against the glare of the sun. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Can you direct me toward Paris?” Kyle asked. He must have assumed he’d find the road if he could retrace his steps.
“Oh, sure, no problem,” she said and set the toddler down next to his brother. “You take a left out of the driveway and go down the road a mile or so until you come to a red mailbox with the name Wilson written in large white letters.”
“A red mailbox,” Kyle repeated.
“That’s right, but pay attention, because just a little way past the mailbox is a road that goes off to the left.”
“Is that north or south?” Kyle wanted to know.
“I can’t rightly say.”
“Go on,” Carrie urged, “we’ll find it.”
“Don’t worry, the road’s clearly marked. You couldn’t miss it if you tried.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Kyle whispered.
“It’s the one that’s barred and says ROAD CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE . Take a left onto it and—”
“But the sign says the road’s closed,” Kyle objected.
The woman made a weak motion with her hand. “It’s been that way all spring. The county’ll getaround to repairing it within the next couple of months. You really don’t have anything to worry about other than one little hole.”
“Hole?” Kyle asked, and Carrie noticed that he placed his hand on his car as if the action would protect his already battered and abused vehicle.
“The road was washed out several months ago, but it isn’t really that bad. The bad spot’s a mile or so down from the ROAD CLOSED sign. Just be careful driving around it and you won’t have a problem. From there on, it’s smooth sailing to Paris.”
As she finished speaking, Carrie noticed a thick plume of dust racing toward one of the outbuildings.
“That’ll be my husband, Joe,” the woman said. “He’ll probably be able to guide you better than me. That is if you don’t mind waiting.”
“We don’t mind,” Kyle said, and looked to Carrie. “A woman doesn’t know how to give directions,” he murmured under his breath.
“What do you mean?” Carrie said, ready to defend womankind. “We give directions as good as any man.”
“Let’s not argue about it, all right?” Kyle said, his voice and words strained.
“Fine, we won’t argue, just tell me what you mean.”
“All right,” he said shortly. “Women can’t tell east from west, so you use these ridiculous ways of getting from one place to another.”
“Ridiculous means? What exactly are you talking about?”
“If you must know, a woman gives instructions totake a right at the beauty parlor on Main Street, and a man will tell you to head east.”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Kyle argued. “Men don’t notice things like beauty parlors or red mailboxes.”
“Sure, every man is a regular Meriwether Lewis, right? Unfortunately, we need to be in Dallas by nightfall. We don’t have time to wait for you to direct us by the stars.”
A muscle jerked in Kyle’s jaw and his eyes narrowed as he studied her. “You’re impossible.”
“Me?” She moved away from the car and slammed the door shut. Kyle slammed his door too, and the pair glared at each other until another car door closed in the distance.
Kyle waited until the farmer was walking toward them before he broke eye contact. The man was middle-aged, Carrie guessed. He wore jeans, a shirt, and a hat to shield his eyes from the bright glare of the sun.
“I’m Kyle Harris,” Kyle said, extending his hand, “and this is Carrie Jamison. We’re in need of a few directions.”
“Joe Brighton.” The farmer removed his gloves to shake hands with Kyle. He touched the brim of his hat and nodded in Carrie’s direction. “Come inside, out of the sun,” he suggested.
Kyle hesitated. “We don’t want to impose.”
“No problem,” Joe said, taking the porch steps two at a time. “This here’s Adam,” he said, reaching for his younger son.
“Can you direct me toward Paris?” Kyle asked. He must have assumed he’d find the road if he could retrace his steps.
“Oh, sure, no problem,” she said and set the toddler down next to his brother. “You take a left out of the driveway and go down the road a mile or so until you come to a red mailbox with the name Wilson written in large white letters.”
“A red mailbox,” Kyle repeated.
“That’s right, but pay attention, because just a little way past the mailbox is a road that goes off to the left.”
“Is that north or south?” Kyle wanted to know.
“I can’t rightly say.”
“Go on,” Carrie urged, “we’ll find it.”
“Don’t worry, the road’s clearly marked. You couldn’t miss it if you tried.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Kyle whispered.
“It’s the one that’s barred and says ROAD CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE . Take a left onto it and—”
“But the sign says the road’s closed,” Kyle objected.
The woman made a weak motion with her hand. “It’s been that way all spring. The county’ll getaround to repairing it within the next couple of months. You really don’t have anything to worry about other than one little hole.”
“Hole?” Kyle asked, and Carrie noticed that he placed his hand on his car as if the action would protect his already battered and abused vehicle.
“The road was washed out several months ago, but it isn’t really that bad. The bad spot’s a mile or so down from the ROAD CLOSED sign. Just be careful driving around it and you won’t have a problem. From there on, it’s smooth sailing to Paris.”
As she finished speaking, Carrie noticed a thick plume of dust racing toward one of the outbuildings.
“That’ll be my husband, Joe,” the woman said. “He’ll probably be able to guide you better than me. That is if you don’t mind waiting.”
“We don’t mind,” Kyle said, and looked to Carrie. “A woman doesn’t know how to give directions,” he murmured under his breath.
“What do you mean?” Carrie said, ready to defend womankind. “We give directions as good as any man.”
“Let’s not argue about it, all right?” Kyle said, his voice and words strained.
“Fine, we won’t argue, just tell me what you mean.”
“All right,” he said shortly. “Women can’t tell east from west, so you use these ridiculous ways of getting from one place to another.”
“Ridiculous means? What exactly are you talking about?”
“If you must know, a woman gives instructions totake a right at the beauty parlor on Main Street, and a man will tell you to head east.”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Kyle argued. “Men don’t notice things like beauty parlors or red mailboxes.”
“Sure, every man is a regular Meriwether Lewis, right? Unfortunately, we need to be in Dallas by nightfall. We don’t have time to wait for you to direct us by the stars.”
A muscle jerked in Kyle’s jaw and his eyes narrowed as he studied her. “You’re impossible.”
“Me?” She moved away from the car and slammed the door shut. Kyle slammed his door too, and the pair glared at each other until another car door closed in the distance.
Kyle waited until the farmer was walking toward them before he broke eye contact. The man was middle-aged, Carrie guessed. He wore jeans, a shirt, and a hat to shield his eyes from the bright glare of the sun.
“I’m Kyle Harris,” Kyle said, extending his hand, “and this is Carrie Jamison. We’re in need of a few directions.”
“Joe Brighton.” The farmer removed his gloves to shake hands with Kyle. He touched the brim of his hat and nodded in Carrie’s direction. “Come inside, out of the sun,” he suggested.
Kyle hesitated. “We don’t want to impose.”
“No problem,” Joe said, taking the porch steps two at a time. “This here’s Adam,” he said, reaching for his younger son.
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