least I can do is be the better person and return whatever bit himthis morning with a big pile of friendliness. Because friendliness, showering your enemy with hugs and kisses and all that, is my thing.

Heck, I might even throw in a mean batch of cookies. The chocolate chip kind. Bought, because I couldn’t bake if my life depended on it.

“Thank you. My name is Lori. And you are?” I smile and reach out my hand, waiting for the big introductions. Obviously, we’ll never be best friends. We simply don’t click for that. But at least we’ll be able to exchange pleasantries without throwing in an offense or two in the process.

I’d settle for that because I simply can’t have people not liking me. Everyone likes me. That’s my thing, too.

To my utter disbelief, he simply opens the door and steps out of the truck, ignoring my outstretched hand.

I stare at his broad shoulders as he heads down the path toward what looks like a huge house shrouded in yet more darkness.

What just happened?

Did he just snub me? Brush me off? Kick my friendly attempt at making peace right in my face?

“Oh, no, he didn’t.” I shake my head, flummoxed. Maybe he didn’t see my outstretched hand. Maybe there’s a certain way to introduce yourself in Ireland, and I got it wrong.

I should have done my research.

“Wait!” I jump out of the truck and run down the stony path toward the house, ignoring the fact that, in the moonlight, it looks huge and menacing, a bit like a castle.

I stumble up what seems to be a gazillion steps just in time to have the heavy door slam in my face. The wood comes dangerously close to my nose and I jump back a step. Thank goodness I won’t need to spend the night in the local hospital…if there is one.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” I yell and start knocking. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

I hold my breath, almost expecting the door to open and the guy to peer out, maybe even with a smile on his face, calling his grumpiness all a big misunderstanding or a joke, or simply the result of having been on his feet all day.

Fat chance.

The door stays closed.

I inch closer and press my ear against the cool wood to listen. There is no sound. Just a big, looming silence.

“Is there a hotel nearby?” I ask, even though I don’t know if anyone can hear me.

Sighing, I turn on my heels and scan the dark, empty street, pondering my options. Where there’s a house, there have to be neighbors. I could try my luck down the street, knock on strangers’ doors and ask for directions to any nearby accommodation. I could spend the night in the guy’s car. Given that he left without a word, or locking up, he might not mind. Or I could?—

“There’s a barn around the house,” the guy calls out.

I turn sharply, almost expecting the door to open, his grumpy face accommodating a hesitant but friendly smile.

The door remains closed.

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