“I didn’t get much sleep, and this was quite an added ordeal.”
He nodded and smiled. “Some warm food will help. Got to get you used to eating something other than that gruel your Mrs. Fennel gave you.”
“Yes. I want to avoid all the things she gave me,” I muttered.
We were back on a main highway leading to Portland.
“Hey, see that roadside restaurant up there on the right?” he asked after a few miles.
“Yes.”
“Look at all the trucks in the parking lot. Truckers know the best places to eat. My father always said that. Whenever we went on long rides, he would look for trucks in parking lots, and it always proved to be good.”
“Looks fine to me,” I said.
We pulled into the parking lot and parked next to a tractor-trailer.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes, fine. Let’s go eat,” I said.
The restaurant resembled an old-time diner with a long counter and booths with red leather seats. There was even a jukebox at the far end. It was crowded and busy, but there was an empty booth on the right. A short woman with bushy white hair and thick-framed glasses greeted us and took us to the booth. She handed us menus.
“I can’t believe how hungry I am,” Buddy said.
“Tension builds your appetite,” I said. “Mrs. Fennel used to say…” I stopped myself. “Order me the meatloaf special. I’m going to the bathroom to wash up.”
“What do you want to drink?” he asked as I slid out.
“Oh. One of those lemonades.”
“Done deal,” he said, and I went to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the small mirror above the sink. What Buddy had observed earlier looked accurate to me, too. I did look older. It was as if I had aged a few years. Whatever innocence had once been in my eyes was gone and replaced with a cold, hard look. I had the face of someone who might not laugh for quite a long time, if ever again.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, I looked toward our booth. Buddy had his head in his hands, his elbows on the table. I was sure that this was the worst nightmare he had ever had and one that seemed not to have an ending. I told myself I had given in too easily when he had insisted on going with me. There were many reasons he was in danger now, and it had all begun with one thing. Ironically, Ava and Mrs. Fennel had been right. It was love that had brought Buddy here. Love could be poison when it involved us.
He looked up and smiled as I started for the table. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m okay.”
“I ordered for you,” he said. The waitress had already served the lemonades. I sipped mine. “Better than before, right? This is really homemade.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling.
“I told you. Truck drivers know exactly where to go to eat on the highway. They have the instincts for it.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“I’m going to wash up, too,” he said. “Be right back.”
“Okay.”
He slipped out of the booth but paused to kiss me on the cheek. “I do love you, Lorelei,” he whispered.
“I know you do, and I love you.”
I watched him walk toward the men’s room, and then I looked out the window at our rental car. I saw the driver of the truck next to it start to get into his cab. As if by reflex rather than thought, I got up and walked quickly out of the restaurant and to our car. I opened the door, took out my bag, and knocked on the truck driver’s passenger-side door. Then I opened it.
“What’s up?” he asked. He was an African American man who looked to be about fifty, with graying black hair. He was tall and slim and had a white mustache.