Fixed up in February (Spring River Valley Book 2) (6 page)

He laughed, and the low rumble made her stomach flutter unpleasantly. She put her hand over it and rubbed to settle the butterflies she had no business feeling. “On behalf of Harper, you’re welcome.”

“Okay, well, it was nice talking to you—”

“That’s it? You just called to thank me?”

She studied her nails, wishing he could see her acting nonchalant and disinterested. “What else should I have called for?”

“A second date.”

“Ha! Really? After last night.”

“I bet if we tried we could do better next time.”

“I’m giving up dating. The universe has been trying to tell me something for the past year, and I’ve finally decided to listen.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I think it’s a fine way to avoid a concussion.”

“I think it’s a fine way to avoid your problems.”

Audrey’s jaw dropped. Why had she done this to herself? Because she felt guilty about not acknowledging the hard work he’d done cleaning off her car. It would have been rude of her to let that little favor go unnoticed. She put the crumpled note in the sink and ran water on it. “My problems?”

“Your hang-ups about men.”

“Oh, do tell me what those hang-ups are! I’ve got to know.”

“You’re terrified of commitment.”

“I am not.”

“Sure you are. Let’s see, twenty first dates, am I right? No second dates. You don’t want to get close to a guy and give him a chance to get under your skin. You’re afraid of really caring about someone, so you’ve become a serial dater. Usually that’s a guy thing. It’s actually refreshing to find a woman with the problem.”

“Serial dater, like serial killer?” Her blood heated again. She reached into her fridge for a cold can of soda, but they were all gone, so she settled for holding the margarine container up to her burning cheeks. “I see you’re trying to draw a comparison here, aren’t you?”

“I suppose if you think about it, serial killers collect trophies from their victims, little mementos. You collect stories about your bad dates, and you whip them out like badges to show where you’ve been.”

“Oh
,
my god. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. You’re a lunatic. You’re accusing me of being like a serial killer because I’ve been on a bunch of dates with a bunch of men who…who…” Wasn’t there some truth to his words? She had a story for every date she’d been on, a nickname for every guy, and she usually managed to work mention of at least one of them into every conversation she had with Harper. Now she could add two more to her repertoire: Appendix Guy, the date that never was, and Dead Battery Guy, the date she couldn’t forget no matter how hard she tried.

“Audrey? You still there?”

She considered hanging up. “Yeah. Never mind. Look, thanks for cleaning off my car
.
Y
ou didn’t have to do that.”

“How’s your ankle?”

“It’s better.”

“And your head?”

Spinning.
“Fine. How’s your car?”

“I have to pick up a new battery. Want to go for a drive with me?”

“Is this the second date? You take me to the garage to buy a battery for your car?”

“I’d include dinner.”

She rolled her eyes. Dead Battery Guy now had two stories, two mementos. She scrunched up the wet note from the sink and threw it back in the trash. “I can’t. I’m on duty at the hospital.” Why was she qualifying her refusal? She didn’t need to make up an excuse for not wanting to ride shotgun while he ran errands.

“Too bad. It might have been fun.”

“Yes, I usually get a big kick out of shopping for batteries.”

“Prickly.”

Ooh, she had a response for that, but she caught herself. No use playing his game. “Maybe you should go before you get jabbed.”

“I will. But we’ll talk again soon, right?”

“What for?”

“So we can work out your problems with men. Don’t you want some expert advice on how to get over this slump you’re in?”

“That’s what I have girlfriends for.”

“And what advice have they given you?”

“Stay away from axe murderers.”

“Touché. Bye, Iron Audrey. It was nice hearing your voice.” He hung up and Audrey glared at the phone. Her nerves were shot from that short, annoying conversation. She wanted to scream, but what good would it do? Even if Max was here, he’d probably just calmly ask her how she planned to solve her problem. He was right on one count, though. She needed a new approach, and her first order of business was to get rid of all her mementos of bad dates and start new. No more talk about Appendix Guy, Goat Guy, Intestine Guy, Brain Guy…she would dump them all in the trash with Max’s note and never speak of them again.

* * * *

“So you talked to her?” Max balanced the studio phone on his shoulder while he uploaded digital pictures to his computer. He’d spent Tuesday at the lake taking some art shots of the ice on the water and wanted to get them cropped and onto the stock photo site as soon as possible. The phone slipped off his shoulder and clattered to the desk. “Sorry about that, what did you say?” he
asked
after scooping it up.

“I said, yes, she finally did take my call.” Cassandra sounded exasperated, but to be fair, that was her usual tone.

“And?”

“Apparently you called her too. And she’s even madder at you.”

He smirked. No she wasn’t. He’d put a bee in her bonnet, and he would have bet money Iron Audrey was more eager than ever to prove she could handle a second date. “So I got her hot under the collar, huh?”

“Not in a good way. She thinks you’re arrogant and full of yourself, and sadly, I couldn’t dispute that, having grown up with you.”

“Ah, but I’m not boring.”

“She’s desperate for boring. In fact, I talked to John, and he’s feeling better.”

Max grabbed the phone and pursed his lips. “She agreed to see that guy again?”

“Again? She never saw him the first time.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, no. She didn’t agree. She mentioned something about joining a convent, but I’m pretty sure she was kidding. You’ve singlehandedly turned the girl off men.”

“I doubt that. She’s feisty. She won’t give up the challenge for long.”

“Well, regardless, I got her to forgive me for this whole fiasco, but she’s not ready to date anyone else, so you’re out. I can’t convince her to let me fix her up again.”

“Keep working on her.”

“Max, what’s wrong with you? You weren’t even looking for a date, and now you can’t stop talking about this girl. Is it just because you can’t deal with the idea of someone not thinking you’re great?”

Maybe it was. He’d wrestled with that for the past few days. Max was a likable guy, and all this conflict with Audrey really wasn’t either of their faults. He wanted to show her that given the right circumstances they could have hit it off. And he wanted to smell her perfume again and watch her lips move and her hair shimmer. He really wanted to photograph her, but he was sure if he told her that she’d call the cops on him. “Yeah, that’s it. I crave approval.”

“Well, why don’t you start craving my approval? You can do that by taking Nana to the hairdresser on Saturday.”

“I have a wedding Saturday.”

“Her appointment is at nine a.m. You’ll have plenty of time to take her and get to the wedding.”

“Not really, I—”

“Approval, Max. Besides, do this and I’ll call Audrey again and sing your prais—”

The call-waiting tone on his phone beeped then, cutting off part of Cassie’s sentence. “Okay, fine. I’ll work it out. I’ve got another call, talk to you later.” He hung up and switched over to the other call, hoping it might be Audrey, even though he hadn’t given her his studio number.

“Shannon Studios.”

“Hey, Max, you busy right now?” It was Jared.

“Just fiddling with the computer, why?”

“I’m at work,
and
I just got a call from Bailey Cole over at the paper.”

“She’s in Classifieds, right?”

“Yeah, but she heard from one of the reporters, their photographer is out sick today, and there’s something going on over by the bridge. A car got stuck, somebody tried to drive over while it was opening up. They need a photographer ASAP. Can you get there? Tell them…
you’re with Chad
Marchand
.”

“
Chad Marchand
, that’s the reporter?”

“I don’t know, that’s what Bailey told me to tell you. Hurry up before they get the car down.”

“I’m on my way.”

* * * *

The ride to the Harbor Bridge seemed to take forever, and the closer Max got, the more traffic backed up. Finally, he pulled to the side of the road about a block away and jumped out, camera in hand. From there, he could see what had happened. It was actually a staggeringly common thing, though more so over the summer when teenagers got cocky and thought they could jump the bridge. Someone had ignored the stop signal at the entrance of the bridge and gone over as it began to open up to allow
the
passage of a boat. Now the aging Buick hung with its front tires over the edge of the open bridge. The driver, who could be seen sitting very still behind the wheel, looked to be somewhat older than a teenager and not in any immediate danger.

Police officers, EMTs, and bridge crew milled around, trying to decide whether to lower the bridge, which would no doubt seriously damage the car, before or after rescuing the man.

Max took a few telephoto shots then worked his way toward the barriers the police had set up. A man there jotting notes wore the logo for the
Spring River Valley Herald
on is jacket.

“I got a call, someone needed a photographer,” Max said as he approached.

The man looked up. “How did you know?”

“Uh…
Bailey Cole
?”

“Oh, okay. I’m Chad Marchand. I’m covering the story. Seems Mr. Earl Dochanti, age seventy-two, ignored the signal and blew past the safety gate. He’ll be the oldest person on record. Average age for that stunt is twenty-two.”

Max shook Chad’s hand and introduced himself. “I’ve already taken a few shots from back there. I’ll see if I can get a little closer from the service—”

“Whoa!” A collective gasp went up around them, and instinctively Max raised his camera and pointed it toward the bridge where Mr. Dochanti had opened his car door and stuck his foot out.

“Sir, do not attempt to leave the vehicle!” The bull-horn-enhanced voice of a police officer rang out. Max snapped dozens of shots while the EMTs swarmed. He got photos of the cops conversing, Mr. Dochanti’s booted foot struggling for purchase on the icy bridge surface and members of the bridge crew motioning to each other to begin the painstaking process of lowering the bridge at half speed so as not to dislodge the car and send it careening backward into the police barriers.

As bad as Max felt for the elderly man, he couldn’t tamp down the wild excitement in his blood. This was what he wanted to be doing. News photography was his calling. He didn’t have to make anyone smile, or wait for someone to achieve the perfect pose. He could just point and shoot and capture amazing images as they happened.

Behind him, the reporter was now talking into his cell phone, likely directly to his editor. Max heard his name mentioned. This would be great publicity for his studio, not to mention give him an in at the paper. He kept shooting while the rescue workers swarmed.

Another group reaction traveled through the crowd as the car jerked. One tire seemed to be coming up over the rim of the bridge, and the man’s movements inside were making the vehicle bounce. Someone shouted to stop the bridge, and the onlookers crowded closer to the barriers. Still talking into his cell, Marchand passed Max and made his way to the line of neon orange sawhorses. For a better angle, Max held back, taxing his telephoto to the limit to try to capture a shot of Mr. Dochanti’s gloved hand griping the steering wheel as his open door swung dangerously back and forth.

Everything after that moment happened in a blur. The car bucked once, and its wheels came free of the lip of the roadway. In the next instant, it began rolling down the raised deck of the bridge, the still steep angle giving it momentum.

The bridge workers shouted, and Max looked up in time to see Marchand, turned away from the barriers to talk to someone standing behind him. The car was barreling toward the onlookers, and Max let go of his camera, letting it swing by its strap from his body, and threw himself into the knot of reporters, pushing them out of the way.

The next thing he knew he was face-to-bumper with the rolling Buick.

“Room four is still waiting for an X-ray,” Audrey said, making a note on the patient’s chart. She’d been in Radiology and missed most of the excitement when injuries began rolling in from the runaway car on the drawbridge. Now there was little left to do but oversee the discharge for a couple members of the bridge crew and onlookers brought in by the EMTs.