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Though my nose was cold and my eyes watered, I focused on plan B. Surely there was a home nearby. There were supposedly almost ten thousand inhabitants on this island, a quarter of whom lived in the largest town…Portree. That left 7500 souls to come to my assistance.
Though I wasn’t as dedicated as Hayley when it came to researching our trip, I did know that I was in the midst of six hundred fifty square miles (give or take) of island territory, not all of which was connected by road. The population density was 6.04 people per square kilometer.
Even adjusting for the folks who lived in towns, surely there were at least a couple of people in shouting distance. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Hellooo-ooo,” I yelled.
The wavering sound disappeared, swallowed up by low clouds and the empty countryside. I fancied I saw a tiny light far in the distance, but my perspective was skewed. I sure as heck wasn’t about to go striding across the moors in search of something that might not even be human habitation.
“Hellooo-ooo,” I tried again, feeling foolish. Wasn’t that the accepted definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different outcome?
It seemed I had two choices. I could start walking back to Portree. Or I could sit and wait for help that might never come. I wasn’t really a sit-and-wait kind of gal, but I was wearing heels, and my comfy walking shoes were trapped in the trunk inside my suitcase.
Still, any activity was better than nothing…right?
I leaned against the car and took off one of my shoes. They were Manolo Blahniks. Wickedly expensive. Surprisingly comfortable. Currently useless. I balanced on one foot and used both hands to try and snap the heel from the base of the shoe. Turns out, old Manolo made a quality product. And he had an inside track on some kind of space glue, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t break the heel.
This struck me as ridiculously funny. I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Here I was, stranded in the middle of a seemingly unpopulated wilderness, hopping on one leg like an injured flamingo.
Suddenly, I flashed back to my childhood. One of my early nannies—when I was in kindergarten maybe—was a Cuban woman named Josefina Ortiz. She and her family had fled Cuba in the 1950s. Jo-Jo, as I called her, had a crush on Desi Arnaz, and she also liked to nap after lunch. She would sit me on the sofa beside her and tune the TV to a channel that showed old episodes of I Love Lucy.
With my little tummy full of homemade macaroni and cheese or gooey quesadillas, I leaned up against the solid, warm bulk of my nanny and listened to her snore softly while Lucy and Ethel got into one scrape after another.
In those moments I was safe and warm and loved.
The memory caught me off guard, bittersweet and faintly disturbing. I knew that my parents loved me, despite their foibles. I’d been brought up with every possible advantage and opportunity. Still, when I thought about my youngest years, the happiest memories were those I spent with women who were no blood kin to me at all.
Perhaps that was why I clung so stubbornly to my friendships with Hayley and Willow.
As I stood there, stork-like, caught in the past, a flash of bright light cut through the mist. Accompanying that herald was the muted roar of a vehicle. Hallelujah.
When the motorcycle pulled up beside my disabled car, I was too relieved to have any qualms about my safety. Besides, major crime was virtually non-existent in a place like this. I should know. I checked. When I decided to rent an isolated house for an entire month, it only made sense to weigh the pros and cons.
I put my shoe back on and wrapped my arms around my waist. A combination of the weather and the late hour made me shiver. “Hello,” I said.
The driver cut the engine. Now the silence was twice as deep. He swung a leg over the seat, stretched, and removed his helmet. “Trouble, lass?”
“Not at all. I like tipping cars into ditches. It’s something we do back home when there aren’t any cows available.”
The man froze, his hands caught mid-motion scraping back his wavy, jet-black hair. At least, I thought it was black. In the darkness it was hard to tell. I could just make out wide shoulders, a strong jaw, and the fact that he was more or less my age. Even in the dark, his masculinity and rugged good looks registered.
When he moved three steps closer, the back of my neck tingled. I’d always had a smart mouth. Some people didn’t appreciate sarcasm.
“American, aren’t you?”
Was that resignation I heard in his voice? “Yes, though I’m not sure what that has to do with my car being in a ditch.”
The stranger shrugged. “Wrong side of the road. Happens all the time.”
His unspoken criticism made me bristle. “I’ve traveled across six of the seven continents. This isn’t my first rodeo. The only reason my car is in the ditch is because I swerved to keep from hitting an animal. So I would appreciate your removing that smirk.” He didn’t need to know that most of my travel had been done in groups…or that I rarely drove myself.
“My apologies, Duchess. Carry on.”
Duchess? What did that mean? It sounded like sarcasm, but he didn’t even know me. I watched, incredulous, as he turned back toward his motorcycle and picked up his helmet. Dressed in black leather from head to toe, tall, slim-hipped, and probably bad to the bone, he exuded disgust.
Then again, did his personality really matter in this situation?
“Wait,” I cried. “I need help.”
