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All for a Lark (Peace)
You know, I don’t normally question my decision-making skills.
If I did, I wouldn’t be me.
My dad used to call me a flower on the wind.
Maybe I’m small and soft and fragile and have a hippie name—
But that just makes me light enough to move with the breeze, soar high, drift into the sky, and let every gust take me to new horizons and beautiful things.
That’s what sent me jetting out of Oahu.
What sent me flitting through New Orleans, St. Louis, Nashville, Chicago, and lately Denver.
What put me on the road to Vancouver, too, for my next big adventure.
…and what’s currently left me stranded on the side of the road on a remote mountain looking out over a town called Heart’s Edge.
Freezing my butt off, with no way to warm up except for my old clunker of a van.
Which is currently on fire, belching plumes of thick, dark smoke up into the sky.
Yep.
Sometimes when you’re a flower on the wind, you find yourself adrift on a beautiful sea.
And sometimes you land face-first in a burning garbage fire, desperately flailing to alter course but sinking deeper anyway.
It’s my own fault.
I’m the only one who decided I needed to go for a drive after dinner, packing up my van like I’m part of Scooby and the gang, gearing up in the Mystery Machine.
Honestly, my ride’s probably even older than that technicolor beast in the cartoon, but it’s served me well.
Until now.
I’d been puttering along just fine, listening to some local radio station and this really weird little show.
At first, I thought it was a variety show, but it turned out to be some kind of call-in advice line. The guy hosting it had a warm, kind voice, deep and sort of gritty with a weathered edge.
He sounded like he laughed a lot. And he’d sure as hell been laughing when someone called in looking for advice on what to do if a woman caught her husband stealing her underwear—to wear them.
He’d been gentle as he’d said, “Maybe get used to sharing, ma’am, or maybe get him his own.” I’d been able to hear the grin in his voice as he’d said it. “We ain’t quite made to fit in the front of them lacy things, and he’s gonna stretch yours plumb out. Whatever floats his boat, though.”
Most guys would’ve made fun of the guy and his wife. Oh, poor gal, that kind of thing.
This guy, though…
He’d just laughed like it was no big deal, live and let live. It made me feel better even though it wasn’t even my call or my issue.
I’d been giggling too, feeling kind of warm inside, as I’d listened to him say “Next caller…”
But I missed out on what the call was about, because right then my van decided it was hotter for this guy’s voice than I was.
And it just blew.
Spontaneously combusted.
Big old boom that split the night like a gunshot, sending smoke and plumes of flame spewing out from either side of the flower-painted hood.
Good thing I was going slow, I guess, being extra careful with the snowy roads and steep slopes.
Still, it must’ve been the scariest thirty seconds of my life while I wrestled the burning van over to the side of the road, grabbed my things, and scurried out.
The funny thing is, I can still hear the radio going, while whatever’s under the hood crackles and burns.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Advice Guy’s saying. “I mean, you ask me to pick between football and sex and UFO sightings…”
Someone else at the station guffaws. He sounds older, heartier. “Oh, c’mon. I know which one you’ll pick, and so does everybody else. You’re dang-near the last single man standing, Blake. Everybody wants a slice of that in this town. Bet you’re getting a piece every night.”
There’s an odd pause. Weird, heavy.
And when Advice Guy speaks again, it’s almost…melancholy, even if there’s still a smile in his voice. “Guess so,” he says. “You know me. Real heartbreaker.”
Ouch.
I wonder what happened to make him sound like that.
There’s real pain living in his voice. The kind of buried agony that has teeth.
Pain is something I know in my line of work.
And I know what it sounds like when someone’s got a heart that’s taken a direct hit from a sledgehammer.
Listen to me. Sitting here worrying about this guy, when I should be taking care of myself.
I’m a warm-weather girl. Even bundled up in a thick coat, I’m about to shiver my toes off, and the clear night sky looks heavy.
I need to get off the side of the road before another storm comes down.
And, you know, before my van explodes into stabby confetti.
I fumble my phone from my pocket with half-numb fingers and dial 911. I’m hoping I did the call routing right.
It’s always a little iffy with the way I travel. Never know whether 911 will route to the office closest to the nearest cell tower or will try to hit the 911 for my old Hawaii zip code. I’ve never needed to test it much, except one night when I got mugged in Chicago.