Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [20]
“So, are you lost?” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a tube of lip balm, rubbed her lips, put the tube back, and then bent down again, picking up the backpack and balancing it on her back.
He fiddled with the map, without looking in her direction. “I think I’m okay,” he answered, noticing that she now smelled like cherries, like cherry gum he used to chew when he was a boy.
“ ’Cause I’m a good navigator,” she explained. “I could get you where you’re heading. I’ve got experience in that kind of thing.”
Father George could easily see what she was asking. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat in a car with a young woman. The idea made him very uncomfortable, but before he could say anything, before he could explain that it wasn’t a good idea for them to travel together, she had walked around the car and was opening the passenger-side door.
“I, I . . .” he stuttered, something he hadn’t done in months, a childhood malady that had disappeared with puberty but came back briefly while he was in his last year at seminary. “I, uh, don’t think I can let you ride with me.” He finally got the whole sentence out.
The girl stood with the door opened and leaned in. “Why not?” she asked.
The priest felt the line of sweat beading across his top lip. “I, I . . .” He stuttered again. “I don’t have insurance for riders.” He lied. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, he lied. He had told himself never again, and now, quick as taking his eyes off the road and almost wrecking the car, it had happened again.
“Oh,” she said, standing up straight outside the car. “Well,” she paused, “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t care about that.” She took off the backpack, threw it behind the front seat, jumped in, and shut the door. “I’ll also put some air in your tires when we get to town. Your right front one is a little low.”
Father George turned to the girl, trying to think of a way to get her out of the car. He could imagine the scandal he would cause upon his arrival at his first parish with a young woman, not much older than a teenager, seated next to him in his car. A young woman scantily clad. A young woman hitchhiking. A girl putting air in his tires. He turned a bright shade of red as he considered what the other priest would think when he drove into town with her in his car.
“Trina,” she held out her hand to shake. “I’m Trina, and I’m going just up the road to Pie Town. You don’t mind giving me a lift, do you?”
Father George inhaled, muttered a prayer under his breath. “I’m George,” he said, taking Trina’s hand. “Father George Morris,” he added.
“Then, Father George Morris, we only got about ten minutes before we pull into Pie Town and likely never cross paths again.” She pulled her hand away and grabbed the map from the priest. “Now, where is it that you’re headed?” she asked. “And is it a wedding or a funeral?”
He seemed not to understand the question. He glanced down at his clothes and suddenly realized she was asking because he was wearing his clergy collar and his black shirt and pants. She had obviously assumed he was on his way to officiate at some service.
“Oh, neither,” he replied. “I’m just starting my new job.”
“Fabulous,” she responded. “I plan to start a new job today too.” She smiled. “Or maybe tomorrow, since it’s a bit late now.” She noticed the clock on the dashboard. It was after one o’clock. “And where is your new job?” she asked. “Not that I would really know,” she said. “I’m from Texas.” She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. “God, it feels good to sit down,” she said. She looked over at the driver. “I’ve been walking for two days,” she added.
“Where are you coming from?” he asked. He had not yet taken the car out of park, and the engine was still idling. He wondered where her family was, how long she had been traveling alone.