"Heaven-Sent"by Ann Lawrence from PARADISE July 1999 Buy the book now at Amazon |
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Chapter 2
Jack checked his dashboard clock--three a.m. He rubbed his eyes. Exhaustion was a place he'd passed about ten miles back. On either side of him, the land stretched dark as pitch beyond the small businesses and houses that sat immediately on the road. To stay awake he read billboards, both Biblical and beer.
He swallowed a yawn. He needed a motel--any motel. Kinzers' firehouse advertised a sauerkraut sale. He shuddered and drove on.
"Where the hell am I?" he asked aloud. As if in answer, a signpost loomed up before him.
Blue Ball 15 miles. Intercourse 6 miles. Paradise 5 miles.
"Great. What I'm feeling, what I'm missing, and the last place I want to be," he muttered.
A few miles later, up a low hill, on the left, he saw a pulsing light. It mesmerized him. Across from it, a southern plantation style building proclaimed Paradise Elementary School. He pulled into its horseshoe drive and faced the pulsing light.
The Strike Zone.
"This one's right up my alley, all right, Mike. I guess the joke's on me."
The bowling alley drew him like Cooperstown drew baseball fans. Without question or further thought, he coasted his car across the road and into the gravel lot. He got out and leaned against his car to stretch his cramped leg muscles. It was hot as Hades in Paradise--a thought he didn't want to dwell on. The need to go in was as strong as the smell of manure on the air.
A furtive sound rustled off to the left. He peered into the dark. The hair on his nape itched. He imagined a ghostly monster leaping out of the corn stalks. Something about the size of a mouse ran out instead. He took a deep breath.
Too much imagination, too much Stephen King. Too much quiet.
With great longing, he looked back at the dark stripe of road that rose over the hill and disappeared. New York and Boston seemed worlds away.
He locked his car and set the alarm. The bowling alley's door swung open with a gentle nudge and he stepped into a small lobby area, lit only by the colored lights from a row of video arcade games. A peculiar smell, a blend of wood polish and cigarettes and . . . bowling stuff, wafted to him.
He walked into the dark main room filled with the lanes. The orange and turquoise color scheme reminded him of his Aunt Katherine's living room. A hand-lettered sign proclaimed tonight Fifties Night, with nickel sodas and fifty-cent games.
Soft music floated around the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Far away, at the end of the two dozen or so lanes, a light gleamed on polished wood. The light did not draw him, the vision poised at the head of the lane did.
She stood very still, a pink bowling ball pressed to her chest. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, but the vision remained. Her black full skirt shifted like a bell as she paced forward. In a clunk and a whoosh, the bowling ball left her hand and ran down the lane. He watched it carom off the pins, scattering them. A strike.
He clapped.
She whirled about, one hand to her chest. His eyes went there. Soft--a pink, fuzzy sweater dream. He took in her long blonde ponytail, her rhinestone eyeglass frames, and wanted to pinch himself. If not for the sign advertising Fifties Night, he'd have thought he'd stepped back in time.
"We're closed." She came forward, stepping from the pool of light into the shadows. A large pink poodle with a glittery leash graced one side of her skirt. She reached out for a bowling ball and held it loosely at her side. He realized she held it like a weapon.
"I'm sorry to disturb you." Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts and tried not to look like an evil despoiler of women. "I'm lost." It wasn't a complete lie. He was lost when it came to pretty girls in poodle skirts.
She smiled. Her shoulders, rigid in her soft, clingy sweater set, relaxed. Carefully, she placed the ball back on the rack. "Where are you supposed to be?"
Getting laid. In New York. "Whatever motel is open."
"Oh, dear." She plucked off the ludicrous glasses suspended from a chain of pearls and dropped them to her chest.
Jack forced himself not to follow their journey. Instead he examined her face. Deep set eyes, perfectly arched brows, smooth skin and a stubborn chin. Her platinum blonde ponytail with just the right touch of dark roots tantalized the hedonist in him.
I'm in lust, Jack thought.
"Oh, dear," she repeated. "I doubt there's a vacancy in town. Colleen Ryan and Steve Trader are getting married this weekend. Every room's probably taken. Are you here for the wedding?" She tipped her head to the side and looked up at him.
Jack had a firm policy about weddings--he never attended them. After all, he wasn't going to have one of his own. "Sorry. I don't know the happy couple." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll just head back toward Kinzers. I saw an intersection with gas stations and fast food--"
"I know!" she interrupted. "The Good and Plenty Bed and Breakfast! Mrs. Bickley might have a room open. She's not partial to wedding crowds." Then her face fell. "Unfortunately, she turns out the lights by ten. You'll be in big trouble if you try to wake her up now."
"Something deadly in my cappuccino?"
"More likely no ice cream with your shoo fly pie."
They laughed together like old friends.
"I'm Jack Ryan, by the way--no relation to Colleen, the happy bride." He held out his hand.
Her small hand fit snugly into his. He wanted to reel her into his arms. Music, a familiar melody made for close dancing, played in the background. An Elvis tune, something slow and haunting about a whippoorwill--the kind of song that made women cry.
He shook her hand and quickly released it before he did something rash, before he forgot his mission. He must be really tired. This was not a sophisticated u-wear model like Cheryl, this was a country girl.
"I'm Tuesday Evans."
"Tuesday?" He smiled. Somehow the name went with the garb.
She smiled back at him. Dimples. Deep ones.
"My mother saw this movie once, and ever after wished to be Tuesday Weld. Naming me after her was the next best thing. You're better off driving on, I think. Once you're out of Paradise, you'll find plenty of motels."
He couldn't leave Paradise. Not until he got a lead on Elvis, anyway. "Isn't there any place I can go around here? I'm almost too tired to drive."
"I might be able to fix you up at my place, if you're not too fussy."
Her place! He almost swallowed his tongue. He'd found heaven in Paradise.
"Come on." She gestured him after her. Beneath the hem of her gently swaying skirt, her trim calves rose from a froth of lace-edged ankle socks and shoes with a number 8 on the back. He imagined nibbling on her toes--at her place.
"Back off, buddy," he said to himself as he waited by the long Formica counter that ran across one side of the room. One end of the counter appeared to be a cafe with stools, the near end held an old-fashioned cash register.
She walked behind the business end and changed her shoes. When she rounded the counter again, she wore black and white saddle shoes. She flicked a switch. The room fell dark. The only light left, that of the video games near the entrance, pulsed red and placed a luscious gleam on her full lips.
"You're from Boston, aren't you?" she said, leading the way through the door and locking it behind him.
He gestured to the Massachusetts plates on his car that sat alone in the gravel lot. "Yes. I'm originally from South Boston. Where's your car?"
"Oh, I walked here. I'm just down the road. It's really a zoo at the Strike Zone on Fifties Night so sometimes I help out."
He raised his keyring and pressed the button to unlock the car. The lights went on, the horn sounded. In a panic, he hit the other buttons on his remote. The trunk popped up. The horn continued to blare, shattering the still night. He pointed the remote at the car and frantically punched buttons with his thumb. Tuesday snatched the keyring from him. The doors opened. The car fell silent. The lights went off.
"I just bought it," he said lamely.
"No kidding." She shook her head, her hand extended, the remote offered. "Who'd you think would steal your car out here, in the middle of a cornfield? A cow?" Her eyes twinkled with amusement. "I think it might be safer if we walk to my place." She examined him from head to toe in a manner that elevated his temperature. "Who knows, you might be a dangerous criminal." Her bantering tone told him she didn't view him as such.
Jack pulled his suitcase from the trunk, closed it firmly, and reset the alarm. "Trust me, I'm harmless." He donned his safest smile. "Lead on."
He felt energized. He could walk a country mile if Tuesday Evans led the way. Her scent, something light and floral, drifted to him as they walked along the shoulder of the road. "I can't believe how dark it is out here."
"That's because you're in Amish country. Many of the farms here don't have electricity, and farmers rise early. They've been in bed for hours."
The thought of being in bed reminded him of Cheryl's parting shot when he'd broken their date. "Strike three, Jack. You're out." The memory made him set his mouth in a grim line. This posse work for heaven really cut deep.
"We're in the middle of nowhere," he said.
"No, we're in Paradise."
They walked in a companionable silence for only a few blocks back in the direction he'd come from. "Here we are." She stopped at a white building. It bore a small sign: Paradise Classic Cars. The converted barn gleamed with fresh paint and glossy red trim.
So much for her place. She unlocked a garage door and hefted the door up in a lithe motion that demonstrated a supple athleticism. He loved a fit woman.
She disappeared for a moment. Light flooded the interior. A row of what used to be animal stalls of some sort stood to his right. Each held a car. He recognized a 1957 Chevrolet Belaire. His grandfather still drove one. A rusty Mustang filled another stall, and half out of one poked a long boat with fins--a 1960-something Cadillac. On the walls, large posters of cars from hot rods to old Thunderbirds rubbed shoulders with the obligatory modern insurance warnings.
He gave a low whistle. "This place is yours?"
She nodded and flicked on the lights. "There's an empty room upstairs. I used to rent it to my mechanic, but he's gone now--ran off with Miss Pennsylvania Dairymaid. Would you like to see it?"
He followed Tuesday up the stairs. He loved the lacy socks. Or maybe he loved the graceful legs, or the trim ankles. He pulled himself up short. Country girl, country girl, he reminded himself.
The hot airless room contained a single bed made with a military precision. It looked like heaven at that moment. "This will be fine." He plunked his case on the foot of the bed.
She drew the drapes and turned on the air-conditioner. Its low hum filled the air. "Mrs. Bickley will be up at dawn. You can find her by driving straight along Lincoln Highway to Nirvana Street. She has the beautiful brick building on the corner. Just lock the door on your way out. Bathroom's through here." She opened a door to a closet-sized bathroom complete with a stall shower.
For a moment, their business concluded, they stood awkwardly before each other. "So, what brings you to Paradise?" she asked, twisting her glasses about on the chain.
"I write free-lance articles. I'm doing an Elvis piece."
She stiffened. Her eyes grew round. Green eyes. As green as the grass in Fenway's infield. "Elvis?"
In an instant, the room's temperature plunged to sub-zero.
"Sure." Jack said, puzzled by her change in demeanor. "He's always a popular topic. I'm going to profile folks who actually claim Elvis is still alive. I'm looking for an Opal Dinkman. Maybe you can help me? Do you know her?"
"No. Now, I have to go." Without an explanation or a good-bye, she darted from the room.
"Thank you, Miss Evans," he said, and hurried after her as she ran down the stairs.
She waved a negligent hand at him. Before he could say another word, she raised the garage door and slipped under it. She brought it down behind her with a bang.
Jack retreated up the stairs. He stripped and slipped between the sheets. The air-conditioner cranked a blast of cool air at him. It did nothing to dispel the smell of oil and hot metal from below. He punched the lumpy pillow and tried to banish the sight of Miss Tuesday Evans from his mind. The image of her, poised in a pool of light at the bowling alley, haunted him. But the frost of her departure cooled his ardor more than the overzealous air-conditioner.
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