Page 3 of The Nanny and the Nerd
That was a good line!
“Miss?” the man said, staring at her as if she’d spaced out—which, she often did.
She shook her head. “Sorry, I thought of something clever.”
The mechanics’ perplexed expression didn’t fade with her explanation. “Do you want me to call you a cab or something, lady?”
“I can’t leave the car today.” She rechecked her watch. No, no, no! Her shift started in six minutes! She stared at her turquoise beauty. “Will she get me to work? I don’t have far to go.”
The man glanced over his shoulder at the Jeep and sucked in an audible breath. He really needed to work on his car-side manner.
“Possibly?” he replied as if his mouth wanted to say no.
Forget the mechanic! She needed to go. She’d been late one too many times and was skating on thin ice with the restaurant’s manager.
“What do I owe you for the patch?” she asked as a spark of hope ignited. She had a coupon! This wheel patch might not eat up her discretionary margarita-night-with-her-besties cash! That’s why she’d chosen this place. Unclasping her tote, she slipped her hand inside. Cluttered with ideas scribbled on a sprinkling of sticky notes, she tried to remove her planner, but it was stuck between her laptop, a book, and a sea of papers. She yanked it out, and akin to a piñata bursting open, everything but the laptop fell onto the garage’s grimy floor.
She bent over to recover her treasured ideas and musings, and the mechanic joined her. Snapping up sticky note after sticky note, she noticed the man had stopped moving. He held a neon yellow slip of paper. Narrowing his gaze, he read the line of text. “This arrow might have pierced my heart, but you’re the one who’s stolen it.” The man cocked his head to the side.
“I’m a writer,” she said, plucking the paper from his greasy grip.
“Is this you? Are you Delores Lambert DuBois?” the mechanic asked, reading the author’s name on the cover of her favorite book of short stories.
This guy thought she was Delores Lambert DuBois—one of the world’s most celebrated authors, and not to mention her favorite author! She laughed. “No, I’m not. Delores Lambert DuBois is a literary genius.”
The guy glanced in her messy tote. “What are you?”
Good question.
She plucked the book from the man’s hand and slid it into her bag—without answering.
“This looks important,” he said, inspecting a creased piece of paper. “It says it’s for a writing contest. I’m sure as a writer you don’t want to lose this,” he added, handing her the submission application for the Denver Poetry and Short Story Competition.
A shiver spider-crawled down her spine as she accepted the piece of paper and thrust it inside her planner. She purposely hadn’t looked at it in weeks—no, months. “Yes, I don’t want to misplace it,” she answered half-heartedly.
She’d picked up an application for the contest every year for the last four years.
But to date, she’d never entered. Not once.
The mechanic stuffed his rag into his pocket. “I don’t read a whole lot. I’m more of a gamer in my spare time,” the man said as he mimicked holding a video game controller.
What a shame! Too many people lost themselves online. But not Penny Fennimore! Nope! All she needed was her beloved short stories by Delores Lambert DuBois, a hot cup of herbal tea, and a cozy reading nook, and she was as content as a clam!
“What do I owe you for the patch? I’ve got a ten percent off coupon,” she said, fishing the crumpled paper from one of the planner’s pockets.
He waved her off. “No charge, lady.”
Relief flooded her system as she pressed her hand to her heart. “Really? Thank you!”
He shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. And hold on to that coupon. It’ll cost you a pretty penny when that heap finally goes caput.”
Her momentary state of exhilaration deflated like a limp balloon.
Currently, she didn’t have a working laptop. Her car was on its last legs, or wheels, or engine! She didn’t know! And she had to be at work in…
Three minutes!
“Thanks again for the patch,” she called over her shoulder as she huffed it to her Jeep.
