“Thank you, I’ll take the rental.” I tucked my phone away and let out a sigh as the clerk called Clayton.
“Hey, Clay-baby, it’s Shelly. I got one for you,” she announced in a sweet, honey voice.
Clay-baby? Wow.
I’d known a lot of women just like her in my old hometown. Sweet as sugar and soft as a pussycat.
That was a mold I’d never fit in myself, which probably explained why I’d gone runningfromthe hills shortly after my eighteenth birthday.
Give me a big city over a small town any day of the week.
After Shelly got off the phone, she scribbled directions on a piece of paper and slid it across the counter.
“Thank you for making those arrangements,” I told her.
“Sure thing, honey. And don’t worry about Clayton. He’s all bark and no bite.”
Great.
As I headed towards the door, I looked at the directions she’d scrawled for me. “Take the main road north about four miles, then turn left at the crooked oak. You’ll see a dirt road. Follow it until you see the bent mailbox on the right.”
Turn left at the crooked oak.Of course.Because street signs were apparently too civilized for this place.
This is temporary.I reminded myself as I left the cozy lodge interior and headed out into the storm.Just one night.
My motto in life was that I could handle anything for just one day.
It was what kept me moving forward when life got to be too much.
Standing at the front door of the cozy lodge, I hesitated. The rain was really pelting down now, and I didn’t have an umbrella. It had gotten lost along with my luggage earlier today.
I ran for my rental car, but by the time I got into it, I was already soaked through. Water dripped from my hair onto my blazer, and my carefully pressed blouse clung to my skin in a way that made me want to cry.
The day had started early and left me exhausted.
The twelve to sixteen-hour days were starting to wear on me.
I’d started the morning on an early four a.m. flight out of a tiny speck of a town in Indiana. Then landed in Chicago for an early morning interview before flying into Tulsa and putting in a full day of claims inspections.
The day had ended with me driving through a rainstorm deep into the Ozarks to another tiny speck of a town.
Which is how I found myself on Red Oak Mountain going to stay in a rental best described as turn-left-at-the-crooked-oak.
All I wanted to do was curl up in a nice, clean hotel bathtub and get warm again before collapsing in bed.
But the best I’d be hoping for tonight was a warm bed. I cranked up the heat and followed the directions, watching the town lights fade in my rearview mirror.
As the road narrowed, trees pressed in on both sides, their bare branches showing buds but no leaves. Spring was coming, but it wasn’t quite here yet.
When my headlights shone on a crooked oak, I almost missed the turn. I slammed on my brakes and took the turn.
The dirt road was more mud than dirt, and the rental car protested every bump and rut.
I passed a handful of rusted mailboxes and houses that could use a fresh coat of paint, as I fought off the urge to turn around.
But none of the mailboxes were bent.
Then I saw it.
