Jo Ellen leaned closer, clutching her phone. “Oscar suggests we…pray.”
“Finally, something smart from that dimwit.”
They somehow navigated through the South Beach traffic without getting arrested or rear-ended, though there were several close calls, one heated middle finger, and a woman on a scooter who shouted, “Learn to drive, ya old bag!”
“God bless you, too!” Maggie yelled back.
By the time they hit a red light on Collins Avenue, Maggie had found something resembling a rhythm. Her left leg ached from the stupid little pedal, her jaw was tight from the tension, and her soul had left her body no less than five times.
“You know what?” she said, flexing her fingers on the wheel. “I feel like Scarlett after Rhett left her stranded with a sick horse, a half-dead woman, and a newborn.”
Jo Ellen peeked through her fingers. “Traumatized?”
“Determined to get home.” Maggie threw the car from Neutral into first gear with increasing confidence. Small screech of the clutch, but it caught. “As God is my witness, I will never avoid a highway again.”
“You’re not going on thehighway,are you?”
“I might. We can make it to Orlando today. Honestly, Jo, this thing drives like it was dipped in caffeine.”
Jo Ellen moaned. “Well, bad news, honey. If you want to get to the interstate, you have to turn left here. But forget an arrow—there’s not even light. And lots of oncoming traffic.”
“Oh, boy.” She pulled into the left lane, said the prayer Oscar recommended, and stepped on the gas like it was a palmetto bug on her patio.
Before long, Miami was finally in the rearview mirror and Maggie was zipping up I-95 like a pro.
“You know what?” she said to Jo Ellen. “Roger would be so proud of me.”
“I’m proud of you,” Jo said, putting a hand on her arm. “You are my idol, Maggie Lawson. I never met a woman like you, and I never will again.”
Maggie laughed. A deep, from-the-gut laugh that wiped out decades of fear.
“Thank you for pushing me. I feel like I could take on anything. Drive Route 66. Race a dune buggy. Parallel park on Peachtree Street.”
“You’re drunk on power.”
Maggie turned the wheel with one hand and passed a truck that was just going too slow. “I’m drunk on freedom. Being afraid is the same as being in prison. We’re out, sister.”
Jo Ellen hooted. “We should get a car like this!”
“Don’t tempt me.”
They sped north, the T-Bird humming along, and Maggie let herself feel it—that buzz of youth, that hum of strength, that knowledge that she could do something scary and still keep going.
“Well, that was…educational,” Tessa said, tugging the passenger seatbelt across her body after climbing into Dusty’s surprisingly luxurious truck. The silver Ford they’d taken on their day of house-hunting was solid but high-end, the kind of vehicle that said, “I’ve done well but I also like to haul stuff.”
Like everything about Dusty Mathers, it appealed to Tessa. The truck, the man, the banter, the insight, the honesty, the humor, and the effortless exchange of conversation and information—itallappealed to her.
“I didn’t know they still made linoleum that color,” Dusty cracked as he touched the ignition button. “Would you call that rancid mustard? Or baby-food peas?”
“It was Sherwin-Williams Light Trauma,” she quipped. “And that kitchen? I’ve seen bigger galleys on fishing boats.”
Dusty shifted into Reverse and backed out over the cracked concrete driveway. “How about the office? A generous term for a closet, don’t you think? Not only would I not have a couch for my patients, I’d barely have room for a desk.”
As he drove off, the house faded from view. “Goodbye, beige ranch with mismatched window shutters circa ’77,” she said wistfully.
“With a bathtub if you want a water view,” he added, cracking her up.
“Lorna is texting us the address for the next house,” Tessa said, taking out her phone to read the message. “Can you bear another? She has high hopes for this one.”
