Fender Bender Blues (3 page)

“No, I haven’t been sleeping well. Yes, I do need a vacation. No, I did not eat breakfast,” he answered and flipped through the mail. Most of it was junk.

“I’ll order you a sandwich,” she told him. “A little early for lunch but it will be good for you. You aren’t taking care of yourself.”

He stared at the door after she left. Maybe she was right. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a break from work.

“Five years,” he muttered. Just after he’d opened the new dealership. He didn’t have time to vacation. There was too much on his plate.

Craig threw all of his time into his business, thus a nonexistent personal life. But was he happy? His doubts perplexed him. Never before had he questioned his happiness. To him, happiness had always been measured by his success. But how could a man who took no vacations, had no woman to share his life with, really be happy? Craig practically lived at work and ate most of his meals sitting at his office desk. He’d never complained about it before.

He shook his head to snap out of the uncharacteristic thoughts.

Successful, wealthy and respected by his peers—
Of course I’m happy.

Chapter Three

Rach hadn’t always been a loser. There had been a time not so long ago when she’d been on the right track, following the plan, checking off accomplishments as she went, fully satisfied with the direction she’d chosen in life. She’d been what most would call uptight, high-strung, and career driven. Never before had she regretted not living the exciting life of keg-stands and frat parties. There’d been no time for that nonsense.

After college she’d taken an entry level position as a social worker’s assistant, eager to learn all she could. After two years as an assistant, Rach’s supervisor offered her a social worker position for the state. Rach took her job seriously, wanting to change lives and make a difference in the world. She was on the job just over three years, thoroughly confident in her career choice and loving every stressful minute of it. All that changed the day an angry mother knocked Rach out cold. She shivered with the memory. Even after four months it unnerved her. Rach’s loved ones assumed she left her job because of fear and she’d never corrected their assumptions. They wouldn’t have understood the real reason.

She was overwhelmed by guilt. Rach had been reluctant to allow a five-year-old girl and a three-year-old boy to transition back into the home of their mother, a recovering alcoholic. The woman had jumped through all the hoops, went to all the counseling, passed all the drug tests. Rach was the only one who didn’t feel comfortable with the transition. She should have trusted her instincts. It could have been the little ones on the floor instead of Rach, unconscious because of their mother’s rage. It terrified her.

Two hours after leaving Copy Masters, Rach was utterly deflated. She’d been offered a job from a pimply, teenage boy who had proudly announced the position would pay a measly eight dollars an hour. A photocopy assistant was not her dream job. Not even close. But she’d taken it anyway because she needed to make something in order to pay her bills.

Eight dollars an hour was for high school teenagers working in fast food, not for adults with a Bachelor’s degree and five years of work history under the belt. What about her pride? What about moving on to bigger and better things?

Sitting at the desk in the spare room of her townhome, she sighed. She fixed a typo on her résumé and pondered at how truly shitty her life had turned out for all the planning she’d done to avoid this kind of setback. Here she was at twenty-seven years old, with a degree that was useless unless she went back to social work. Her car was wrecked and she’d accepted the least rewarding job thus far. Surely things couldn’t get any worse than they already were.
Right?

Tapping her fingernails on the desk, she knew what she had to do. She needed wheels and there was only one place she could go for that—her parents’ garage. Picking up the phone, she took a deep breath and made the call.

****

Susan Bennett began hyperventilating when Rach told her about the car accident. Eventually she’d calmed down enough for Rach to explain she was fine, though her car was not. The difference between the lecture she’d been given by Angry Hot Guy and the one she was enduring now from her mom was that she couldn’t cut it short and drive away.

The rant went on for five more minutes before her mom’s air supply deflated and she calmed down enough to say, “Well, I hope you’ll think about your life now that you almost died.”

Because Rach was an only child, there was no one else to help balance out the overprotective tendencies of her parents. She tried not to let it bother her—at least she was loved—but she couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes to the ceiling. A cobweb in the corner caught her attention. With all her free time there was no excuse not to take care of it.

“It was just a fender bender, hardly a life and death situation,” Rach stressed. She stuffed a résumé into an envelope addressed to a local staffing agency and licked the lip to seal it. She scrunched her nose at the tacky taste left on her tongue. A sudden idea of inventing envelopes with grape flavored seals made her perk with excitement—but if she’d thought of it then someone else no doubt already had. Her shoulders slumped a little. Plus, she wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to go about inventing anything, anyway.
But the internet would know...

Rach grabbed a pen and wrote in rushed, sloppy cursive “grape flav env” on a utility bill. She’d look into it later.

“I don’t see the difference,” her mom complained.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know I found a job today.” Before her mom could comment, she rushed to tell her about the position. “I’ll have my own office. It’ll be great. A real opportunity to establish myself with a great company.”

She didn’t feel wonderful about embellishing to the point of fabrication, but knowing it would go a long way in soothing her mom’s nerves helped to justify the act. The last few months had been hard on her parents. They were worried about her and she hated being a constant stress in their lives.

“It’s about time you fix your employment status. Now I can tell that Tina Krcilek at ceramics that you’re running an office. All we ever hear about is Stephanie the Nurse, Stephanie the Perfect Mom, Stephanie the Chamber of Commerce Board Member, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

Rach bit her tongue.

“You are so lucky you didn’t drop your insurance,” her mom rambled on. “Your father’s been telling you for years you’d need it and look what happened. He was right. Your father always is.” There was a slight pause before she added, “But don’t tell him that, I’ll have to hear about it for hours.”

The hand on the clock ticked forward while she impatiently tapped a pencil eraser on the pine desk. She’d been on the phone for twenty minutes while her mom danced around the reason Rach called in the first place, something she was a pro at.

“Yes, Mom, I know this. Can I borrow the Toronado? I just need it for a week, maybe two. Just until I get my car back. It needs to go to a shop ASAP.” Rach clicked the print button on the computer. She waited while the machine did its thing, her eyes drifting back to the note she’d just written. She was certain grape flavored envelopes would be a success. At least ninety percent of the American population had to love that flavor. There was probably a statistic on it she could find.

She picked up the fresh résumé and wondered how much different a big machine would be from a little printer. Pinching her brows together, she considered it. She’d never been in charge of making fliers or cards before, but it couldn’t be too difficult.
Piece of cake, I’ll be awesome at it.

“You know how your dad is about that car,” her mom cautioned.

“Yes, Mom. And I promise to be super careful with it.” Rach snatched up the last résumé from the printer tray and set it in the pile on the corner of her desk.

Rach’s dad owned a 1975 Oldsmobile Toronado with a 455 Rocket V8. It was a monster with roaring dual exhaust, impressive even to Rach’s ears despite the ugly exterior. The car drove like a boat, the front end so long that even she, at five-foot-ten-inches tall, had hard time peering over the hood. But it had power windows and power steering and she was in need of wheels. She was in no position to be picky.

“I know you will be, Sweetie. I’m not worried at all. That darn thing takes up half the garage unless he’s pulling it out to wax it or take it to those car club meetings of his,” her mom complained and Rach listened dutifully. “You know, I tried to get him to sell it a hundred times but he says it’s a classic. A classic—
ha
!”

The whole I-hate-your-father’s-car spiel was not a new grievance, but telling her so wouldn’t earn Rach any points.

“When are you coming to get it?”

“Tomorrow.” The familiar sound of a thwack on her mom’s end made Rach perk up. “Are you making fried chicken?”

It was her dad’s favorite. He was convinced his wife’s fried chicken was so amazing because she made it from a whole chicken, as if the grocery store butcher somehow tainted the poultry. Rach didn’t argue with his logic. She’d never tasted fried chicken like her mom’s, and if it was because the bird was cut up on the aged laminate countertop, then she was all for at-home butchery.

“Yes, your father has been bugging me for a week to make it for him.”

“That sounds so good.” Rach sighed, wishing she hadn’t already made plans with Leah. “I’ll be over in the morning for the car. Maybe you can follow me to the body shop and then I can take you home.”

There was an audible gasp and Rach pictured her mom clutching the front of her grease-spattered apple-print apron with chicken-goobered hands.

“I’m not driving that car,” she scoffed. There was another thwack. “I’ll send your father. He’s always looking for things to do.”

She was right. Rach’s dad was bored in retirement.

“The car’s really not that bad, Mom.”

“I’m sure that comment will please your father. I’ll pass it on. Will you be over for supper? I’m making cornbread,” she bribed. Enticing Rach with food always worked.

Reluctantly, Rach declined. “Not tonight, Mom. I’m supposed to meet Leah in thirty minutes and I still have to let Tally out to potty before I leave. Save me leftovers, though. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

She loped down the stairs and went to the kitchen closet, pulling out the necessary tools for doggy poo clean-up. Tally, her blonde golden retriever puppy, hopped around the kitchen, tail wagging a million miles an hour in anticipation of outside fun.

Rach tried for her most stern look. “Listen up, Tally. If we don’t want Mrs. Petska outside hounding us, you’d better be on your best behavior. That means no loud barking. You got that?”

Letting out a few sharp barks, she turned in excited circles and dropped her front legs to the floor, head low, ready to play.

“Well, that won’t do, you’ll need to tone it down a bit.” She opened the door to let Tally outside. “We’ll just make this real quick.”

Rach groaned when her golden retriever turned a circle and went full squat in Mrs. Petska’s front yard. For some reason the puppy had gotten into the habit of leaving her waste directly beneath a birdhouse hanging from the large elm in her neighbor’s yard. Though Mrs. Petska’s suggestion to send Tally to the backyard was reasonable, Rach hated to confine the carefree puppy in the tiny back yard with a patch of grass the size of a sofa.

The week before, Mrs. Petska had taken one look at a day-old pile of poop and hastened to pound on Rach’s front door, informing her, “The world isn’t one large shit hole for dogs!” And she was right. Rach was very diligent in cleaning up after the puppy, but on that particular morning she’d been late for an interview and left the task for later. After a disappointing day of job hunting, she’d forgotten about the mess. No amount of apologizing had calmed the woman and now Rach was in avoidance mode.

Crouching down, she swiftly scooped the still warm waste into the baggie, tying the knot in a clumsy rush. Rach planted a palm into the cold, damp grass, Mrs. Petska’s on-the-clock afternoon watering having just completed, and pushed to her feet. The bang of a door made her jump and she spun around. Mrs. Petska stormed outside with flushed cheeks. Gray hair stood up in stiff curls on the top of her head as if she’d been rudely interrupted from removing hot rollers. The woman shielded her eyes against the late afternoon sun, taking in the sight of Rach and Tally on her side of the lawn, uninvited.

Rach waved the pooper scooper and the warm baggie in the air to stop the lecture on the tip of Mrs. Petska’s tongue. “Got it, Mrs. Petska! Hope you’re having a great day!”

Then Rach rushed past the grumpy old woman standing in the middle of their adjoined porch. She shut the front door quickly so her neighbor wouldn’t have a chance to sneak in a complaint. Tally wandered off to the kitchen in search of dog food, and Rach called after her, “I feel like you don’t even appreciate what I go through, all in the name of your potty freedom!”

She dropped the bag of poop in the dumpster in the backyard then grabbed a light jacket off her coat stand by the front door. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t you dare chew on the coffee table while I’m gone.”

Chapter Four

Rach pulled to a hissing stop and stared in awe at the pale yellow two-story home sitting on the corner lot. Four white columns lined the front porch and a three-car garage stood off to the side, attached by a breezeway. The house of her dreams with a ridiculous price tag.