Kiss Me in the Summer - Barbara Dunlop Page 0,6

suddenly swept around the bend out front.

It abruptly slowed, and I quickly made sure my doors were locked.

My tote bag was on the passenger seat. There was Mace on my apartment keychain. If this was some bad guy intent on crime, well, he was going to get a face-full of pepper spray before he touched my cash or credit cards.

I grabbed the tote bag and pulled on the zipper. In my rush, it got stuck partway open. I wrenched hard, hearing a tear as the car pulled to a stop directly across the road.

I groped for the Mace. It took a minute, but I finally found it and yanked it out.

Then I took a breath, braced myself and turned to face the boxy, stretch hood vintage blue muscle car with a stylized black stripe down the side. My mind went to gangsters. But when the driver’s side door yawned open, it revealed a woman. A senior citizen who looked to be around seventy or so pulled herself out of the driver’s seat.

My shoulders slumped in relief. I was grateful she’d stopped.

She didn’t look at all dangerous in her pink fleece track pants and mauve T-shirt. There was an animal applique on the front of her T-shirt, a fluffy white kitten wearing an oversized pair of pink-rimmed glasses. The pink glasses tied in the pants. I couldn’t help but smile at that.

She walked across the asphalt in white running shoes, and I unrolled the window.

“Everything okay?” she asked me.

“My engine stopped.”

“Oh.” She gazed contemplatively at the hood of my car. She sure didn’t strike me as a mechanic, but it looked like she was thinking about opening it up to have a look.

“It sort of sputtered, then clunked, then stopped,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound so good.”

I agreed with her on that.

“So, you’re stuck?” she asked.

“I’m stuck,” I said. “I can’t get any cell service.” I lifted my phone to prove it.

She grinned then. Her light brown eyes looked friendly beneath her short, wavy white hair. There were wrinkles covering her face, but it was easy to see she must have been extremely pretty when she was young.

“We’ve been lobbying the county government for two years on that,” she said.

“No luck?” I asked, although the answer was obvious.

“Stubborn old coots. They’d keep their rotary-dial phones if they could.”

The response struck me as funny, given her obvious age. I smiled.

“I can give you a lift into town,” she said.

“That would be wonderful.” As I expressed my heartfelt gratitude, I realized I was still holding the Mace.

She saw it too.

I was embarrassed to have been so paranoid. “I’m . . . uh . . . I didn’t see who you were at first.” I tucked it back into my tote bag.

“Don’t worry. I like a gal who comes prepared.” She slapped her palm on the roof of my car. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

“Sure.” I quickly unfastened my seat belt and gathered my bag.

I rolled up the window, locked the door behind me, and followed the woman across the highway, climbing into the deep passenger seat of the vintage car.

The interior leather, dashboard, and carpets were all powder blue. The bucket seats were highly sculpted and very comfortable.

“I’m Madeline, by the way,” the woman said as she turned the key. The engine started up with a roar and a rumble.

I offered my hand. “Laila Arquette. Thanks so much for stopping to help.”

Madeline shook my hand, grinned, and pulled the shifter into drive. “No trouble at all. So, what brings you to visit Rutter’s Point, Laila Arquette?”

“I wasn’t planning to visit Rutter’s Point.”

“Really?” Madeline pressed firmly on the gas and the car barreled forward, leaving a spray of gravel behind us.

I was sucked back in my seat and grabbed the armrest to steady myself as the wheels settled onto the road.

Madeline cranked the wheel and pulled a sliding U-turn, sending me leaning sideways.

“Then what are you doing on the Bay Road?” she asked. Our speed increased, the sound of the engine and the tires growing louder underneath us. I realized getting into her car might have been a big mistake.

My eyes got wider as the rocks and pine trees flashed past. “The sign on the highway said this was the scenic route.”

“It is that,” she said with a sage nod, stretching up straight and leaning forward, I assumed, to better see where she was going. “It’s scenic all the way to Rutter’s Point. But it’s not a route to anywhere.”

“It’s not?”

“After Rutter’s Point, there’s