If Catfish Had Nine Lives(7)

            The repair shop was long and narrow. Akin to the scent that had wafted my direction with Joe’s arrival, the shop also smelled of leather, but there were other scents inside Stuart’s shop that made it one of my favorite places in Broken Rope. Polish, an assortment of oils, and Stuart’s never-empty coffeepot added smells that blended perfectly with the leather. The smallish lobby was comfortable, with four old vinyl-covered, cushioned chairs. Two of the chairs were currently occupied.

            “Hi. I don’t know what to do for her. Can you help?” one of the women said when she saw us. Her words were tight with wiry nervousness. She was leaning toward the woman in the other chair, who had her head back with a cloth on her forehead. The woman leaning back was breathing quickly, and her cheeks were flushed.

            They were relatively young; probably still in their mid-twenties. They both wore jeans and embroidered cowboy shirts, like so many of the poets and actors. The damsel in the most distress had a long black ponytail that hung down the back of the chair. The other woman had short, blazing red hair. I always considered my auburn hair to be almost-red. There was no “almost” about hers.

            Gram crouched next to the woman in trouble and put the back of her hand against her flushed cheek.

            “What happened?” Gram asked.

            “I’m not exactly sure,” the redhead said. “It was after the shooting—was someone shot dead, for real?”

            “I don’t know for sure,” Gram lied.

            The redhead nodded and blinked and shook her head all at once. “After whatever happened out there, it seemed like everyone was in a panic, running every which direction. Vivienne”—she looked at the brunette—“ran into me and was very upset. I thought she might pass out, so I brought her in here. It was the closest spot.”

            “Her name’s Vivienne?” Gram asked.

            “Yes, Vivienne. I’m Esther. She and I met yesterday, at the campsite.”

            “Vivienne,” Gram said gently, “can you hear me?”

            Vivienne swallowed and then nodded, the back of her neck still resting on the back of the chair.

            “Good. Stuart, can you grab her a cup of water or something?”

            “Sure,” he said before he hurried behind the front counter and back toward his worktable and office.

            Gram took a deep breath and said, “Vivienne, is there any chance you can sit up? I’m just going to be honest here—I need to see if you’re okay. We’re worried. My granddaughter has her car right outside. We can get you to a hospital if we need to, but we need to know how bad a shape you’re in.”

            There were a number of problems with what Gram had just said: My car wasn’t close by, but I could run and get it if I needed to, I supposed. The closest hospital was about an hour and a half away. And finding out how “bad” a shape someone was in might not be the most delicate way to handle the moment.

            But Vivienne seemed to respond favorably. She pulled the cloth off her forehead and sat up straighter. “I think I’m okay. I just got freaked.”

            She was very pretty, even with splotchy skin. Her bright blue eyes were perfectly spaced over high cheekbones. She had a small mole above the right side of her mouth. Gram would call it a beauty mark; it worked well on her. Her full lips and bright white teeth made me think of plastic surgery and long hours in a dentist’s chair, though the end result on Vivienne wasn’t fake at all; just striking.

            “That’s understandable,” Gram said.

            “Here you go,” Stuart said as he reappeared with a bottle of water. He twisted the lid a little and then handed the bottle to Vivienne.