Love Sign

“No. Not now,” replied Shelby.

“I’ll call one of my men and get this truck upright,” he said. “Then I’ll see what we can do about getting you wherever you’re headed.”

“Wildwood,” she said.

“Vacationing?” he asked.

Shelby nodded, and glanced at the Good Samaritan who was walking away. Sign Man noticed, and called after him, “Thanks, man.”

The man waved and drove away in his pickup truck.

It wasn’t long until a second sign truck pulled into the lot in answer to Sign Man’s phone call. With the help of the crane, the truck was soon upright and the boom off Shelby’s car.

Sign Man retrieved Shelby’s purse from the curb on his way by. “Here you go,” he said. Faint creases tugged at the corners of his morning glory eyes. “I’m Jake Jackson.”

“Shelby Taylor,” she returned.

Jake started to offer his hand, then checked the impulse. He turned up a grease-smudged palm and asked, “So how upset are you?”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Lamely, Shelby offered, “It happened so fast.”

“Kind of caught me off guard, too.” He spared her further apology and glanced back at her car. “I’ll call my insurance company, see if they can get you something to drive,” he offered.

Jake called on his cell phone and returned with word that his insurer would send an adjuster out. “He’ll see about a loaner car once he has taken some pictures and squared away the paperwork. Like I said, I’d be happy to give you a lift if you don’t want to wait on him.”

At a loss as to how else she was to reach the cabin at Wildwood, Shelby accepted.

“Need anything from the car?” he asked.

“My laptop and suitcase from the front seat. Grab my cell phone, too, would you? Oh! And my book bag, please. It’s in the trunk,” she said, and gave him her car keys.

Jake jerked a thumb in the direction of the bank lobby. “May as well wait inside where it’s cool,” he said.

Thoughtful, as saboteurs went, noted Shelby as she retreated to the lobby. He wasn’t long. Her suitcase swung from one hand, her laptop from the other. He retrieved her cell phone from his shirt pocket. Their fingers brushed as it changed hands.

“Can you get along without the book bag? I didn’t have any luck popping the trunk lid,” he said.

Reluctant to leave unpublished works behind, Shelby wondered aloud, “Could we pry it open?”

“I thought of that. But the adjuster may want to snap his pictures before we tear into it,” he said.

Conceding his point, Shelby followed him to his truck. He checked the oil, then wiped his hands on a towel that lay in the seat. Except for some scraped paint and a broken side view mirror, the truck appeared sound. The engine coughed a time or two en route to the sign shop. But they covered the short distance without incident.

Shelby’s gaze swept twin steel buildings, a hodgepodge of equipment emblazoned with the Jackson name, and a graveyard of old signs.

“It’s a family business,” Jake explained. “We have a shop south of here at Liberty Flats. Wildwood’s just a few miles farther on. Hope I haven’t fouled up your vacation too badly.”

“It’s a working one, anyway.” Shelby accepted his help out of the truck. He had a steady hand. Durable fingers, a callused palm and a measured grip. She turned to collect her things.

“Let me.” Jake reached for her suitcase and laptop.

Shelby followed him to a sporty four-wheel drive vehicle and stowed her things behind the seat while she climbed in.

“There’s a bookstore nearby. You want to pick up something to read?” he asked as they got underway.

Realizing he had misunderstood about the book bag, she said, “Thanks, but it isn’t leisure reading. The bag contains manuscripts.”

“You’re a writer?” Jake winced as she conceded as much. “Can’t say I’d want to leave my life’s work in the trunk of a wrecked car.”

“It isn’t mine.” Seeing his confusion, Shelby explained, “I work full-time for Parnell Publishing, and write part-time. What will they do with the car?”

“Have it towed, I suppose. I’ll phone the insurance company again and explain about the manuscripts. They could take it to my shop. It’d be easier for you to access than at a salvage yard.”

Jake made the call while waiting for a light to change. Traffic flowed once more. He resumed their conversation. “What is it you do at Parnell?”

“I’m an editor.”

“Really! Can’t say I’ve ever met an editor.” Jake threaded his way along busy streets. “What kind of books does your company publish?”

“We do a variety of nonfiction titles—self-help, how-tos, food and cooking titles, home and family, travel and guidebooks. That sort of thing,” said Shelby.

“And your part-time writing—is that for Parnell?”

“No. I write romance mysteries for young adults.”

“Is that right?” His smile deepened, his eyes reflecting a sunny twinkle. “Thomasina’s a real fan of romance novels. Out at Wildwood,” he added. “She and her husband Trace have transformed that old farm into a real cozy vacation retreat.”

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about their business,” said Shelby as Jake took the interstate south out of town. “I look forward to meeting them.”

“You’ll have to stick around a couple of weeks, then. They left for the southwest two days ago for their third wedding anniversary.

“Oh.”

“How about you? Are you married?” he asked with a glance from those vivid blue eyes.

“No.”

“Seeing someone?”

“No.” The word to Shelby’s own ears, clanged like a metal gate. She twisted the strap of her pocket book, and fell silent.

They passed the next dozen miles in silence. Jake flipped the air off as they exited the interstate, trucked past the Voyager billboard, and rolled down the window as they skirted Liberty Flats.

“Too much wind? I can roll it up,” offered Jake, as the breeze riffled Shelby’s short curls.

“No, don’t. It’s fine,” she said and lowered her window, too.

Jake stole a sidelong glance, admiring the wind in her hair and sunlight dancing on flawless skin. But he couldn’t remember when he had seen such a soft round face look so long and weary. His carelessness had complicated her vacation plans, big time, that went without saying. He thought about apologizing again. But then, what good did that do? They hurtled along the country road a few miles, then Jake slowed for Wildwood Lane.