No Perfect Hero(2)

“You hungry? There might be a place to stop in the next hour or so.”

Tara scrunches up her nose. “Maybe. I kinda need to pee,” she complains, and I bite back a laugh.

There’s just something about kids and their shameless honesty.

I could use a little honesty in my life again.

I glance back at the GPS. There’s a town up ahead, not even named, just a little dot on the map and an off-ramp marker in about five minutes.

They’ll have a gas station, at least. Hopefully a sanitary one – or some kind of restaurant.

I squint through the windshield, picking out the reflective green sign in the distance, and merge over into the right lane to take the off-ramp that leads down through a dense, tree-lined slope of land.

But just as we’re cruising onto the ramp, the Ford starts to sputter.

My stomach sinks.

Uh-oh. That’s never a good sign.

This beast is still moving, though.

I manage to get to the bottom of the off-ramp where the road curves around toward a little town in the distance, picturesque and dusty and a little too Norman Rockwell. Almost like it’s been plucked out of those ubiquitous paintings in hotel rooms by artists you’ve never heard of but who’ve probably made a killing selling enough prints for every last Motel 6 down every stretch of Highway Americana.

I’m just not sure we’re going to make that Rockwellian little town.

Not when the Mustang keeps coughing and slowing and when I curse, mashing my foot against the gas pedal, all I get is Tara gasping and whispering, “Swear jar!” and not an ounce more juice.

At least we make the turn.

And manage to coast forward about another hundred feet before the last little bit of oomph I get out of the Mustang sends us floating over onto the shoulder like an oversized yacht caught in a current.

That’s what it feels like, trying to maneuver this long, bulky car after its get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. Exactly like trying to steer a big, heavy boat against the current, but that boat doesn’t want to go anywhere but down.

The Mustang sputters out with a little grunt, like it’s settling in and telling me it’s giving up.

I try the key in the ignition, but the engine only makes a wheezing, rattling sound without turning over. Well, crap.

Craaaaaaaaap.

My sister’s going to kill me if I killed her car. It was a gift from her husband on her thirtieth birthday.

She's one of the lucky ones who found a guy who gets her. Instead of sleeping with her best friend, John buys her gifts that suit her tastes.

She must’ve snagged the last good one. Because I swear every man I’ve met in the last five years – including the one I'd planned to marry – is trash.

Okay. Whew.

I’m bitter. I’m angry. Breathe in, breathe out.

Life goes on.

That's what I keep telling myself, a daily mantra.

And surely my brother-in-law can’t really be the last decent man on Earth.

I have bigger worries right now, anyway.

Clenching my fists on the steering wheel, I stare between them. “Well, kiddo,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind peeing on the side of the road.”

“Why can’t I go there?” she asks. “I bet they have a bathroom.”

She’s leaning over the passenger side door and squinting across the field to the right of the car. I follow her gaze, squinting through the light.

I hadn’t even noticed where we’d pulled off, too focused on trying to make the damn car move.

But there’s some kind of...hotel? Inn?

I’m not sure what it is, but it looks like a vacation lodger’s dream. There’s a tall three-story house set far back in the field, lined with columns in the front. It's surrounded by well-tended greenery. Pretty shade trees are scattered across the manicured lawn, precisely spaced along little cobbled paths leading between a cluster of cottages, some singles, some duplexes.

The entire portrait is set against the backdrop of distant, smoky-looking mountain ranges beyond a steep cliff, and that Rockwellian feeling gets even stronger as I catch the sign hanging from a post up ahead.

Charming Inn.

Huh.

Well, maybe the name fits because it is charming.

Even if a city slicker girl like me probably sticks out like a sore thumb here, I hope the locals will be friendly. At least hospitable enough to let a kid use their bathroom.

I can’t let Tara suffer much longer. She’s squirming around, thighs pressed together, and I flash her a smile and get out of the car, slamming the door and reaching in the back for my overnight bag and her backpack.

“Come on,” I say and offer her my hand. “Let’s go meet the locals.”

We push the quaint little white picket fence open and quick-time it up the central walk to the main house. It’s an old plantation-style building, really strange to see here in Middle America, but it’s been fitted out to be a hotel, it looks like.

There's a little bronze plaque to one side of the door, listing the lobby hours. When we step inside the carpeted, Victorian-furnished lobby, a small bell over the door rings. Behind the broad, glossy front desk, a faint snort sounds.

Followed by a crash, as the sleeping occupant of a tipped-back chair jerks and goes tumbling down to the floor.

Tara gasps with surprise – then squeaks, whimpering, dancing from foot to foot and clutching my hand tighter. “Auntie Hay...”