Chapter 2: Jordan

I disconnected and squared my shoulders, determined not to be beaten by the weather—at least on day one. I wasn’t sure if global warming had suddenly taken a bad turn or if this kind of humidity was normal out here.

Nearing the top of the hill, I spotted the sign that advertised Frank’s. I regarded the garage critically and decided that, although he might be a nice guy, Ford O’Neal definitely used the term “garage” loosely. This place was one windstorm away from a pile of lumber.

The roof sagged but only in the middle, like the weight of the center was too much and had bowed it into a pathetic half-moon shape. The red paint—now faded to a not unpleasant shade of rust—was peeling and, from the looks of it, had been applied directly to untreated wood nailed to the front as a finishing layer. A couple of small windows, too murky to see anything through, were cut into the front on either side of the doorway, which was barred only by a thin screen on hinges. Was “summer camp” the architectural theme in Grayson County?

A bay door was open around the corner, but I couldn’t see inside from where I stood. And I probably didn’t need to. No way was I letting this place anywhere near my car, deceased or not.

Banging sounded from inside the garage followed closely by the whir of a power tool of some kind. I flinched at the sudden noise cutting through the silence of midday. Damn, it was even too hot for insects and birds to disturb the air.

And where were the townspeople? Didn’t places like this have a lot of pedestrians out and about? Where were the nosy old ladies and men chewing on hay or whatever?

My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, scolding me for that last one. But I couldn’t help it. All of the small town stereotypes I’d ever seen in movies were already coming true and I hadn’t been here ten minutes.

The power tool went suddenly silent and I caught the sound of a low buzzing coming from the other end of the shack. I searched and my eyes lit up. A window AC unit hung from a sad wooden frame, the glass propped open by the boxed machine itself. A steady drip-drip of water fell from the bottom where the condensation gathered.

Cool air. Inside. Dammit, they had me.

I walked up to the screen door and, with a screechy tug on the metal handle, I pulled it open and stepped inside.

Two things hit me at once. The first was the lazy whine of country music leaking from an honest-to-God boom box behind the counter that had probably been a nice system in 1987. The second was the God-blessed air-conditioning.

For a moment I just stood there, soaking in the reprieve of cool air as it washed over my bare legs from ankle to thigh. I contemplated pulling my shorts up a few more inches just to let the air touch my skin. This is why those cowgirls all wear booty shorts.

“She’s only sexy when she’s saaaad…” More startling than the sudden addition of a man’s voice to the faded lyrics on the radio was finding him standing bent over the front counter, a toothpick dangling from his lips and his sharp though aging eyes trained on me. I stopped tugging on the hem of my shorts.

“Can I help ya?” he asked.

“Um, my car died on the way into town. I ran into Ford O’Neal? He told me to come find Frank, see about getting it looked at?”

“Ford sent you, huh?” He grunted in a way that confused me whether it was even a question. I nodded and we blinked at each other. The gray hairs sprinkled in at his temples moved with the pull of skin around his eyes. Something in his expression softened, minutely friendlier. Not that it had been hostile before but … curious. Nosy. That was it.

Damn small towns. Mom had always warned me.

I looked around at the otherwise empty front office area. We were surrounded by low shelves of oil and a couple random tires but otherwise, not a soul to be seen.

“Are you Frank?” I pressed when the man didn’t say anything else. “Or is that a euphemism for your brand of service?”

The man let out a short laugh, rolling the toothpick along his bottom lip as his mouth hung open. “I’m Frank, in the flesh. I can take a look at your vehicle, Miss…?”

“Jordan. No miss. Just Jordan. And that’d be great. It’s parked just down the hill.”

He eyed me critically. The toothpick rolled back and forth between his lips. “Lemme grab some bottled water. Then we’ll go.”

Okay, not nosy. Just perceptive.

Frank returned, tossed me a bottle of water, and led the way down the hill. “Thanks,” I said, hurrying to follow him while uncapping the water. I downed over half the contents before coming up for air.

“You from around here?” Frank asked, and underneath the amiable tone was that same curiosity again.

“Nope.”

He waited but I didn’t elaborate. And he didn’t press it.

I looked around as we walked. Just like on the way up, no one was about on the plank sidewalks although there were several cars parked at the gravel curb. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Staying inside where it’s cool if they’re smart,” Frank grumbled. A sheen of sweat already lined his brow. He wiped it aside and took a swig of water.

“Aren’t they used to it by now?” I asked.

“Humidity is a funny beast. You never quite get used to it,” he said and I didn’t disagree. “But, you’re right, most everyone’s down at the fairgrounds today on the other side of town. Strawberry Fest this weekend.”

He didn’t look nearly as old now that he was moving around, just weathered. Tough. Maybe my dad’s age. The similarities made the space behind my eyes sting. That made twice in ten minutes. Get it together, Jordan.