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I frowned at the display of cleavage and the implications of staying for “supper.” Oh, I could only imagine the extravaganza of hospitality that would await us, right down to Mindy changing into something “more comfortable.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am. But we have to drive home yet tonight,” Jed said. “Work, you know?”
“Maybe the next time you’re in the neighborhood, then.” She simpered, batting her eyelashes for all they were worth.
Having wrapped up the “happy to meet yous,” Jed and I booked it out to the truck before Mindy decided she wanted a matching dinette set, too. My blood thrilled in my veins as we climbed into our seats.
“I can’t believe I have it.” I sighed, pressing the tissue-covered bundle to my chest. “Two down, two to go.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, starting the engine.
“Oh, it’s just a project I’m working on with Jane. Personal interest.”
He gave me a long speculative look. “Well, I am too tired to drive any farther,” he said. “There was a motel just outside of town. Does that work for you?”
“I have proven myself to be untrustworthy driving on the right side of the road, so yes,” I said, clicking my belt into place as we roared onto the main street. “You really went full-on Bubba, didn’t you?”
“I warned you.”
“Nothing could have prepared me.” I chuckled, shaking my head. “That poor deer.”
* * *
I was not familiar with motel tourism. When I’d lived with my dad, we were strictly Holiday Inn or Ramada travelers. The few times I’d traveled overseas, I’d stayed in smallish historic hotels with “character.” (Read: water damage and manky carpet.) And still, the damp-flooring issues were preferable to the comforts of the Sleep-Tight Inn. This was beyond the Bates Motel. It was a brick block building with rusty stains dripping down under the window air-conditioning units. There was a pool . . . and it was full of sludgy green water and leaves.
But the Sleep-Tight was the only motel for the next fifty miles, neither of us had another hour of driving in us, and after paying Mindy off, it fit my cash-on-hand budget. That was the only positive thing I could say about the Sleep-Tight. Jed insisted on being the one to go into the office to rent the rooms. I was concerned that he might have ulterior motives and would come back claiming that there was only one single-bed room available for the night. But it turned out he was concerned that the motel clerk might see a woman alone and “get the wrong ideas.”
It was a manly, almost cavemanly, gesture, but I could see the value in it. Nana Fee would have told me to stand up straight, make direct eye contact, and demand respect. And as healthy as that was, in this environment, demanding respect would have probably resulted in the clerk slapping the “bitch” label on me and doing something weird to the truck. I appreciated the direct caveman approach if it meant circumventing all that.
I dragged our overnight bags out of the back of the truck as he returned with the room keys. “If I am stabbed to death in the shower, I will come back and haunt you,” I told him.
“Fine.” He sighed. “I will come and watch over you while you are in the shower.”
“You completely misinterpreted that.”
My room was connected to Jed’s through an adjoining door. It was spare and outdated, but at least I didn’t see anything crawling across the threadbare orange carpet. Of course, the first thing I did was pull the comforter off of the bed, because there was no way I was going to sleep under that. I pulled out my travel sleeping bag and spread it over the sheets, with a prick of regret for Stephen and his practical gift-giving habits.
I’d showered (without being stabbed) and was seriously considering just going to bed, when Jed knocked on the adjoining door. He yelled through the door, “How do you feel about barbecue?”
“You mean hamburgers?” I yelled back. “I have no particular philosophy about hamburgers.”
There was a long pause. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
10
There is no such thing as magical glue. Any witch who tries to sell you magical glue is a lying hag.
—A Witch’s Compendium of Curses
We went to a restaurant called High on the Hog. It was careworn but well populated. The green pleather booths were sprung and peeling. The napkin dispensers consisted of paper-towel racks mounted against the oak paneling. Pictures of people holding up large fish and neon beer signs decorated the walls. I could barely see the kitchen through the smoke, but I could make out a huge brick pit in the middle of the space.
It was a bit like a pub, with the same happy, boisterous crowd, people drinking more they were supposed to and most likely flirting with people they weren’t supposed to. Loud country music blared from an old jukebox in the corner. The smell should have been revolting, nothing but smoke and grease and beer. But my mouth was watering to the point where I felt like wiping at it with my sleeve.
Jed ordered for me, because after the hamburger comment, I couldn’t be trusted to do it myself. While the meat was smoky and delicious, it was the side dishes I gorged on. There were things I remembered from my childhood. Corn on the cob and macaroni and cheese. But then there were hash brown casserole, collard greens, and hush puppies, which I had never tried.
“Wow, you are just throwing yourself into that plate, aren’t you?” Jed marveled.
“I know, it’s probably revolting. You’ve probably spent your adult life dating women who eat the cucumber from their salad and proclaim they’re just too full to go on, but I am starving. And this is really good.”
