Snow Baby. Brenda Novak
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NEVER GOINGto make it.
Chantel Miller hunched forward, trying to see beyond the snow and mud being kicked up onto her windshield by the semi next to her. She could barely make out the taillights of the Toyota Landcruiser she’d been following for miles, and she longed to pull over and give her jangled nerves a rest. But the narrow two-lane highway climbing Donner’s Summit was cut into the side of a cliff, and she didn’t dare stop. Not in a storm like this.
In the back of her mind she heard her father, who’d been dead for nearly five years now, telling her to slow down, keep calm. He’d taught her to drive and had offered all the usual parental advice—never let your gas tank get below half, keep your doors and windows locked, never pull over in the middle of a storm.
God, she missed him. How could so much have happened in the past ten years? At twenty-nine, she already felt battle-weary, ancient.
She shrugged off the memories to avoid the regret they inspired, and focused on her driving. Her sister, Stacy, was waiting for her in Tahoe, only an hour away. She’d be able to make it that far as long as she could get past the big rig that was churning up the mountain beside her, nearly burying her car with sludge.
She gave her red Jaguar—her only concession to the life she’d left behind—some gas and shot around the semi, then eased down on the brake. The road was covered with black ice. Her stomach clenched as the Jaguar fishtailed, but then its tires grabbed the asphalt and the taillights that had been her beacon appeared in front of her again.
“Hello, Mr. Landcruiser,” she breathed in relief, and crept closer, determined to stay in the vehicle’s wake. The plows were long overdue. Snow was beginning to blanket the shiny road.
Stretching her neck, Chantel tried to release some of the tension in her shoulders, then cranked up the defrost. A pop station played on the radio, but she barely heard the familiar lyrics as she listened to the wind howl outside. Ice crystals shimmered in the beam of her headlights, then flew at her face, clicking against the windshield.
She shouldn’t have left Walnut Creek so late. If it hadn’t been her first week at her new job, she would have insisted on heading home when everyone else had, at five o’clock. But she not only had a new job, she had a new profession, back in her home state of California, clear across the country from where she’d lived before.
Changing careers was probably the most difficult thing she’d ever done, but Chantel was determined to overcome her insecurities and be successful at a job that required a brain—if for no other reason than to prove she had one.
Overhead a yellow sign blinked Chains required over summit. To the right, several cars waited, engines running, as their owners struggled in the cold and wet to get chains on their tires. A couple of men wearing orange safety vests worked as installers for those willing to pay for help.
Chantel was studying the shoulder, looking for a place to pull over, when brake lights flashed in front of her. She screamed and slammed on her brakes, but the car didn’t stop. It slid out of control. With a bone-jarring crunch, her Jag collided with the Landcruiser ahead of her.
Pain exploded in Chantel’s head as her face hit the steering wheel. She sat, breathing hard, staring at the black snowy night and the back end of the white Landcruiser, which was now smashed. Then someone knocked on her window.
Dazed, she rolled her head to the side and saw a tall dark-haired man looming above her. “Are you all right? Unlock the doors!” he shouted.
Immediately her father’s warnings echoed back: Always keep your doors and windows locked….
When she didn’t respond, he scowled at her through the glass and tapped again. “Did you hear me? Open the door!”
She let her eye-lids close and put her hand to her aching head as her senses began to return. She’d just been in a car accident. This was probably the other driver. She had to give him her driver’s license and insurance information, right? Of course.
With trembling fingers, she sought the automatic door lock and heard it thunk just before the man flung her door open and leaned inside.
A freezing wind whipped around him and flooded her car, carrying the smell of his aftershave with it—a clean masculine scent, far different from the trendy fragrances used by the male models she’d worked with not so long ago. Then a firm hand gripped her chin and tilted her face up. “Your lip’s bleeding, but not badly. Any other injuries?”
She struggled to rearrange her jumbled thoughts. Stacy, accident, aftershave, blood…“Just a lump on my head, I think.”
“Good.” He stood and jammed his hands into the pockets of his red ski parka, frowning at the crushed metal in front of them, and it suddenly dawned on Chantel that he was angry. Really angry. The signs were all there—the terse voice, the taut muscles, the furrowed brow. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
He looked at her as if she had two heads. “You mean other than what you just did to my SUV?”
She winced. “I’m sorry. I’m worried about my car, too. I haven’t owned it more than a year. But you stopped right in front of me. There was nothing I could—”
“What?” He whirled on her, the furrow in his brow deepening. Ice crystals lodged in the dark stubble of his jaw gave his face a rugged appearance, but the long thick lashes fringing his eyes looked almost feminine. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.” Chantel’s tongue sought the cut in her lip. She reached across the console to the glove box and retrieved a napkin to wipe the blood from her mouth. “How could you expect anyone to stop so fast in this kind of storm?”
He stiffened. “I managed to miss the car ahead of me. And you want to know why? Because I wasn’t tailgating him for the past thirty miles!”
“I wasn’t tailgating you,” she said, but a memory of her struggle to keep up with his taillights raced through her mind and made her wonder if she’d been following too closely, after all. She’d hardly been able to see anything—except his lights.
“Regardless,” he said abruptly, “we have to move off to the side. We’re stopping traffic. Are you okay to drive?”
She nodded, shivering despite her navy wool coat. “I think so.”
“Just pull over there.” He indicated a couple of spots other cars had just vacated. It seemed to Chantel that his initial anger had softened to mere irritation.
Feeling jittery, she slowly eased the Jaguar over so the traffic behind them could get through. A couple of motorists paused to see what had happened and a chain installer jogged over and hollered something at the guy she’d hit, but the weather was too bad for anyone to linger. No ambulance, no fire trucks. The accident wasn’t nearly as interesting as it could have been.
Thank God!
Chantel watched the man from the Landcruiser stride toward her and wished she was safe in her new condominium in Walnut Creek, curled up in front of the television. She was exhausted and cold and rattled. But she had to make it to Tahoe. After all the years she and her sister hadn’t spoken, Stacy was finally ready to give her another chance.
I won’t blow it, Stace. I’ve changed, grown up. You’ll see.
She lowered her window as the Landcruiser’s owner gave her car a skeptical frown. “You look like you belong on the streets of Beverly Hills,” he said. “I bet you’ve never driven in snow.”
“Listen, I come from New York. You’ve never seen snow until you’ve spent a winter back East.” She didn’t add that she hadn’t owned a car for most of the ten years she’d lived in the Big Apple. Taxis, public transit or, more often, limousines had always carried her where she’d wanted to go, but she wasn’t about to volunteer that information. He didn’t need to know how precisely his accusation had hit its target.
“Excuse me,” she said to get him to step back. “I want to see the damage.”