Laura Drake - Her Road Home

Relaxing onto the pillow, she panted, waiting for the medicine to kick in. She glanced at the bedside alarm clock and did a double take. She hadn’t slept until nine o’clock in years.

Her mind worried at the edges of the dream, like a tongue on a broken tooth. But after a few minutes, her relentless antsiness kicked in; so long a part of her, it had melded to the myelin sheath covering her nerves. She moved, so gently, so slowly, that her medicine-lulled body only creaked. Easing herself to a sitting position, she slipped her forearm into the sling, and buckled it. She felt like the Tin Man, left out in the rain.

“Where is Dorothy, with that damn oilcan?”

She ran her fingers gently over the bruise on her chest. It felt swollen. She lifted her hand to the lump on her collarbone, and winced at her own touch. She had broken a collarbone before, thanks to a fall from a ladder; she knew a sling, Motrin, painkillers and time were the only cures.

Sam squinted through the worn, lacy curtains to the sun-splashed gravel parking lot. Evergreen boughs danced on the wind. Leaning over, she eased the window open a crack. A pine-scented breeze as clean as innocence and welcome as absolution swirled in, cooling her sweaty face.

“It’s a physical impossibility to be in a bad mood on such a gorgeous morning.” With hope that saying it would make it so, she stood and shuffled like an invalid to the bathroom.

After spending too much time dressing, she grabbed her helmet on the way out the door. It would be useless to her for a while; it belonged with the bike. She stepped out into the perfect day and pulled the door closed behind her. Yesterday’s rain clouds had scrubbed the sky to Alice blue, leaving only a few puffy white ones behind. The sun flashed off quartz in the gravel, and in a pasture across the lot, the breeze led the live oats in a stadium wave.

She set off for the road. Between the distraction of the day and the sun on her shoulders, Sam’s body eventually warmed up, walking fast enough to outpace a one-legged octogenarian. After a while, she came upon a bright red farmhouse on the left, a sign proclaiming it the Farm House Café that the old man had recommended.

Her belly sounded a rumbling timpani.

“Hang in there. Food’s coming.” Pushing the glass door to the café open, she was hit by the chatter of conversation, dishes clattering and the heavenly smell of bacon.

A blonde wielding a tray of dirty plates swished by. “Sit anywhere, honey. I’ll be right with you.” She had a tiny, pretty face, big hair piled in a riot of curls and perfect red fingernails. The white waitress uniform fit her busty stature as if she’d been dipped in it.

Sam eased herself onto a stool at the linoleum-covered bar that stretched the length of the room. Pretending to look at the menu, she studied the homey atmosphere. Customers filled the red vinyl booths, everyone talking at once. Small farm implements hung on the wall. Some of them, she could actually identify: a hand plow, butter churn, an oxen yoke. An old potbellied stove squatted in the back corner on a wood floor worn silver-gray with use.

The waitress appeared on the other side of the counter, coffee carafe in hand. “Sorry to make you wait, sweetie, this place goes nuts this time of day.” Her head cocked. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope, just passing through. This is a great place. Warm and cozy.”

“Why, thank you, sweetheart. We’re not fancy like some of those new places, but we try. I’m Jesse Jurgen, and that huge hunk of man behind me is my husband, Carl.” Sam looked through the serving window. A blond giant filled it, looking like a modern-day Norse god, his white T-shirt riding high on heavily muscled biceps. He waved a spatula in greeting.

“What can I get you, sugar?”

“That bacon smells wonderful. Could I get some scrambled eggs and sourdough toast to go with it?”

“Sure you can. You want coffee?”

“You bet.” Sam closed the menu. “What’s with all the bed-and-breakfast places downtown? They look new.”

“Oh, they’re new, all right.” The blonde pulled a coffee cup from under the counter and poured. “This has been ranch country for a hundred years, until some smart guy discovered the land hereabouts was perfect for growing grapes. Now we’ve got vineyards coming out our ears. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to sidle up to a nice glass of Zin now and again, but—”

The man a few seats down the bar broke in. “Oh, come on, Jesse. You can’t complain about the business all those tourists have brought in.”

“I’m not complaining, Hank, God knows. But this used to be such a sleepy town. You should see this place on a summer weekend now. The tourists swarm like termites.”

“I can see why.” Sam sipped her coffee.

“Can you believe there’s a limousine service in town that will drive people to wine tastings? What will they think of next?” Jesse grabbed the coffeepot and swished around the bar. “I’m coming, Oscar. Hold your water.”

“CaliFornication,” said the older man on Sam’s right.

“Sorry?”

“CaliFornication. You know, like the song. It’s when you take a beautiful state and screw it up with too many people, too many houses, too many—”

“Don’t listen to Don. He’s just a bitter old man.” A man on Sam’s left leaned in. “This is God’s country.”

“At least so far.” Jesse had returned and put a full plate in front of Sam. She stared at the sling, then the helmet. “Did you ride a motorcycle here?”

“Well, I tried to.” Sam grimaced, then took a bite of fluffy egg.

Sam could see puzzle pieces fall into place and the woman’s carmine lips opened. “You’re the motorcycle chick. The one who got hit last night!”

Sam had heard of small-town jungle drums, but had never been the source of their pounding before. “Yep, that’s me. Motorcycle chick.”

“I mean that with respect. I’d love to ride myself, but I’m a hazard on the road as it is.” She frowned down at Sam. “Are you sure you’re all right? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“Been there. Done with that.” Sam stuck her knife in a mason jar of what looked like homemade strawberry preserves and slathered it on her toast. “I’ll be fine.”

The woman looked unconvinced, but asked, “Where are you coming from, honey?”

“Ohio, originally.”

The blonde’s brown penciled-on eyebrows scrunched. “You mean you rode a motorcycle out here from Ohio? All by yourself? Lord, weren’t you scared? How long have you been traveling?”

Sam began to recognize that if you wanted to talk with Jesse, rather than listen, it would require using large amounts of duct tape. “I left Colorado two months ago, but it’s been six years since I left where I grew up in Ohio. People have been great, for the most part, and I’ve seen more beautiful country than I knew existed.”

“Well, I’m impressed. I’d never have the guts to do something like that.”

Sam’s mind skipped to the day ahead. Once she’d checked on the bike and picked up a rental car, she planned to cruise around and look for a job. “Can you tell me which direction is best to see some of the country?”

Eavesdropping diners tossed out suggestions.

“Zaca Station Road is real pretty.”

“Yeah, but Foxen Canyon is better. The wineries are beautiful.”

“They just repaved Calle Bonita.”

As a heated discussion broke out, Jesse leaned over. “Oh, just head out of town and take any old road. It’ll wind around and give you a pretty good lay of the land.”

As Sam ate, the café got busier. Overall-clad farmers, who clearly owned their booths, spoke of yesterday’s rain. A gaggle of teenagers bolted food while chatting loudly.