I close my eyes … only to have them fly open when I hear a heavy pounding on the windshield.
What the hell is this? I sit up, groggy. How can I be groggy when I just fell asleep? Wait-it's darker outside. And much snowier. What's happening?
I pick up my phone … which is now dead. Oh my fucking god, the battery died. How long have I been asleep, anyway?
"Hey!" I call out to whoever it is outside the car. "Help!" I realize in the back of my mind that this person, whoever they are, could be a murderer. On the other hand, I might have slept my way into oblivion if it wasn't for them. The inside of the car is beyond freezing, and my teeth are chattering. If only I didn't feel so groggy.
I see sheets of snow falling from the exterior of the car and realize I am nearly snowed in. Holy shit. This person is my new superhero, whoever they are.
I see a dark figure looming outside the car, beside the driver's side door. I lean forward to unlock it and watch as it opens. An absolutely immense figure in a black hooded parka slides behind the wheel. I can't see their face; a heavy scarf covers most of it.
"How long have you been here?" The voice is deep, resonant. Of course it's a man; otherwise I'd be dealing with the biggest woman I'd ever known.
"Since around eleven this morning. What time is it now?"
"Way after eleven," he replies, his voice grim. "I don't want to alarm you, but you wouldn't have lasted much longer out here. It's a miracle I even saw you from my window."
"Your window? Do you live around here?"
"Not far. Less than a quarter mile off the road. The wind died down for a little while and your car stood out against the snow."
Thank God I went with red, I think.
"You're nearly out of gas."
"Yes, I know. I was going to stop to refuel along the way. I didn't count on fighting my way down the road in this mess for hours."
"Do you even watch the news? They've been talking about this storm for days."
"They have?" I've been so busy at work, I completely missed the alerts. But I still don't like the snotty tone in his voice. Whether or not he'd saved my life, he didn't need to talk to me like I was some sort of idiot. I was doing a good enough job of talking to myself that way as it was.
"Listen. If you stay out here, you'll freeze to death. Do you even have a blanket?" I shake my head, feeling lame. He sighs, the exasperated sound of a put-upon parent with a willful child. "I'll take you back to my house. It's not far; you'll be able to walk it. I can't in good conscience leave you out here."
To his house? I don't know who this guy is. He could be a serial killer or something. Maybe this is his thing, waiting for storms to roll through so he can lure young girls to his house for God only knows what.
He sees me hesitating and naturally knows why. "We can't spend too much time before you decide whether or not I'm a serial killer. It's fucking cold as a witch's tit in here, and getting worse. You're not dressed for this. Either come with me or freeze to death. Keep in mind the roads are impassable, and the car was nearly buried when I found you."
I know I don't have a choice. It really is a matter of following him to his house of potential horrors or dying out here. I tell myself that there's at least a chance he's not a murderer. I have no chance out here.
"Okay," I reply, throwing my useless phone into my purse. "Lead the way."
I only hope I don't live to regret this.
Chapter 2
I'd been working at the coffee shop for less than a year when I first heard about the Angels of Chaos.
It was a Sunday morning and the place was jumping, just as it always was after church let out. Amy and I were like a well-oiled machine, though, working together seamlessly to keep the line moving. I knew I'd hit the jackpot when I hired her. She needed next to no supervision, totally able to read a situation and go with it. When a shot of espresso was finished brewing, she'd start the next without asking. When a tray of muffins was running low, she'd go to the back to get a new one. She wiped down the tables as soon as customers left so new ones could sit down, kept the milk and creamers full, everything. I knew I could count on her.
This left me free to take orders and chat up the customers. "Mrs. Stephens! That's a large no-foam skim latte and a blueberry muffin, right?" I'd ring up the sale, getting things in order while asking whether her daughter had decided on a college yet. Mr. Brown was a small black coffee and a cheese danish. His wife had just gotten one of her knees replaced, so I asked after her and told him to give her my best. The Jenkinses always brought in their three-year-old, and I gave him a special little treat while I fixed their coffee.
This was what I'd always seen myself doing: running a little place the townspeople could visit and feel as though they belonged somehow. Like I cared about them-because I did. When they walked in and heard their order being called out even before they spoke, they felt valued. That's the sort of treatment that keeps customers coming back for more.
"How do you manage to keep it all straight?" Mrs. Hauser asked, handing me a ten dollar bill. "I'd go crazy trying to remember everything and everybody."
"You keep track of all those soap operas you watch," Mr. Hauser pointed out with a chuckle. "All the characters and the storylines." I laughed along with him.
"That's different. I've been watching them for years-she's only been here six months!" They both looked at me, the picture of a cute little old couple if ever there was one.
I shrugged. "I have a good memory, I guess. It comes naturally. Plus, I like you. It helps." I winked at Mr. Hauser, and he chuckled again.
"If I were thirty years younger … " he hinted.
Mrs. Hauser gave him a playful smack on the shoulder. "Try fifty years," she corrected. "Besides, a pretty young thing like Christina wouldn't have the time for you."
Mr. Hauser rubbed his shoulder in mock pain. "See how she abuses me?" They both laughed, and I joined them half-heartedly.
"If you were young and single, Mr. Hauser, I'd give you my number for sure." I handed them their pastries, thinking they would drop the subject now that they'd been served.
"A pretty girl like you should be married, or at least going with somebody," Mrs. Hauser insisted.
I bit the side of my tongue to hide my distaste. One thing about living and working in a small town where you knew everybody: everybody knew you right back. At least they thought they did.
"You're such a sweet girl, too. Don't worry," she patted my hand reassuringly, "the right fella is out there for you."
"Chris, another gallon of whole milk!" Amy was working the espresso machine, steaming milk for lattes. I smiled at the Hausers and turned to help her.
"Thanks," I whispered. "That was getting awkward."
"Mrs. Hauser's always trying to fix people up," Amy explained. "She's a sweetheart."
I didn't disagree. I just wished she'd let my business be my business. There wasn't much about me I didn't share with others, except my love life. That was off-limits.
Awkward conversations aside, I loved the work. I felt energized, accomplished, all because my customers were pleased. Once the rush died down, I went from table to table, saying hi to those I hadn't gotten the chance to chat with, while Amy manned the register and coffee machines. All the while I reminded myself that I was making my mark on the town, which was a fantastic feeling.
It was a great little shop, too. I'd only bought it a little over six months before, when the previous owner had to pull up stakes and move across the country to care for a sick parent. Everything was in working order. All I had to do was step in and take over. The best part was, since the move was taking place in such a hurry and he didn't want to leave the shop abandoned, I managed to get it for next to nothing.
I wiped down the tables that had just emptied, feeling proud of what we were building here. Sure, the customer base was already healthy when I took over, but now there was a feeling of family. I heard it time and again, how happy the customers were when they came in and I knew who they were. That's what I wanted to set me apart-well, that and my baking.
"Christina, this is the best carrot cake muffin I've ever had," I heard one woman say over a mouth full of food. I smiled and reminded her that I could always box up a couple for her to take home. My recipes were my babies, and I guarded them with my life. I'd always wanted to go to culinary school. Well, this was the next best thing. Besides, what was the point of culinary school but to have my own bakery one day? I'd pretty much cut out the middle man.
Good thing, since I didn't have the money for tuition anyway.