My One and Only(65)

The plan was for us to go into town (Harold, North Dakota, population 627) and get a tow for the poor Mustang, then have the mechanic assess the trouble.

“You folks’ll stay with us tonight,” Deacon said. “Our town doesn’t have a motel, don’tcha know, but you’re real welcome with me and the missus. We don’t get many folks coming through, no sir. And tonight just happens to be our very own Harvest Festival, so you’ll have to do us the honor. Real Americana. Where’d you say you folks were from again?”

“Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts,” I answered. “We’re headed to the airport in Bismarck. Is that far?”

“Oh, gosh no, not at all. Couple hours, three tops.”

“Great!” I said. If Nick’s car wasn’t fixed by then, maybe I could pay someone to drive me to the capital. By this time tomorrow, the odds were excellent that I’d be in the air, headed for home, back where I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t wait.

“So what’s it like in Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts?” Deacon asked, and I happily told him about Menemsha and the fishing fleet, the wind and the pines, the rain, the ocean, the cheerful pastel Victorians of Oak Bluffs, the tidy streets of Edgartown.

“Sounds like you folks have a real nice life out there,” Deacon commented.

Nick said nothing, just looked at me, his eyes unreadable.

“Yes,” I finally said after a minute. “Coco likes it, don’t you, honey?” She wagged her tail agreeably, then resumed trying to hypnotize Deacon into becoming her love slave.

Thinking about home reminded me that I needed to call Dad. Should check in on Tommy. See what I could do for BeverLee. Make sure Willa had enough money. Court next Tuesday. My bimonthly lunch with Father Bruce. It was different from here, where the endless fields were punctuated with huge spools of hay, the flatness of the landscape nearly unbroken by trees. My home seemed so safe by comparison, the ragged coastline and snug little towns, the solid stone walls and whispering pines. No exposure, no relentless sun. No Nick.

A COUPLE OF HOURS later, I was the queen of the Harvest Ball. Well, maybe not queen. But I was holding court, at least in the judicial sense of the word. Six women had me cornered at a picnic table as we ate a tasty yet unidentifiable casserole called “hot dish” by my hosts. Coco, well fed on the same, snoozed at my feet, her leash tied to one leg of the picnic table.

“So if I move out, he could get the house? Gosh, that doesn’t seem right,” Darlene said. She was twenty-six, married for seven years, two kids. Husband was a trucker who enjoyed a side of hooker with his rest stop all-you-can-eat buffet, apparently.

“It’d be better if you stayed put, especially with the kids,” I answered, taking a sip of my Coke—strike that. A sip of my soda pop. Sounded much nicer that way.

“Okeydokey,” she said. “Stay put, you betcha. Think I should change the locks?”

“Well, that would certainly send a message,” I concurred.

Darlene nodded, and my next consultation approached. “Hi, there, Harper hon, didja see that rain before? I’m Nancy Michaelson, so nice to meetcha.”

“Hi, Nancy,” I said, taking another bite of hot dish. One could only imagine the cholesterol count, as the primary ingredient seemed to be mayonnaise, but man, it was good! “What can I help you with?”

She sat. “You’re a regular doll, answering all our questions, don’tcha know. So, okay, my mother, bless her heart, she just married some old geezer from the nursing home over in Beulah. At first, we thought he was, y’ know, not so bad, but turns out, he’s taking money out of her savings account! What can we do? I think she should divorce his scrawny old carcass, but Mom, well, she’s saying she’s in love! At her age, can you imagine!”

I squashed a smile. “Well, if you’ve got power of attorney, you can stop that. But if she’s competent—”

“Whatja mean, competent?”

“In her right mind? You know…sane?”

Nancy sighed. “Well, I think she’s crazy, having a romance at her age and all, but I guess I don’t get a vote. Thanks, hon.”

“Okay, okay, let’s give our guest a little breathing room, what do you say, girls?” Margie Schultz bustled over, my new best friend/bodyguard. She seemed to be in charge of the event; after Deacon had introduced Nick and me to her, she’d towed us around, introducing us to dozens of people, all of whom had seemed ridiculously happy that misfortune had led us here. Midwestern hospitality at its finest, putting us Yankees to shame.

The Harvest Festival was pretty much what you’d expect—the lot behind the Lutheran church strung with lights, a few booths and mouthwatering smells as hot dogs, hamburgers and bratwurst cooked on a grill. A giant table held dozens of casseroles, Jell-O molds and plates of cake and cookies. Soda pop and milk…no beer. A small band was setting up…just a guitarist, a bass player and a fiddler. This year’s real Harvest Queen, a sturdy and beautiful lass decked out in a pink prom gown, work boots and a John Deere cap, collected money for the school’s football program. Kids ran around with sparklers in the fading light, and the whole scene could’ve been taken from a Ron Howard movie.

“So is the Harvest Festival always on a Monday night?” I asked. Hard to believe it was only Monday—I felt as though I’d been in the car with Nick for years, but Monday evening it was.