women, in which case she’d been fortunate to get away with nothing worse than a skinned knee, or a tramp looking for a place to sleep, or a burglar. If that was all, good hunting to him. There was nothing in the house worth stealing. With luck, he might set it afire and they’d be able to collect the insurance.
Whatever he was, she was not about to notify the police there was a man on the place. They’d know who she was, and they might report back to Alexander in Boston about the complaint his wife had lodged, which was the last thing she wanted. Her wisest course was to keep going.
That in itself was almost more than she could manage. Her knee was hurting worse every time she moved her leg. Her flesh was trying to crawl away from her sodden clothes. If only the heater didn’t take so long to warm up! A wet oakleaf got stuck under the windshield wiper and was blocking her view at every sweep. She absolutely had to stop and get herself straightened out, but where? Not on this lonely road, not in the village where she and the Kellings’ ridiculously out-of-date car were too well-known and too easily noticed now that the season was over. She’d have to stick it out till she got back on the highway.
Hating the honky-tonks that had encroached on the historic Newburyport Turnpike was part of the Kelling creed, but tonight Sarah would have given her back teeth for a neon sign with a cup of hot coffee under it. The rain was blotting out landmarks, making the familiar route a no-man’s land. The ride took on that eerie quality of timelessness she’d felt on the path. When the longed-for sign did appear, she was so disoriented she forgot to brake before she turned in. Fortunately the parking lot was almost empty. She managed to get the car under control by swinging around to the rear of the building before she went through the plate-glass windows.
Sweating and panting, Sarah switched on the overhead light pulled up her skirt, and examined her damages. The flesh on her knee was puffed, already purple, crisscrossed with deep scratches that were still oozing blood. Dark red rivulets had dried on her shin. Her panty hose were in tatters and she decided bare legs would be less noticeable. She switched off the light and wiggled out of the clinging shreds of nylon. Even her underpants were damp, so she took them off, too, and held them out in the rain to get thoroughly wet so she could use them as a washcloth to swab off the blood.
The first-aid kit was a great help. Once she’d mopped up the mud and gore, she swabbed out her wounds with merthiolate, put on a large gauze pad to stop the bleeding, and strapped it in place with adhesive. Alexander had even included a little pair of blunt-nosed scissors to cut the tape. She’d never tease him about being the eternal Boy Scout again.
Putting on wet boots with no stockings was like stepping into a bucket of shucked clams, but that was the least of her problems. She combed her short hair, looked in the rear-view mirror to apply some lipstick and saw that her face was filthy, found a few clean inches of underpants and wiped it as best she could. She was not aiming to make herself attractive, just to avoid looking as if she’d lost a wrestling match with a gorilla. When she thought she’d got to a point where she was unlikely to attract particular notice, Sarah picked up the bag which felt oddly light now that she’d jettisoned the brick, and went into the restaurant.
She was lucky enough to find an empty booth well away from the windows, since the place was all but empty. A tired waitress in a bedraggled uniform slouched over to her table.
“What’ll it be?”
“Black coffee, please, and a chicken sandwich.”
“No chicken. Tuna.”
Sarah and Alexander were boycotting tunafish on account of the porpoises, but she was too tired to stand on principle.
“Fine.”
“White bread?”
“I don’t care.”
She did care. Sarah abominated that squishy, pallid travesty of
Whatever he was, she was not about to notify the police there was a man on the place. They’d know who she was, and they might report back to Alexander in Boston about the complaint his wife had lodged, which was the last thing she wanted. Her wisest course was to keep going.
That in itself was almost more than she could manage. Her knee was hurting worse every time she moved her leg. Her flesh was trying to crawl away from her sodden clothes. If only the heater didn’t take so long to warm up! A wet oakleaf got stuck under the windshield wiper and was blocking her view at every sweep. She absolutely had to stop and get herself straightened out, but where? Not on this lonely road, not in the village where she and the Kellings’ ridiculously out-of-date car were too well-known and too easily noticed now that the season was over. She’d have to stick it out till she got back on the highway.
Hating the honky-tonks that had encroached on the historic Newburyport Turnpike was part of the Kelling creed, but tonight Sarah would have given her back teeth for a neon sign with a cup of hot coffee under it. The rain was blotting out landmarks, making the familiar route a no-man’s land. The ride took on that eerie quality of timelessness she’d felt on the path. When the longed-for sign did appear, she was so disoriented she forgot to brake before she turned in. Fortunately the parking lot was almost empty. She managed to get the car under control by swinging around to the rear of the building before she went through the plate-glass windows.
Sweating and panting, Sarah switched on the overhead light pulled up her skirt, and examined her damages. The flesh on her knee was puffed, already purple, crisscrossed with deep scratches that were still oozing blood. Dark red rivulets had dried on her shin. Her panty hose were in tatters and she decided bare legs would be less noticeable. She switched off the light and wiggled out of the clinging shreds of nylon. Even her underpants were damp, so she took them off, too, and held them out in the rain to get thoroughly wet so she could use them as a washcloth to swab off the blood.
The first-aid kit was a great help. Once she’d mopped up the mud and gore, she swabbed out her wounds with merthiolate, put on a large gauze pad to stop the bleeding, and strapped it in place with adhesive. Alexander had even included a little pair of blunt-nosed scissors to cut the tape. She’d never tease him about being the eternal Boy Scout again.
Putting on wet boots with no stockings was like stepping into a bucket of shucked clams, but that was the least of her problems. She combed her short hair, looked in the rear-view mirror to apply some lipstick and saw that her face was filthy, found a few clean inches of underpants and wiped it as best she could. She was not aiming to make herself attractive, just to avoid looking as if she’d lost a wrestling match with a gorilla. When she thought she’d got to a point where she was unlikely to attract particular notice, Sarah picked up the bag which felt oddly light now that she’d jettisoned the brick, and went into the restaurant.
She was lucky enough to find an empty booth well away from the windows, since the place was all but empty. A tired waitress in a bedraggled uniform slouched over to her table.
“What’ll it be?”
“Black coffee, please, and a chicken sandwich.”
“No chicken. Tuna.”
Sarah and Alexander were boycotting tunafish on account of the porpoises, but she was too tired to stand on principle.
“Fine.”
“White bread?”
“I don’t care.”
She did care. Sarah abominated that squishy, pallid travesty of
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