Well, she couldn’t very well call her ex for help tonight.
Angry at the world, she climbed out of the car, slammed the door, locked the damned thing and, for good measure, gave it a kick. Why now? Calm down. Just get home and pour yourself a glass of ... apple juice. Crap! Freezing, she decided she’d hike back to the party, where maybe one of the stragglers would give her a ride and she could deal with the dead Honda tomorrow in daylight. Wearing boots, she reminded herself, and tights and a ski jacket and a scarf and warm gloves!
Her bad mood worsening, she hoped that Allen, who worked as a teller, was still around. He was a little nerdy, but at least she wouldn’t have to depend on that creep Monty and his uptight wife. Though, as desperate as she was, she’d even put up with them to get home. She passed the tavern again and noted the two guys who’d been smoking outside the door had vanished, then started for the bank.
“Johnna?”
Hearing her name, she turned, nearly toppling over on the damned heels as a dark figure emerged from the area of the tavern.
“What’re you doing out here? God, it’s freezing!”
Relaxing a little, recognizing him, she said, “Bank party. You know, the annual Christmas bash.” Rolling her eyes, she offered him a smile. He was a customer, after all, a good customer, even if his credit score lacked what the bank had required for the personal loan he’d wanted the year before, the loan his wife refused to cosign.
“What about you?”
“Just had a couple of drinks down at the Black Horse.” He hooked a gloved thumb behind him, in the direction of the pub. That made sense.
“You parked around here?” He eyed the near-empty street. She hesitated, then thought, Why not see if he can help? “I, uh, I’m going back to the party, hoping to catch a ride. It’s my car.” She motioned vaguely toward the area where she’d parked.
“Something wrong with it?” He seemed concerned.
“Other than it’s got over two hundred thousand miles and a dead battery, it’s fine,” she said, her breath clouding. “It picked a great night to decide not to start.”
“You’re sure it’s the battery and it’s dead?”
“No.”
“Has it happened before?”
“Once, maybe.” It was waaay too cold to be outside discussing this.
“You know, sometimes that’s an easy fix. Maybe I should look at it.”
“It’s pretty dead.” She glanced at the hotel, where the lights of the lobby splashed through the glass doors. It was warm inside and she was starting to have the urge to pee. “Like, really dead.”
“Doesn’t hurt to have a look.” Again, the smile. “I know engines. Have to. Equipment for the farm.”
“Well ...” She imagined dealing with Monty and his slobbering advances and the daggered stare from his wife again, then shuddered inside. “Uh ... okay. Sure.”
“Where is it?”
“Parked near the railroad tracks, not far from the elevator.”
“Okay, let’s have a look, shall we?” He was already heading toward the street where she’d left the damned Civic, so she thought, Why the hell not? She hurried and caught up with him, and as they rounded the corner of the street near the railroad tracks, he saw her car, the only one.
“Honda?” he asked, though how he could tell with all the snow was surprising. Must be a gearhead.
“Yeah.”
“Usually reliable.” He reached the car, shoved all of the snow off the hood, then, with his gloved hand, brushed the windshield and driver’s side down to the glass. “Why don’t you get in?” he said. “Then open the hood latch and, when I tell you to, try to start the engine.”
“Okay.” She knew already it was a waste of time, but Johnna did as she was bid and climbed into the frigid interior. She clicked open the latch and saw, beneath the crack separating the raised hood from the windshield that he had a small flashlight and was shining it over the engine. Obviously he came prepared. A little weird, but okay, guys always had way more stuff in their pockets than one would ever expect. Giving the key a turn, she heard nothing. “I told you,” she muttered under her breath.
He fiddled around. She heard him messing with something—wires maybe—attached to the engine, which, she knew, was a major waste of time. He said something to her and she had to roll down the window. “What?”
“Try it again,” he called and she did, and this time, wonder of wonders, the little engine sparked to life. She pressed on the accelerator and heard the familiar and comforting sound of the engine racing, pistons doing their thing.
“Wow!” she said through the open window as he slammed the hood down, locking it in place. “Thank you!”