And even though he doesn’t recognize me, even though I’d probably be safe telling him at least the name of the town I’m due in by this evening, I lie again. Morgan Waller tells Warner Hayden that she’s headed to New Mexico.
“Moving there?” he asks, probably thinking of the suitcases jammed in the Bronco’s back seat.
“Temporarily.”
Warner switches on the radio. We spend the next ten minutes listening to country, and I’m reminded why I don’t prefer it. So much of it is about love, that pure, sweet and intoxicating kind. Unless you’re lucky enough to be at that point in your life, the crooning melody is depressing.
I put my elbow on the door and look out the window as he drives, my good mood deflating with every revolution of the truck’s tires. Warner is the kind of man Tate should have been. I don’t have to know him any better than this. I can just tell.
Warner drives me to Caliverde Auto, and though the tow truck is out on a job right now, it will be available to get Pearl within the hour.
“Thanks for all your help,” I tell Warner, reaching into my purse for my wallet. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would accept money for his help, but shouldn’t I at least offer?
When he sees my wallet come out, he shakes his head. “I should be the one paying you for the chance to look under the hood of a vintage Bronco. They’re not exactly common.” The curiosity is there again in those burnt caramel eyes. “You referred to the Bronco as ‘she’ and ‘her.’ Does that also mean you’ve named your vehicle?”
“Pearl,” I answer, a hint of pride creeping into my tone. I love that car. She makes me feel free and untamed.
“Pearl,” Warner echoes, nodding his head slowly. “I like it.”
“That’s good, because if you didn’t, I’d have to change it.”
His eyes draw together. “Really?”
I snort. “No, not really. Pearl is my girl, and her name fits her.” Slipping the wallet in my purse, I come away with something else. “Candy?”
Warner stares at my open palm, then he meets my eyes. “Where I come from, candy has a wrapper.”
“I know, it’s unconventional.” Unscrewing the lid to the wide-mouth Mason jar, I thrust it closer. “They’re to die for. Spicy Peach Rings, and they make them in-house at this place in LA.”
Warner eyes me. “LA to New Mexico? That’s a haul.”
I ignore the two little puzzle pieces he has just connected. It’s not like he cares one way or the other. He is maybe or maybe not married, and he definitely has kids. “Just take one. You won’t regret it.”
He fishes out a peach ring and pops it in his mouth. I widen my eyes and lean forward, jokingly watching him. He nods and says, “Okay, those are good. Spicy, but good.”
I eat one too, and tell him, “I told you.”
He reaches for another. “I need one more for the road.” He takes three and looks at his watch. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”
“Thank you again,” I say. He waves at me and turns around, and I watch him walk across the cracked asphalt parking lot to his truck. I will probably never see him again.
He doesn’t belong to me, and he very likely belongs to someone else.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve just lost something.
5
Tenley
Shirley has brick red lipstick on her teeth, but the makeup faux pas can wait. Barb has something much more pressing to tell her friend. “Did you hear?” she asks in a superior tone, thoroughly enjoying holding court for her party of one.
“Hear what?” Shirley asks, curious but also reticent. Barb can be a terrible gossip.
“A whole parade of trucks came through town this morning. Big trucks,” Barb holds her fleshy hands away from her body, motioning to show the size. “Hauling trailers. They’re coming.”
The corners of Shirley’s lips dip with disapproval, and she taps Barb’s hand, a physical tsk. “Would you stop? You sound melodramatic.”
Barb leans forward conspiratorially, and Shirley smells a secret. “How’s this for melodramatic? I heard they asked Beau Hayden if they could film inside his house and he asked them if they’d also like to crawl up his backside and set up camp.” Unbridled pride skims her cheekbones and eyes, rolling over her face like a wave. Not much tastes as good as juicy truth.
Shirley laughs. “Now that, I believe. Nobody delivers a cutting line like a Hayden.”
The studio has put me up in a big house close to a river. There is more land and privacy, but I would’ve preferred to stay closer in town, where the crew is staying. For looks, I’m supposed to be staying in the nicer place. Lead actress, yada yada. But I know who’s footing the bill for all this, and the smaller the cost, the better. Still, I couldn’t very well insist on a room at the town’s hotel. Maintaining appearances is paramount to my parents. Despite the zeroes in their bank account (not the kind that come after a big number and are separated by commas), they need me to put on a show.
It’s the least I can do for them, after all they’ve done for me.
Pearl is running like a champ again. Warner was correct. It was the fuel pump.
The sun has almost disappeared by the time I reach Sierra Grande. The GPS sends me around the town, so I don’t get to see the details. From here, I see a lot of lights. Not headlights or brake lights, like I’m used to seeing, but streetlights. Lights from stores and houses.
Already I feel my pulse slowing, my anxiety ebbing. Everything about this place screams slower pace. Air swirls around me as I drive, and even that feels different from LA. I take a deep breath, trapping the oxygen in my throat, before I breathe it out slowly and loudly. Whenever I take a deep breath in LA, I’m left with tension and ambition. Here, all I feel now is calm.
The house my GPS directs me to is two stories and sits a couple hundred feet back from a riverbank. It’s painted white, with light blue shutters and a red front door. It’s obviously old, but maintained. From the outside, anyway.
My stomach rumbles as I pull up and park. I feel supremely grateful my assistant, Gretchen, asked the scout who found this house and rented it to stock the kitchen before he moved on to the next city.
Gretchen emailed me before I left my parents’ house this morning and assured me there was food waiting for me, and she also promised cold beer for when I finish my “cowgirl” lessons.
When my parents got the brilliant idea to use this film to save them from economic death, and the inevitable collapse of their social lives, I reminded them that I’ve never stepped foot on a ranch. My experience around a horse was limited to a single riding lesson when I was ten, and when it became painfully clear I would never be a skilled equestrienne, I quit. Which was fine, because that same day I got a callback for a commercial, and nothing made my mom or dad happier than to see me follow in their footsteps.
The solution to my lack of ranch knowledge was a teacher. A real cowboy who would show me how to rope and ride, teach me about the inner workings of a ranch.
Cary the Cowboy will be here promptly at nine tomorrow morning to begin lessons. Which means I need to get inside this house, eat, shower, unpack, and find a bed.