"Of all the unkind cuts." She appraised the damage with disgust. "Well, pal, we're both lame." She balanced herself against the low chassis and began to unscrew the spare tire.
The sound of crunching gravel attracted her attention and she was startled to see a blue Thunderbird coming to a stop just behind the Sprite.
"Hi, there. Saw the tire go. Then, when you started hobbling, I realized that the female was truly in distress," said the driver as he got out.
In a slim-cut, finely tailored black top-coat, a jaunty snap-brim Stetson on his head, her rescuer looked an unlikely type to respond to her situation.
"I'm usually a disgustingly competent female," she said, grinning in appreciation.
The man was taking off hat and coat, poking them into the opened window of his car.
"Such independence puts Boy Scouts out of business," he said goodnaturedly. He crouched down by the damaged tire, trying to determine the point of puncture, then straightened, dusting his hands off. Instinctively she glanced at them, noticing the very short clipped nails, the blunt tips of the long fingers. "The wheel's covering the puncture. Nail probably, because your tread is still good. Where do you hide the jack for this overgrown bathtub?"
"Boy Scouts are supposed to be polite, not condescending," she said, grinning maliciously, "not that you should talk with that overbuilt, overpowered, overpriced…"
"Yah, yah, yah," he said, laughing back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his grin boyishly lopsided.
Steve's eyes used to crinkle like that, Mirelle thought irrelevantly. But Steve used to laugh a lot more than he does these days. She silently cursed competitive business and sales quotas.
"I'll get the keys," she said, shifting balance so she could make her way along the side of the Sprite to the driver's side. _ Her good Samaritan touched her shoulder lightly.
"Get off that ankle and make like a lady executive," he said. He took her by the hands and assisted her to the grassy bank above the shoulder.
Her laugh turned to a groan for an injudicious movement tweaked her foot as she sat down. It took her a moment's hard concentration to fight back the tears. When she looked again, he was opening the trunk and getting out the necessary tools.
"You don't seem to need directions," she said.
"Oh, I had one of these runabouts. Surprising how quickly one remembers the idiosyncrasies of the beasts."
"I see you've also graduated to the tender supervision of the AAA."
He glanced up startled, and then looked over his shoulder at the telltale emblem on his car license. He grinned.
"There's a difference or two between this bathtub and that behemoth. Particularly when it comes to wrestling jacks and tire lugs." He had removed his suit jacket and, although Mirelle thought he must be in his forties, he was lean and quick of movement. "It does me good to recall, however briefly, my lost and carefree youth."
He made short work of loosening the bolts, raised the car on the jack, and removed the flat. Mirelle's sculptor's eye noticed the play of muscles across his back, the long line of his leg in the stretched fabric of his pants. A receding hairline emphasized the shape of his handsome head. His dark brown hair was worn long in the back and showed silvery at the temples and above his well-shaped ears.
"Do I pass, ma'am?" he asked and she realized that he had become aware of her scrutiny without being embarrassed by it.
"I only patronize well-dressed mechanics…"
"One does have confidence in the dapper workman…"
"… Who uses Brylcream…"
"… Smokes filter-type cigarettes…"
"… Brushes when he can with Gardol…"
"… And drives a wide-track Pontiac…"
They laughed together. Then, with a flourish, he released the jack and the Sprite settled to the ground with a puff of dirt. Mirelle tried to rise, struggling awkwardly. He was at her side in one long step, holding out his hands.
"You really have wrenched it," he said with a low whistle.
Suppressing an irresponsible yearning that he'd sweep her in his arms and deposit her, preferably in his car, Mirelle allowed him to help her limp to the Sprite. When she started to swing her legs under the wheel, he caught her by the knee and, over her protests, deftly removed the jodhpur boots. She pressed her lips against the pain. Under the heavy athletic sock, the swelling was apparent.
"I got tossed," she said ruefully as they both examined the injury.
"The beauties of spring, no doubt, distracted you," he said, grinning up at her, his lean attractive face alive to the humor of her situation. His eyes, she noticed, were grey blue and he was tired.
"No, it was Boots' week to spook at dead tree branches."
He rose in a lithe movement and retrieved his coat from the back of the Sprite. He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket, a large red silk square. Deftly folding it into a length, he tied it in a brace around her foot.
"That's a good handkerchief."
"We Knights of the Road use nothing but the best," he said glibly, fastening the knot securely. He rose, brushed off his dusty knee and regarded her expectantly.
"It does feel better strapped this way."
"Do I give the old Scout Master's words of wisdom on sprains?"
"Hardly necessary," Mirelle said with a laugh, suddenly at ease again with his flippancy. "One of my favorite pastimes is ankle-bending. I'm surprised they bother to swell anymore."
She swivelled around and put her foot gingerly on the clutch pedal.
"Your boot, madam." With a cavalier bow, he presented it.
"Monsieur, vous etes un vrai chevalier," she heard herself saying.
"Enchante," he replied and his lips twitched as he noticed her flush. "Seriously, though, shouldn't I follow you to make sure you can drive all right?"
"Oh, I haven't all that far to go," she said hastily. "I'll make it. But your handkerchief…"
He waved aside that consideration. "Remember me the next time you play tisket-a-tasket."
Before she could protest, he had turned and strode back to the Thunderbird. Gingerly she started the car, wincing with pain as she pressed the injured foot down to shift to second.
He did follow her down the highway, all the way to Silverside Road where she turned off. She saw his farewell salute as the Thunderbird proceeded straight on, toward town.
CHAPTER TWO
Although she allowed Roman to practice first aid on her and was grateful for the strapping as she hobbled about, Mirelle made light of the incident. By Friday, when Steve returned from his trip, the swelling of the ankle had subsided, leaving a high tide mark of deep purplish blues and yellow-greens from instep to heel. Prompted by the children, she gave the now equally colorful version of the spill, flat tire and the courtesy of her Knight of the Road.
Passive with the fatigue of the long train trip home and well-fed, Steve listened politely, amused by her narrative, but disgusted by her injury. A natural athlete, Steve had a curious attitude toward physical injury of any kind. In the fifteen years they'd been married, Mirelle had yet to see him cut a finger on his tools, bang his thumb with a hammer or fall heavily when he played touch football with the boys. On their family camping vacations, he had always emerged unscathed and disdainfully insisted that the cuts, bruises, sprains and abrasions suffered by everyone else were due to unnecessary carelessness or ineptitude. Steve was a slow and deliberate workman, possessed of great patience in contrast to Mirelle's mercurial work habits. Yet his craftsmanship, his intent on perfection appealed to the artisan in Mirelle.