Page 58 of That Stranded Feeling

Maggie’s face is pretty much the only thing I recognize about her, though. The woman I’ve rarely seen wearing anything but gardening clothes emerges in a long, blue evening gown and looks like she’s spent most of the day in hair and makeup.

She hitches up her dress and tiptoes on her heels down the steps, through the dusting of snow, and to the truck, a relieved smile on her face. “Owen. Finally!”

I fumble to wind down my window—it takes a moment to realize it uses an actual crank, not a button—as she waves her hand at the pickup and shrieks, “What are you doing inthisthing?”

My eyes dart to Summer, whose usually soft, warm face looks like it’s made of cold, hard steel.

18

SUMMER

Normal, my ass.

If the first words out of this woman’s mouth are to mock my truck, it says everything I need to know about her.

I’ll take my well-loved vehicle over the two soulless penis extensions parked in the driveway any day.

Maggie grabs Owen’s face through his open window and slaps a kiss on his forehead, then reaches past him and extends her hand to me. “You must be the lovely Summer. I’m Maggie.”

I take her hand, which is rough for someone with such polished nails.

“It was rude of me to smother Owen before I introduced myself,” she says with a bright smile. “But I haven’t seen his face on anything but a screen for two years.” She pinches one of his cheeks. “Two years!”

Owen winces.

Maggie pats the side of the truck. “And kudos for getting him to ride in a pickup. He hasn’t been in mine since he was a kid. Always had his heart set on higher forms of travel.” She steps back to give it a nose-to-tail once-over. “Yours is in much better condition than mine, though.”

She has a truck?

“That’s because it’s still the one I wouldn’t get in as a kid,” Owen says.

She has anoldtruck?

“Because it’s still perfectly serviceable.” She shakes her head at him. “Well, apart from being in the shop for a new muffler right now. But waste not, want not, young man.”

She’s careful with money?

Maggie tiptoes around the front of the truck, snowflakes floating around her. Owen takes my hand between both of his, like he did that first night on my porch. And the exact same quiver runs through me.

“You like her, don’t you?” he says with an I-told-you-so expression. “I knew you would.”

“Well—”

My door swings open, and Maggie appears at my side. “Come on in, my love,” she says.

“Oh, it’s okay, I’m not—”

“My, oh, my!” Maggie gushes, as Elsa shoves her head between the side of my seat and the open door. “Who is this with the cute, cute face?”

Okay, maybe I do like her a bit.

“That’s Elsa. But you should stand back. You won’t want a wet nose and dog hair all over you.”

Maggie grabs Elsa’s face and gives it a rub. “Oh, I think this one is worth more than a silly dress. Damp patches will dry, hair will brush off.”

Elsa’s tail beats against the back seat.

“Let’s get all three of you inside,” Maggie says.