Her Road Home. Laura Drake
parked inside.
Sunlight filtering through the gaps in the boards shone off bright yellow paint. And green paint. And neon-orange glow paint. The...thing consumed the entire floor space.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to rent this.” There was a note of pride in his voice.
“No shit,” she whispered.
He jogged around, opened the driver’s door, started the engine and rolled the convertible monstrosity into the yard. She recognized the old Volkswagen Thing; a cross between a dune buggy, military vehicle and a Beetle—and none of those models should have been allowed to breed.
If that weren’t enough, the eye-popping yellow paint was festooned with cartoon flowers, peace signs and rainbows in garish colors. It looked like the artist had dropped acid.
He shut down the engine and sat with a smug smile, clearly awaiting effusive acclaim.
She gulped, imagining all eyes following her as she drove around town. “I couldn’t.” Sam believed that your ride was an extension of your personality. Her Vulcan showed one side of her, her Jeep, another. She’d made snap judgments about people based solely on what they drove, and most of the time, they proved correct.
Her? Drive this—abomination? No, really, I couldn’t.
He hopped out and gently closed the door. “The nearest car rental is Santa Maria, thirty miles that way.” He pointed northeast. “So I offer my customers loaners, no charge.” He patted the garish fender. “All of them are out right now, but hey, since you trust me with your baby, I’ll trust you with mine.”
She didn’t owe him anything. She opened her mouth to decline, wondering if it would be too rude to ask him for the Yellow Pages to look up another shop.
But he worked on race bikes. She wasn’t going to find a more experienced mechanic. She couldn’t insult him. He sat there, beaming like a little boy offering her his prettiest marble.
The universe must be trying to keep me humble. Well, she’d just keep her head down and let her hair hide her face. It wasn’t like anyone in town knew her, anyway. She swallowed. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER THREE
A HALF HOUR LATER, top down, she scuttled through the weekend-busy town. She idled at the four-way stop at its center, feeling like she was sitting in a display window. Naked.
Hunching her shoulders, she peeked from behind her hair curtain. Reactions from the strolling tourists ranged from smiles of recognition to baffled expressions. The distinctive chug-whine of the old VW engine caught even more attention when she accelerated through the intersection. Maybe her bad-boy mechanic could get her bike back to her quick, or another loaner would get returned and she could swap.
Look on the good side. In the meantime, this beats walking.
She took the turnoff at Foxen Canyon, just because she liked the name. The sun warmed her shoulders and the wind tore through her hair. The radio played a perfect road song: Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.”
The road wound between hills in sweeping, perfectly canted curves. This drive would be great on a motorcycle. She tapped into the song’s rhythm, accelerating on the straights and leaning just a bit into the corners, imagining her bike beneath her. Scenery blurred to slashes of blue, green and gold, rushing past the windscreen. The wind softened the engine’s whine and carried the scent of freshly turned soil. Small champagne bubbles of joy rose in her chest to explode in her brain.
Topping a rise, a vineyard stretched ahead, rows precision straight. She passed a tasting room, a low adobe-style building with a broad, shaded porch. The winery was a sure tourist magnet. It looked like a large home, owned by people who would welcome visitors as family.
She let the road lead her deeper into the hills. Farmhouses appeared around a few bends, but for the most part, the hills stood as wild and empty as the first man who found them.
A few miles farther, she came out of the trees and saw it.
An old house, deserted and in sad disrepair, perched atop a hill overgrown with wild oats. Slowing, she pulled into the weed-choked gravel drive. The Victorian rose two stories, with a deep shaded porch dressed in broken gingerbread trim. A rounded gable graced the right front corner, the scalloped wood siding was worn and broken in places. Crossing the yard, Sam stumbled over a real estate agent’s sign buried in the tall, straw-colored grass.
She circled the building and spied an old-fashioned garage, which had likely served as a carriage house in a former life. A property line of eucalyptus trees shaded the yard and the breeze blew their dusky scent to her along with the chatter of mockingbirds.
This house had good bones, from what she could see. It would be such a blast to restore the old lady to her glory. She itched to get her tools in her hands—to fix what was wrong here—to create a home out of a wreck.
She came around the corner of the house. The view past the sagging picket fence stopped her cold. Hills dotted with live oaks rolled away to the west like waves on a golden ocean.
Just that fast, she fell in love.
After fumbling with her cell phone, she dialed Homestake Realty, the company listed on the sign.
After setting up an immediate showing, she wandered back to the porch and lowered herself to the sun-warmed steps with a sigh. Leaning against the railing, she closed her eyes. The heat eased the aches of the accident, and something inside loosened.
I’ve got to tell Dad. She actually lifted the phone, then, remembering, she let it drop to her lap.
His death hadn’t been a shock. He’d battled the cirrhosis a long time. She’d spent countless evenings at the hospital after work, watching the baseball game and sharing the news of her day until he fell asleep. But one restless night, he’d wanted to talk.
“I thank God that you’re a good girl, Sammy. I know I can’t take credit for that. Hell, you took better care of me than I ever did you.” He’d held his hand up to halt her protest. “One thing dying does is make you to take a hard look at things.”
“Dad, I don’t want to talk about this.” She’d looked away.
“You don’t have any choice, Sammy. I’m tired, and ready to join your mother. Now shut up a minute.” His voice, soft as flannel, blanketed the sting of the words. The fluorescent light above the bed blanched his normally florid face, crumbling her wall of denial. He looked like a talking corpse.
“I can’t give you any good advice, Sam. If I’d had any, I’d have made better decisions myself. But one thing I do know. Life is cold. You’ll need to build a warm corner for yourself.”
He fell silent a moment, fighting pain. She sank onto the mattress beside him to hold his hand.
“Working or not, I always paid two things—the mortgage insurance, and my life insurance, so you could have seed money to start your own business. It’s time to make your own dreams, Sam, and let me go so I can stop mourning mine.”
He’d put her hand aside and pushed himself up in bed. “Now, turn on the dang game, we’re missing the first inning.” He dashed his hand across his eyes, and they’d pretended to get absorbed in a game neither one cared about.
Three weeks later, he was dead.
Funny how she forgot that sometimes.
I miss you, Dad.
She’d drifted into a light doze when the sound of a car engine laboring up the hill roused her.
A petite blonde woman in an immaculate peach business suit and high heels alit from a new Cadillac sedan. From the looks, Homestake Realty did well. Sam glanced down at her T-shirt, jeans and motorcycle boots.
This should be interesting.
“You called about the property? I’m Honey Conklin, Homestake Realty.” She watched her footing