Page 68 of Next Season
“Yeah. He does.”
“Then…maybe you can find a way,” she said wistfully.
“Maybe. Are the kids excited for Christmas?” Okay, not the smoothest topic change ever, but Tara went with it.
We talked for a few minutes until I admitted I was parked on the side of the road and the clouds ahead were looking dark and ominous.
“Oh, shoot! Sorry. Keep driving. I’ll talk to you later. Just…I love you, okay?”
“Love you too, Tar.”
I disconnected the call and checked my rearview mirror before pulling onto the road.
A couple of hours later, I veered into the rental return at the airport and began gathering my belongings while a dour middle-aged man with thick glasses wet from the weather made notes on aStar Trek-looking tricorder.
“I’ll check the mileage and give you the receipt, sir.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need the receipt,” I replied, slinging my duffel strap over my shoulder.
The roll of orange tape Jean-Claude left for me tumbled to the ground and landed at my feet. I was about to tuck it into my duffel bag when I spotted two small inscriptions written in black ink along the edge on either side of the roll.
Bonne chance
Je t’aime
Okay, I wasn’t great at French, but I knew thatbonne chancemeant good luck andje t’aime…
I love you.
I swallowed hard, tracing the jagged words with my thumb.
Things I’d learned about Jean-Claude: He didn’t say anything he didn’t mean and if he felt strongly about something, he spoke French. Or he wrote in French.
I love you, I love you.
“Since you’re still here, take the receipt and have a great day,” the rental guy grumbled.
“Uh…no.”
“Sir?”
“Cancel the return.” I shoved my suitcase into the trunk and my duffel on the passenger seat, then hurried to the driver’s side, the attendant hot on my heels. “I need the car.”
“You just returned the vehicle, sir.”
“Un-return it.” I motioned for the customer behind me to move into the next lane, waving my arms like ground control directing a jumbo jet on the tarmac.
“Your card has been charged and the account is closed. You can’t take the car.”
“Sorry, man. I have to. This is an emergency.” I slipped a wad of cash into his hand, jumped behind the wheel, and headed south.
To Elmwood.
I drove like a bat out of Hades, racing down the two-lane highway and slowing when the roads began to wind on the approach to the Four Forest area. My pulse skipped and soared as I passed the ginormous tree bordering Fallbrook and Elmwood, the church with the funny name that was soon to be a bookstore adjacent to the brand-new sports complex. St. Felix, St. Ferdinand? St. Finbarr! That was it.
I slapped my palm on the steering wheel, grinning like a fool as I cranked the volume on a Springsteen holiday classic. Dark clouds had followed me from Burlington and snow fell in earnest now, painting the town like a scene from a newly shaken snow globe. It was so fucking beautiful.
No big shiny towers, no haute-couture designer shops, no Starbucks. And somehow, everything I never knew I needed or wanted was right here in the middle of nowhere, Vermont.