Susan Kirby - Love Sign

A sign truck turned into the lot just ahead of her. It rolled to a stop and parallel parked at the curb in front of the bank. The driver cut the motor and climbed out, a lanky, wide-shouldered, long-waisted man in jeans and T-shirt, dark glasses and a baseball cap.

Shelby circled the lot once before finding a space. She searched her shoulder bag for her traveler’s checks, only to remember they were in her suitcase.

The sun was hot and climbing as Shelby opened the trunk. She grabbed her suitcase, returned to the front seat to retrieve her traveler’s checks from within, then locked the car, leaving the suitcase on the seat with her laptop.

The sign serviceman was up on the back of the flatbed truck raising his hydraulic ladder as Shelby approached the curb on the heels of a heavyset fellow in painter’s garb. “Better buy CDs. The rates are about to take a dive,” the sign man called to the painter.

“Go home, Jake, you old spoiler, you,” replied the grinning painter, then held the door for Shelby.

Waiting in line, Shelby’s attention strayed inward to that place where stories were born. First, a name. Something catchy for the heroine. She entertained a dozen possibilities in the time it took to cash a traveler’s check and let herself out again. The ladder on the sign truck stretched to the roof of the building. Shelby cut around the truck, off the curb and onto asphalt.

“Look out, lady! Stay back!”

Shelby pivoted to see the sign truck’s hydraulic ladder swing away from the building, leaving the sign man on the roof, waving, shouting a warning. Alarmed, Shelby leapt back onto the curb and watched the unmanned ladder sweep the air twenty feet above the parking lot. All at once, the boom toppled. It came down like a limb in an ice storm and unbalanced the truck. The truck tilted, then fell over on its side. The boom crashed into Shelby’s car with a stomach-turning crunch of steel and shattering glass.

When the dust settled, what lay beneath the crane more closely resembled a crumpled soda can than a car. The air fizzed out of a tire, rupturing the caught-breath silence. Shelby wheeled around, tipping her face to the sign man hunkered at the edge of the roof.

“It’s never done that before,” he said, peering down at the damage. “Some kind of malfunction…”

“You or the crane?” Shelby cut in.

“Toggle switch, I’m guessing.” He shifted to his feet and planted his hands on narrow hips. His sunglasses and the brim of his cap shadowed a tanned and wary demeanor. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

It was a car, not a human being. Or a relationship squashed like a bug. As Shelby struggled with herself, the young man palmed his cap and dived tanned fingers through short-clipped sun-bleached chestnut waves. “I hate to ask. But could you help me down?” he ventured. “There’s a rope there—fell off the deck.”

“Deck?”

“Truck deck,” he amended, pointing.

Shelby cast the less-than-stable-looking truck a doubtful glance. “It won’t roll over on me, will it?”

“It shouldn’t.”

Peachy. The rope had fallen on the pavement when the truck spilled over. Shelby gripped her purse under one arm and picked up one end of the rope.

“Can you throw me one end?” Sign Man called from the roof.

Shelby gave it a go. The rope uncurled like a striking snake. It climbed half a story, then dropped and nipped her on the noggin. Her second effort was better, but unsuccessful. She put her shoulder bag down on the curb.

A pickup truck pulled into the parking lot. The man inside assessed the situation and climbed out. “Anyone hurt?” he asked.

“Just my car,” said Shelby ruefully.

“Here, let me,” he said, and took the rope.

Relieved, Shelby backed out of the way and dusted her hands.

The man coiled the rope a few times and tossed it skyward. Sign Man caught it and anchored his end. The muscles in his arms bunched as he eased himself down the rope and to the ground.

He was thirtyish, clean-shaven with strong shoulders and tall enough so that Shelby had to look up. The sunglasses still screened his eyes. He pressed his lips together, and dimples emerged then went into hiding again as he shifted his attention to the man who had come to their aid. With tanned and capable hands, he slipped the sunglasses from his face and into his T-shirt pocket as he thanked the Good Samaritan.

“The hydraulic lever stuck. I figured the crane would circle around and come back to me,” he explained. “I didn’t think about it jerking the truck over.”

“Did you set your outriggers?” asked the other man.

“Just on the driver’s side. I know better. I got distracted and broke my own rules.” Sign Man’s glance shifted to Shelby. His eyes, a striking blue, enhanced prominent cheeks. His jaw sloped to a nicely carved chin that jutted slightly as he asked, “Are you in a hurry to get someplace?”

“No. Not now,” replied Shelby.

“I’ll call one of my men and get this truck upright,” he said. “Then I’ll see what we can do about getting you wherever you’re headed.”

“Wildwood,” she said.

“Vacationing?” he asked.

Shelby nodded, and glanced at the Good Samaritan who was walking away. Sign Man noticed, and called after him, “Thanks, man.”

The man waved and drove away in his pickup truck.

It wasn’t long until a second sign truck pulled into the lot in answer to Sign Man’s phone call. With the help of the crane, the truck was soon upright and the boom off Shelby’s car.

Sign Man retrieved Shelby’s purse from the curb on his way by. “Here you go,” he said. Faint creases tugged at the corners of his morning glory eyes. “I’m Jake Jackson.”

“Shelby Taylor,” she returned.

Jake started to offer his hand, then checked the impulse. He turned up a grease-smudged palm and asked, “So how upset are you?”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Lamely, Shelby offered, “It happened so fast.”

“Kind of caught me off guard, too.” He spared her further apology and glanced back at her car. “I’ll call my insurance company, see if they can get you something to drive,” he offered.

Jake called on his cell phone and returned with word that his insurer would send an adjuster out. “He’ll see about a loaner car once he has taken some pictures and squared away the paperwork. Like I said, I’d be happy to give you a lift if you don’t want to wait on him.”

At a loss as to how else she was to reach the cabin at Wildwood, Shelby accepted.

“Need anything from the car?” he asked.

“My laptop and suitcase from the front seat. Grab my cell phone, too, would you? Oh! And my book bag, please. It’s in the trunk,” she said, and gave him her car keys.

Jake jerked a thumb in the direction of the bank lobby. “May as well wait inside where it’s cool,” he said.

Thoughtful, as saboteurs went, noted Shelby as she retreated to the lobby. He wasn’t long. Her suitcase swung from one hand, her laptop from the other. He retrieved her cell phone from his shirt pocket. Their fingers brushed as it changed hands.

“Can you get along without the book bag? I didn’t have any luck popping the trunk lid,” he said.

Reluctant to leave unpublished works behind, Shelby wondered aloud, “Could we pry it open?”

“I thought of that. But the adjuster may want to snap his pictures before we tear into it,” he said.

Conceding his point, Shelby followed him to his truck. He checked the oil, then wiped his hands on a towel that lay in the seat. Except for some scraped paint and a broken side view mirror, the truck appeared sound. The engine coughed a time or two en route to the sign shop. But they covered the short distance without incident.