Page 3 of Fall Favor
That’s where Aaron finds me. “Hey, Manny, I need your help with a delivery.”
I frown. We don’t usually make deliveries, and it’s getting really close to quitting time on a Friday.
“Yeah, I know, but the owner of the blue Dodge truck called. Seems Larry was her ride over, but he slipped and threw his back out this morning, so he’s laid up. She’s willing to pay an extra delivery fee, and she settled the bill over the phone, so I need you to deliver it to her. I’ve got a few calls to make, and then I’ll follow and bring you back here to pick up your truck.”
“Yeah, okay, I can do that.”You bet your ass I can do it!
It’s the golden opportunity falling right into my hands. There’s no way I’m going to waste it. Sure, I feel bad for Larry, and I hope he’s gonna be alright. He’s the only cabdriver in town, and it’s his livelihood, but man, this couldn’t be more perfect.
“Hey, do you know if the special orders came in? There’s a kit of fuses belonging to the same customer. It’ll save her a trip and all.”
“Uh-huh. Good customer service, man.” Aaron smirks. “I heard she was pretty.”
He knows exactly what I’m doing. Hell, before he met his wife, Brielle, he’d be doing the same thing.
“Yeah, the orders are in. That’s actually one of my calls. Guess, I’ll see you in a bit, bro.”
Chapter 4
Leah
Keys clink against the small canister of pepper spray as I shove my phone into the front pocket of my favorite pullover hoodie. I flop onto the sofa as butterflies take flight in my stomach. Just as quickly, I jump to my feet, unable to sit still.
I need to be busy.
Mortified over my lack of decorum at the garage last week, I decided I needed to avoid seeing anyone, especially Emanuel-Manny, and dropped my truck off for service, depositing my extra set of keys in the after-hours drop box. I took a stroll through Wintervale, enjoying the Halloween decorations on several of the houses, and then meandered through the heart of town to the fall market—after all, autumn is my absolute favoritetime of year, with my two favorite holidays less than a month apart.
After picking out a couple of locally made two-wick tallow candles, my nose and stomach led me to the food booths. With a bowl of chicken enchilada soup and a hot cup of cinnamon coffee to chase away the chill of fall hanging in the air, I looked for a place to sit and enjoy my supper before resuming the three-mile walk back to the campground.
That’s how I met the town’s only cab driver, Larry. He was a quirky but kindly older gentleman who shared his table when I asked if the empty seat across from him was taken.
Larry hung around, happy to share some history and stories of the town, keeping me company while I ate. I got the feeling he was kinda lonely, too. When I finished, he wouldn’t hear of me walking that far in “the dead of night,” as he called it, even though it was only a few minutes to seven, though if the sun had already set. I thought it was sweet that he insisted on driving me to my camper. He’d handed me a cute die-cut business card of a yellow cab with his number on it. He scolded me again for walking alone and demanded I call him when I needed another ride.
He also refused to accept his fare, something I planned on making up to him today, but when I called to set up a ride, the robust storytelling voice and stern father figure from the evening before had disappeared. The dear man had thrown his back out early this morning, and I worried about the pain and weakness I heard in his tone.
So here I am, a bundle of nerves, waiting for my truck to be delivered. I have no idea who is delivering it. Will I be seeing the ovary exploding, sloe-eyed Emanuel-Manny again? Gosh. I love his name. I know he prefers Manny, but there’s just something so… decadent and sublime the way Emanuel rolls off the tongue, creating images of Latin lovers and sultry nights. Butterflies take flight in my tummy whenever I say it out loud. I can’t decide which is more unsettling: hoping I’ll see him again or hoping I won’t. Heaven forbid I make a fool of myself a second time in front of him.
And why am I worrying about this anyway? Charming men like him are rarely single, and even if he is, why on earth would he be interested in me? After everything my ex put me through, you’d think I would have learned my lesson.
I have no business getting hot and bothered over a younger man—or any man, for that matter. I’m probably old enough to be his mother for crying out loud. Oh, Lordy, I’m turning into a cliché—cougar on the prowl.
So, yes, I need to be busy, but my worries seem to be multiplying, even if they are more mundane than the sexy mechanic I’ve been obsessing over the last few days. A cold front came through last night, and I turned the furnace on before going to bed. I had plans to fill up the dual propane tanks when I head south after I finish teaching the quilting workshop at the end of the year.
I knew one of the tanks was low, but the second one either had a leak or hadn’t been filled properly, and I found myself in a downright frosty situation when I climbed out of bed this morning. Now, I have no furnace, refrigerator, water heater, orstove until I can get the tanks checked and refilled, on top of the fuse situation. Gah!
In the meantime, my new friend Larry still needs some TLC. From our conversation last night, I gathered that he and I are kindred spirits with no one looking out for either of us. Mine is self-imposed; Larry’s, I don’t know. We never got that far in our conversation but providing him with a little care is something I can do right now, and making comfort food will help keep my mind off a certain hunky mechanic, too.
I think about what I have in the fridge and small pantry and what can easily be made over the firepit with the Dutch oven and cast-iron frying pan. A creamy chicken and dumpling soup and cherry cobbler will have to do.
A couple of hours later, a fire has been laid in the pit with a good bed of coals going and the rectangular grate in place. I move the cobbler-filled cast-iron pan from the grate to a trivet on the end of the picnic table and then move the Dutch oven into the center and gently spoon bite-sized bits of dumpling dough into the steaming broth. My stomach growls as the delicious homey aroma tantalizes my nose. I settle the heavy lid back into place; my tummy will have to wait a little while longer. Besides, an idea for a new quilt pattern has taken root while I’ve been busy.
Getting lost in a new project is exactly what I need to shift into a better headspace. Though thoughts of Manny still hang in the periphery, the sense of panicked anticipation has lessened to a more manageable level. Grabbing a pad of graph paper and colored pencils out of the camper, I settle into a camp chair and begin to sketch while I wait for the dumplings to do their thing.
“Smells downright good, wouldn’t you say, Tom?”
“It surely does, Clint.”
My heart jumps into my throat. The camp chair nearly tips over as I stumble to my feet. Standing at the back of my camper are two men. One is shorter and whipcord lean. I don’t like the sharp predatory look of his closely spaced eyes. I cringe as he spits a brown glob of grossness on the nearest tree. His scraggly yellow beard is stained with juices from the tobacco bulging between his cheek and gum. Briefly, I wonder if he misses more than he hits because his clothes aren’t much better.
