Connected Hearts - Four Lesbian Romance Stories (8 page)

Hauling freight across Europe, you get to places. Paris, Marseilles, Rome, Athens, Hamburg, Madrid ... you name it, I’ve been there. Well, sort of.

Take Paris, for example. Louvre, Centre Pompidou, Montmartre―non. But the Périphérique, decidedly. Getting stuck there in the mother of traffic jams, I couldn’t help wondering how all the people not sitting high above the exhaust gases kept breathing. Then the Champs Élysées―two hours for a few hundred yards. My destination had been “Moris Forwarders, Paris”. Nice, isn’t it? I’d thought I’d look up the exact address in a telephone book, but not a single telephone booth sported one. “Excuse moi, monsieur, je cherche la transport Moris?” In France, you’re better off speaking poor French than excellent anything, but it took me a while to understand that I was not being warned against fires, “les feux” being traffic lights instead.

Hamburg was supposed to be a nice place, too; if anybody’s interested, I can show them where to get a decent meal within its port area.

Not that I had reason to complain. Heeding a good advice, I had gotten every license I could, so I was qualified for all types of freight. That made it possible for me to pick the jobs that paid best, and with a bit of luck I might be able to retire at around forty-five. It was not the incredible income; it was the lack of time to spend it. I might not even have to use the reserves I was saving to eventually replace Tiny. Perhaps it would last ten more years?

Meanwhile, I worried about diesel prices. And EU regulations―it looked like they were about to want a degree in mathematics from truck drivers. It used to be eight hours at the wheel a day (with a one hour break), but these days it was forty-eight hours a week, no more than nine hours a day (ten, twice, if you balanced that within the same week), with no fewer than eleven hours between shifts, except you could shift hours from one week to another, provided that ... Even the police did not have a full understanding of the regulations, and in any country except Germany they didn’t give a shit about it. Just like they didn’t measure whether the apples on sale on a market had the minimum size demanded by the EU. Or perhaps they did, in Germany.

One issue had been taken care of when somebody introduced me to the wonders of the Internet. You see, I was an addict. Whenever I called it a day, I could not go to sleep without something to read. If I could get nothing better, yesterday’s newspaper, even if it had been used to wrap fish, would do. But even the ample sleeping space behind my seat did not allow me to carry a library, so after that eye-opening introduction to the ‘net, I got myself one of those new netbooks and subscribed to a satellite-based connection service. I shortly found so many stories and novels for anyone to read that I began to wonder how the printing business stayed alive. Ah, Xenafiction, Academy of Bards, E-Scribblers, Project Gutenberg (the Dead Poets’ Society, but they did have lots of O. Henry stories) ...

However, one problem solved created another. My fascination with many of the stories, which were just a tap on the mouse pad away, highlighted the fact that I was essentially alone. Went with the job. There was nobody willing to share my bed, lavish me with their love, and drive me crazy with their touch. Well, sometimes a fellow trucker tried to hit it off with me, but I’d given up on dating boys back in school. I didn’t associate with males. I’d never given much thought to my own orientation, but when it came down to it, I always imagined being with a woman. However, you could count the opportunities I’d had on the fingers of one hand. Even if you worked in a sawmill. I had a few toys to take care of the occasional need, but they were a poor substitute for the elusive real thing.

Yet another reason to hate what I did. Like I needed more.

Then I had a bright idea. I’d place rainbow stickers next to Tiny’s door handles. I frequently gave hitch-hikers a lift, so I had somebody to talk to. Maybe, just maybe, I’d come upon a dyke hiker (would that make her a “hyker”?). Not very likely, but if that happened, she might as well “read the signs”.

Of course, I had to order the stickers online since I had no time to attend something like a gay pride parade. And, naturally, they were delivered to my home address, and so I had almost forgotten my order when, two months later, I had Tiny in for an overhaul at the place where I’d worked before becoming self-employed and paid a rare visit to my “home”.

Several months’ worth of mail had been neatly stacked on my desk by the lady who looked after my apartment in my absence. Even though she discarded things like special offers from a nearby super market and the like, obviously of no use to me, most was a waste of paper. No, I did not want to take the latest model from Vauxhall for a spin. Besides, the not-to-be-passed-up opportunity was six weeks in the past. Piles of balance sheets from my bank, while not exactly wastepaper, taxed even my compulsion to read.

On the positive side, there was a picture postcard from my sister, who had moved to down under and seemed to be happy enough to live on a diet of steaks and Foster’s. Then I came across the almost forgotten rainbow stickers. I put them on with a wry grin, anyway, when I got Tiny back two days later. Now that I had them, I might as well use them, even though it seemed a little childish.

The next day I boarded the ferry to Rotterdam, Netherlands, to take on a trailer for Arnhem, which would cover the expenses of deadheading to Cologne, Germany, where I was booked for a long haul.

* * *

I stopped at a restaurant to take a prescribed break. Visions of steak-and-kidney pie with green peas (whatever did they do to peas on the Continent to make them look so pale?) vanished at the sight of the Wiener schnitzel before me.

“’tschuldigung, fahren Sie Richtung Süden?”

Even though I preferred the autoroutes in France to the Autobahns in Germany (the police there were a little too “gründlich” for my taste), I’d been there often enough to pick up a few phrases of German. When I looked up, I saw a woman, perhaps a little younger than I was, standing beside my table. “If you were asking if I was headed south, yes, I am,” I said. “Sorry, my Deutsch doesn’t amount to much.” I gave her a quick once-over.

Five foot eight, around one hundred and ten pounds, clad in blue jeans, a loose, vee-neck sweater in lavender colours, and off-white trainers greeted my view. She wore her blonde hair short, and her smile reflected in her eyes. Nice.

“I wonder if you’d be willing to give me a lift.” She switched to English without apparent effort. Hardly a trace of German accent.

“Sure, I like company. So, if you’re not in too much of a hurry―I’ll have to pick up a trailer in Cologne―I can take you all the way to Sicily, or you can get off somewhere along the way.”

Her eyes lit up some more. “Oh, cool! Makes my day, it really does. I’m Rita, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Rita. I’m Stella. And that,” I indicated my truck through the restaurant window, “is Tiny, your trusty means of transportation for the next few days, unless you’re getting second thoughts.”

Her eyes widened a little at the sight of my monster, but at the same time her smile grew wider. “Tiny? I think I like your sense of humour.”

I grinned, delighted by her frankness. “Let me finish this,” I gestured at my plate, “and have a cup of coffee, then we’ll get going.”

“Okay, but I’m buying. Least I can do.”

I watched her move to the counter, then return with two steaming mugs and sit down at my table.

“So, what do you do when you’re not hitching a ride across the Continent? You don’t look like a schoolgirl on her holidays, and unless I’m mistaken, it’s not the season anyway.”

She laughed. “Schoolgirl! No, that’s been some time. I’m a freelance programmer who has decided to take some time out to refill her batteries. I have no fixed schedule, and I might well take you up on your offer to take me to Sicily.”

After I had finished my meal, she retrieved her backpack from a locker room, and we walked up to Tiny. As she reached out for the door, she slowed down a little, looked at me over her shoulder, and said, “Oh, you’re family?” She arched one eyebrow, which made her expression really cute.

Aaarrgh! Those stupid stickers! Even though Rita’s question indicated that she might be gay as well, I felt heat rise to my face. “Ummh ... I guess you could call me that,” I managed to get out of my suddenly very dry mouth. To cover my bewilderment, I climbed into my seat, patted Tiny’s dashboard, and said, “Tiny, meet Rita.”

“Enchantée, Tiny.” She patted the dashboard, too, and did not even try to hide her amusement at my suffused face.

I pressed the starter button, then pulled from the parking lot out onto the A3, glad I had something to occupy myself with until I could regain my composure.

Meanwhile Rita studied the interior of Tiny’s cabin, the small bouquets of silk flowers, dark red, blue, and white, that I had fixed to the dashboard and the window frames. John Collier’s picture of Lilith with the serpent entwined around her body on the visor. “Hey, I’ve been inside a few trucks, but yours is the nicest I have seen so far.”

“Glad you like it. I spend so much time in here, I might as well make it cosy.” My nerves still tingling, I was glad to show her my small fridge and the electric kettle that I used to prepare tea. “I also have a gas cooker for when I can’t stand restaurant food any longer. In fact, you are looking at the grand master of improvised stews. I believe they’ve not yet put up my portrait on Wikipedia, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Her laugh had a lovely ring to it. She pointed to a padded pigeon-hole next to the glove compartment. “You carry a netbook around?”

“Oh, sure I do.” I proceeded to tell her about my fascination with reading and how that little machine had solved my library problems. “I can also use email and access the contract pool, but aside from that, I’m a complete idiot with computers. I had the shop set it up for me.”

“So you use hotspots for access?”

Hotspots? Oh, I remembered. “No, I’ve been advised not to. They told me that you only have those in larger cities, and with me roaming all over Europe, I’d be better off with a satellite connection. It’s supposed to be rather slow, but since I use it for mail and online reading only, it should be sufficient. So far, I’ve had no reason to complain.”

She grinned. “You know, it’s not actually a satellite. They use the cell-phone net. But that might indeed use a satellite to connect.” She dug around in her backpack and produced a little computer much like mine, only hers was pink.

“Oh, I didn’t know that you could get them in different colours. Mine, as you can see, is boringly black. But why do you have one with you? You told me that you are a programmer, but why take work with you when you want to get away from it?”

“Much the same reasons as you, mail and online reading, mainly. Hey, show me the sites you visit, and I’ll show you mine!”

Her grin had something salty to it, and it took me some control to agree with a straight face. Meanwhile Cologne was coming up, and I told her that she was welcome to use the 220-V socket to recharge the batteries of her netbook in case they were running low.

She accepted with a smile.

I went over to the office and worked my way through the documents to clear me for taking the trailer to Sicily. Two hours later I had unwound the red tape, and inspection of the trailer hadn’t come up with any nasty surprises. You wouldn’t believe what kind of life-threatening junk you were handed at times: worn tyres, haywire electrics, brakes working only on one side. On more than one occasion I had declined to take the contraption out on the road. That had caused a mighty stink, because I had insisted on being paid expenses at least, the sad state of the trailer not being my fault.

When I finally returned, Rita was firmly asleep, her hands folded under her head on the headrest as a make-do pillow. I hated to, but I had to wake her up; if I needed to suddenly brake, she’d be thrown around like a rag doll. Her smile, as she opened her eyes, made my heart miss a beat.

I had the CB radio on by habit. Not that I’d be able to follow the babble in German. It caught my attention, though, when someone mentioned “Kind” and “Standstreifen” and Rita took a sharp breath. I looked at her, and she translated, “There seems to be a child playing on the emergency lane ...,” she listened some more, “somewhere beyond Limburg Nord.”

“Shoot, that’s the next exit!”

Traffic was quite dense. Already, impatient drivers were overtaking slower cars on the right lane, ignoring the risk of a collision. If that happened in the kid’s vicinity ... I had to do something about this. I handed Rita the microphone, pulled into the second lane, and accelerated. When we were even with the truck to our right, I gestured the driver that we wanted to speak.

He reached for his microphone. “Wegen dem Kind?”

Rita asked, “How do I operate this?”

“Just press the button when you want to speak.”

“Ja, genau. Augenblick ... ”

“Tell him we’ll try to block the road when we see the kid.”

“Können wir die Bahn blockieren, wenn wir das Kind sehen?”

“Machen wir. Sag deiner Pilotin, ich bremse jetzt ab. Denkt an den Warnblinker!”

“He’s going to slow down now, and we shouldn’t forget the ... emergency signals? Blinkers?”

I’d already switched on the hazard lights. We slowed to about twenty miles per hour, and before long, Rita pointed. “There!”

We brought the trucks to a stop. Rita hopped out, walked over to the girl who watched the trucks with wide eyes, and took her by the hand, talking to her in quiet tones.

Behind us some idiot was blaring his horn, obviously under the impression that we were doing this as a practical joke. Jeez.

Rita lifted the little girl into the cabin, and we started rolling again.

“Guten Flug!” That was from the fellow who had helped stop the traffic.

Rita looked a little puzzled.

I grinned at her. “No, we’re not going to lift off. That was just German trucker slang for ‘Have a good trip’.”

On our way to the next police station, Rita befriended the little girl, Elise, who seemed to take a liking to playing truck driver and had no idea of the danger she had been in. When we handed her over to the authorities, the officers looked like they were torn between applauding our action and being irritated at our “Eingriff” in the running traffic. You see why I prefer the French autoroutes?