“Yeah, come on Matilda.” Tom ran his hand over the metal dash. “Good girl, you can do it.”
The VW splashed through a large puddle, then found traction on a patch of solid ground. Ginger gaped at him, shifting into a higher gear. “Seems even Matilda is subject to your charms.”
“Even Matilda? I’m not sure my socalled charms work on any of the ladies.”
“Ha, right. Weren’t you the one who made sure you had a date every Saturday night?”
“Is there anything your elephant brain doesn’t remember?”
“Yes, like why I agreed to do this wedding.” Ginger groaned as the VW nosed into another pothole and ground to a stop, jerking the two of them forward.
She clutched and shifted, urging the car onward. But the Bug moaned and rattled, and the tires spun without traction.
“Reverse,” Tom said. “See if we can back out.” Nothing doing. More tire spinning and slipping, more engine lamenting. “Cut the wheel left, then hit the gas.”
But the ground was too drenched and the revving engine lacked the horsepower to heave the little car out of the mire.
“Ginger?”
“What?” She stared straight ahead, letting out a heavy sigh.
“We’re stuck.”
“I’m so glad you came with me, Tom. Otherwise I’d sit here wondering all night what happened.”
He liked being with her one-on-one, liked when she shed her shyness and timidity. “Fine, I’m Captain Obvious. It’s the way I roll.” Tom peered through the dash to the edge of the headlights. If there was a homestead on the horizon, he couldn’t see it through the rain. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he glanced back to see if the big house was in view. Might be easier to turn around than go forward. But it wasn’t. “So what’s your plan?”
“Can we call someone? Who owns that big monster truck? Can they get us out?”
“Scott Ellis owns the truck. I don’t have his number but I can try Eric or Edward, have them send him out.” Tom tugged his phone from his jeans pocket, calling Edward first, then Eric. No answer with either one. “Guess we’re on our own.”
“Let me try Bridgett.” Ginger reached behind her seat, pulled her bag around, and dug out her phone. Her effort netted the same result as Tom. No answer.
Guess there was only one thing to do. He reached for his door handle. “I’ll push. Stay in first gear. When I say go, gently, and I do mean gently, let off the clutch and give it a little gas.” Tom cracked the door open, letting in the wet and the cold. “Cut the wheel to the left, and try to find the most solid ground you can.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” She motioned to the door. “You’re seriously going to push?”
“Unless you want the honors.”
She hesitated, then unsnapped her seat belt. “Yes, of course, I should push. It is my car.”
Tom snatched her arm before she could open her door. “Do you want my manly-man card too? Please, I’ll never live it down with the guys if they hear you pushed. Let me do this. You’re the driver of this team.” Beneath the wooly knit of her sweater, he could feel the rough, ribbed skin of her arm. He’d always wanted to ask her about how it all happened. He’d only heard bits and pieces of a trailer fire. How painful it must have been. Then to live with the constant reminder . . .
“We’re not a team.” She slipped her arm from his touch.
“Okay . . . we are for now. Unless you want to sit here all night.” He jostled her shoulder, also coarse and jagged beneath her sweater. “Come on, if I can’t push us out of this, I’ll hand in my man and Marine cards.”
She reared back. “You were a Marine?”
“Yes, and still am, I guess. Hoorah. Just no longer on active duty. Ready?” Popping open his door, Tom’s first step sank into a pool of icy water, filling his shoe with ooze. Nice. He sloshed around to the back of the car, the rain soaking his hair and jacket, slipping down his collar, trickling down his neck and back.
At the back of the old Beetle, Tom anchored his backside against the car, hooking his hands under the fender as he tried to find good footing. He’d bet his ruined Nikes that the temperature had dropped a southern, damp, frigid degree or two in the past fifteen minutes.
“Ginger?” he called, glancing around, the rain water draining into his eyes and the crevasses of his face. “Ready?”
The engine whirred, coming to life. Tom ducked into place. “Okay, go!”
He pushed, his feet anchored against nothing but ooze, as Ginger fed the Bug a bit of gas.
But all combined, their efforts produced nothing but spinning tires and spewing mud. Extracting his feet from the sucking mud, Tom sloshed over to Ginger’s window and tapped on the glass. She inched it open.
“Hey, Tom, I think we’re still stuck.”
He laughed. “Now you’re Captain Obvious. I’m going to rock the car a bit. You didn’t eat a lot of food at the buffet, did you?”