Page 54 of The Strawberry Field
Ten minutes later, I turn down Sawyer’s road. She’s waiting on the porch, sunlight catching her hair, and I’m happy. Just happy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sawyer
WE DRIVE TO West Lake in Jake’s truck, Hattie sitting up on the seat between us, taking in our surroundings with the kind of joyous expression that makes Labs such wonderful companions.
I reach over to rub under her chin. She gives me an affectionate lick on the back of my hand.“She enjoys every moment of the day, doesn’t she?”
“She does,” Jake agrees.“That’s how she sees life. It’s an adventure one day to the next, and she can’t wait to see the next thing we do together. It doesn’t matter whether the sun is shining, or it’s an overcast rainy day, she still sees plenty to enjoy.”
“Dogs could give humans a lesson on that, couldn’t they?”
“We could all learn a lot from Hattie.”
We drive to the hardware store between West Lake and Hales Ford Bridge. It takes us forty minutes or so to get there, and we ride with the windows down, country music playing on the AM radio. Jake parks near the front of the store, and we go inside, Hattie trotting between us on a leash. The employees there know her. A woman from the customer service desk walks up and gives her a treat, for which Hattie thanks her with an appreciative tail wag, chewing happily as we head for the lumber department.
Jake talks with the young man working there, telling him the number of boards and sizes we’ll need to repair the dock. Once I’ve paid for the stack, we pull around back to the loading door, where two employees neatly arrange the boards in the back of Jake’s truck.
“You may regret signing on for this,” I say, glancing at the substantial pile of wood behind us as we pull away from the hardware store. “It will take a while to replace all of those.”
“That’s okay,” Jake says. “I don’t mind. We can do a little every day until it’s done.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me out. It’s above and beyond the call of duty. I don’t know how I’ll pay you back.”
“No payback needed,” he says.
We head up 122, turn left a couple of miles out and end up on 834, the road that will take us back to Route 40. The road is two lanes and not very wide given the amount of trafficthese days.
A rectangular white box truck pulls out from a side road just ahead. Jake hits the brakes, and the boards in the back slam forward. Hattie glances at Jake with a worried expression just as she’s thrown from her seat onto the floorboard. I reach down and help her up.
“Sorry, girl,” he says, rubbing her head. “We almost hit that guy. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine. Did he not see us?”
“I don’t know,” Jake says, shaking his head and hanging back from the truck which is now weaving back and forth against the solid yellow line on the road.
“Do you think the driver is drunk?”
“Early in the day but could be.”
We watch in silence for another minute from a safe distance. The truck drives straight for fifteen or twenty seconds and then begins to veer again, jerking back into his lane.
“Should we call 911?” I say, glancing at Jake.
“Yeah,” he says, “This looks like something that might end badly.”
Just then another car comes around the corner, and the truck veers into the driver’s lane. The car hits its horn, shrieking past the truck, barely missing it.
I tap 911 on my phone, telling the operator who answers what we’ve just witnessed, hardly able to keep the urgency from my voice.
“Can you tell me your exact location, ma’am?”
Jake gives me the road names, and I relay them as calmly as I can.
“I’ll alert any deputies in the area,” she says.
“Thank you so much,” I say and end the call.
