Doranna Durgin - Exception to the Rule

Kimmer herself wouldn’t know. She’d walked away from her high school and never looked back. She’d since done enough reading, traveling and studying up for assignments until she counted herself as educated as any woman with a college degree, and more educated than most—at least, when she ever thought about it at all. But she’d never encountered anyone from those early years, never had that experience of matching up faces over time.

“Try the Millstream Motel,” the man said abruptly, though he smiled while he was at it. He’d decided to be charming, apparently. Or to be what he thought was charming. “Though there are some boardinghouses around if you end up staying any time.”

Kimmer heard his words as “end up doing any time.” As in, prison. She had to shake her thoughts loose before she could smile back. “Thanks. I’ll look up that motel.” She slid into the car without offering him the rest of her cover story, the information she intended to plant once she reached Mill Springs. He was, she could see, the type who would take advantage of such a situation, and she didn’t want to encourage him. Didn’t want him hanging around, didn’t want him watching her long enough that he finally remembered who she used to be.

“I must have been wrong,” he said, pushing the door closed without checking to see if her feet were out of the way; she yanked them to safety. “I can’t imagine ever forgetting someone like you.”

Ah. He thought himself gallant. She smiled as though he had been. “That’s sweet. Maybe I’ll see you in town sometime.” I need the sprinting practice. After all, run away was a sound strategy. It had worked for her in the past.

Run away.

Too bad she was now going in the wrong direction.

Kimmer drove into Mill Springs with the decided feeling that two different people occupied her body, one of whom already knew this place. The town’s age, its lost-in-time look of solid red brick buildings and streets lined with establishments set so closely they might as well have been the same building…the age of the trees lining the sidewalks. Huge maples, dressed to kill in startling scarlet-orange hues, soon to inspire much raking and mulching…

At least it wasn’t spring. In spring, the gingko trees made the air smell like the bottom of a sun-warmed pigsty. The thought came unbidden, reminding her of just how many other well-preserved memories lay in wait.

Bonnie Miller drove into Mill Springs, on the run from her temperamental boyfriend. Ready to make a new start.

Kimmer Reed fled from Munroville, on the run from an abusive family and a brother ready to give her away. Underfed, dressed in clothes scavenged from her brothers, bruised from their pinches and slapping and battered in soul by their cruelty. Ready to make a new start.

Bonnie Miller had her Taurus. She carried her life in a small suitcase and duffel, and had left the remainder of her belongings in a small storage locker. She needed work, and she needed a town that would take her in as one of their own.

Kimmer Reed had her thumb, and the uncanny knack of choosing a safe ride. She carried her life in a ratty little bag and clung to a battered Instamatic camera and the memory of a mother who exhorted her to escape. She needed work, and a town that would leave her alone. She needed a life.

Kimmer poked herself. She literally poked herself, jamming a finger into toned stomach muscle. “Stop that,” she said out loud, braking at one of the few lights in the town. Obediently, the thoughts receded. She’d had years of practice at chasing them away, and the first flush of them, triggered by this little town so much like Munroville, retreated quickly.

Too bad they hadn’t brought her an image of a younger Garage Boy while they were at it; she could have used that information.

She drove through to the other edge of town—a journey of only a few moments—and to the Millstream Motel. Garage Boy had actually sized her up just about right—Hunter had chosen the Millstream for Bonnie Miller, too. Of course, it was only one block away from the B&B where Rio had booked himself and Carolyne—that, too, had something to do with the choice.

The Millstream came complete with an old millstone by the office door and a sign that announced Bath And Shower! as part of the amenities. Kimmer hoped she wouldn’t have to pay extra for such luxuries. She hoped, too, that the room interiors wouldn’t reflect the color sense of the exterior, which came as close to Pepto-Bismol-pink as she’d ever seen in a building. Before she even checked in, she left the Taurus in the parking lot and headed out on foot, camera in hand. Carolyne and her cousin hadn’t passed her on the road, and that meant she had a chance—her only chance—to assess the B&B before they arrived. She’d take pictures, identify her best spots to lurk, and find the security vulnerabilities of the establishment.

No doubt Rio would do much the same as soon as he arrived. She needed to be gone by then. They’d see each other again, certainly…but not while Kimmer was casing his hidey-hole. That wouldn’t go over well at all.

On the other hand, it would be a chance to see him in action again. Assess him. Take his measure. Or just plain get an eyeful.

Kimmer, halfway to Angelina’s Bed and Breakfast, stopped short. Closed her eyes. Took a breath. Rio Carlsen is a playing piece, she told herself. An object. A tool.

No amount of personable smiling could change that. No silly bowing. And certainly no glimpses at how much he cared for his cousin, and how he protected her.

Get to work, Chimera. Just…get to work.

R io stood in the snack section of Mill Springs’s only grocery store, hands on hips and faint scowl on his face, and decided that calling the place Giant Eagle was something of an exaggeration. He glanced down at the list Carolyne had given him—all of her favorite comfort foods—and confirmed it. Nope, none of these things were here.

Then again, when was the last time he’d seen apple chips in any store? He’d said as much at Angelina’s, where they shared one of the largest rooms in the converted boardinghouse, one with two twin beds and an adjoining bath—even if the bath also served the smaller room on the other side. It came so full of country character that Rio’s head still spun. Or maybe that had just been the overwhelming potpourri, the spicy pumpkin-cinnamon-clove mixture that had made Carolyne smile and Rio sneeze.

He resolved to track it down and, when Carolyne wasn’t looking, dump it down the toilet.

Or would that just blow up the septic system?

He’d been happy for the excuse to stock up on snacks, both for his stomach’s sake and for Carolyne’s psyche. He hadn’t been as happy to leave her alone—but then, this was the best time for him to scope out the town’s amenities and flavor. He’d been in the room long enough to intercept any immediate threats, and for now the only ones who knew he and his “sister” were here were the hyperactive young couple who owned the place. And, of course, Bonnie Miller.

He’d left Carolyne carefully divesting a gorgeous burr oak bureau of a surfeit of Thanksgiving knickknacks and miniature pigs, preparing it for peripherals and battery chargers. It seemed they’d drawn the cute-pig theme room, with the overlay of holiday flavor. In retrospect, Rio found himself grateful for the Thanksgiving aspect. Who knew what pig-themed potpourri would smell like?

Unfortunately, it didn’t look as if he was going to return as a mighty hunter of snack food. Tentatively, he reached for a bag of barbecued chips—at least they had flavor of some sort. Or should he go for baked chips? He decided Carolyne would choose the healthy route and tossed the baked chips in his small shopping cart. After a moment, he added the barbecued chips for himself.