At that, he smiles, showing me a hint of flawless white dentures, and tugs at his ear, which—surprisingly—sports an earring that looks like a tiny diamond. “Talking is good. ”

The poor man is deaf as a post. If I weren’t freezing and desperate, I’d be polite. As it is, I say, “Yes, it is. Look. I’m using your phone. I hope you don’t mind. ”

“The mind is a delicate thing. ”

“That’s helpful. Thank you. ” I reach for his phone. Every second, as I flip it open and punch in the numbers, I expect him to stop me, but he doesn’t. He simply goes back to his reading.

The phone rings.

And rings.

At each bleating ring, I tense up a little more. Finally, the machine clicks on. It’s Stacey’s voice. Happy holidays. Stacey and Thom aren’t in right now, but if you’ll leave a message, we’ll call you back. Thanks!

I’m momentarily nonplussed by the casual linking of their names. Staceyandthom. Thomandstacey. Now they’re one word, just like we used to be.

“Uh . . . Hi, Stace. It’s Joy. I’m fine. You don’t need to worry. I’ll call you on Christmas Day. ” It seems like I should have more to say, but nothing comes to me. “Bye. ”

I hang up and hand the phone back to the attendant. “Thanks. ”

He peers at me. “You can keep talking to her. ”

“No, thanks. I’m done. ”

Smiling, I grab my umbrella and leave the warm light of the gas station.

It’s not until I’m back in the park, trudging through the now blinding rain that I think: I should have asked him for a ride home. This is Small Town, U. S. A. People do favors for each other here. I turn back, walk down the street. Thunder roars again; the rain hammers me.

In the violence of the storm, I’m confused, though, disoriented; I can’t find the gas station again.

I have always had a crappy sense of direction.

With a sigh, I head for the park, and then find my way onto the old highway. My first thought is: this is the way home.

Then I remember.

My home sits on a pretty little street in a not-so-pretty

section of Bakersfield, the same city where my pregnant sister and ex-husband now live together.

Staceyandthom.

What will I say to them?

J ust when I think the weather can’t get any worse, it starts to snow.

In an instant, this stormy landscape changes into a place of magical, impossible light. The clouds lift, a bright moon peers out from above and casts the road in silvery light. The driving rain transforms itself into a shower of tiny cotton balls, drifting lazily downward.

Everything stills; the world holds its breath. The gurgling water in the ditch turns into a child’s laugh. I can smell the pine trees again, and the rich scent of wet earth.

Unfortunately, the sudden beauty has a wicked bite.

It’s cold.

Inside my suddenly inadequate sweater, I shiver and try to keep warm. My breath clouds everything, makes me feel as if I’m walking through a deep fog.

Once I start shivering, I can’t stop. I must look like an escaped mental patient, running from the electrical shock room, dancing along the crumbling edge of the road. I am so tired; all I want to do is stop, but I know that if I do, I’ll fall, and maybe I won’t get up. My eyelids are heavy, my fingers and toes sting with cold. My cheeks are so icy they feel hot; every snowflake burns my skin. Only a woman raised in California would have gone for a walk on a day like this.

“Don’t th-think like that,” I say aloud, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. My teeth are chattering like an Evinrude. I need to focus on good thoughts.

Tags: Kristin Hannah Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net