JASON HAD BEEN LIVING IN Dunford for close to a year before we met and if it hadn’t been for Mom’s neighbour, Mrs. Tisdale, dying, we might never have met at all. In her eighty-ninth year, Charlotte Tisdale still lived in the house next door to Mom — with that creepy bird, assuming it was still alive — although Mom had mentioned to me a few times that it was getting harder and harder for Charlotte to get around.
“She can barely make it up her front steps,” Mom said. “She’s going to have a fall one day. I just know it.”
She didn’t fall. She died sitting on her couch with a cup of tea on the table beside her and the only reason she was found so quickly was that her cleaning lady came by that same afternoon.
Mom didn’t want to go to the funeral alone, and since I’d grown up next door to Mrs. Tisdale, I thought I should pay my respects. The service was held at the Baptist Church and afterwards there was a reception with tea and coffee and sandwiches in the basement. After about twenty minutes of sipping tea and murmuring polite expressions of sympathy in the church’s low-ceilinged basement, I was ready to leave. Mom wanted to stay, so I made my way outside alone.
I was parked around the corner from the church, across the street from Stirling Automotive, and while I was waiting to turn left at the stop sign, a car came tearing up behind me and slammed into the back of my car. The force of the collision sent my car skidding into the middle of the intersection. Thankfully, there was no other traffic, because I just sat there, too stunned to move, not immediately understanding what had happened.
The driver of the car that hit me jumped out of his car and ran up to see if I was okay. I was shaken up, but I didn’t think I was hurt. He returned to his car, which was quite damaged, and while I was gathering my wits, thinking about what to do next, he pulled around the corner, crumpled hood and all, and took off.
I watched him drive away in shock. Suddenly someone else was at my car door, asking if I was okay. “I saw the whole thing,” this man said. “We’ve already called the police. He won’t get far with his car like that.” He helped me out of my car and led me to the waiting room of Stirling Automotive, where I sank gratefully into the chair he offered. “My name’s Jason,” he said.
When the police arrived, I explained what happened as best I understood it, and Jason gave a statement as well.
“If you want,” he said, “we can pull your car in here to have a look at it. But if you have somewhere else you’d rather take it, we can call a tow truck for you.”
“I guess I picked the right place to get hit, didn’t I?” I joked. “I hope this isn’t how you usually get your business.”
Jason looked confused.
“From hit and runs in front of your shop,” I clarified. “I was trying to be funny.” I think I must have been borderline hysterical or something.
“Oh.” He laughed unconvincingly.
He’d heard me give my name to the officer, but now I introduced myself to him properly. “I’m Zoe,” I said, holding out my hand. “Thanks for all your help.”
Jason seemed genuinely worried about me and his attentiveness was comforting. When he offered to drive me home, I accepted without giving it a second thought. My car didn’t seem too bad, he assured me, but it might need a new bumper. He promised to get to it right away, and I was relieved to have someone else handling things for me. His eyes, when he spoke, were kind. Like Amir, but at the same time, not like him at all.
As it turned out, just as Jason had predicted, the man who rear-ended me didn’t make it far at all. The police found his car three blocks away and the first person they talked to — the occupant of the house where the car had stopped — had actually taken the driver home, apparently believing his story about hitting a concrete barricade. So, in a strange twist of events, the same person who had rescued the driver was able to tell the police exactly where he lived.
When the police found him, he was obviously impaired. He was also on probation, which is why he had been so desperate to get away. I shared all these details with Jason after the fact, when I stopped by his shop to thank him for his help, bringing with me a Tupperware container of freshly-baked cookies. He invited me to sit and have a coffee with him, so we sat in the waiting area, the same place we’d first introduced ourselves, sharing coffee and cookies.
“Once your car is fixed, I guess you won’t have any occasion to stop by with cookies,” he said.
“I could always come back for the coffee.”
“I’d rather share a real drink with you. How would you feel about going out sometime, somewhere a little nicer, to get to know each other?”
“I would like that,” I replied. “Nothing against your waiting room.”
WE ENDED UP GOING TO the newly-renovated, just-opened Crow’s Nest, where we sat on the patio looking out at the Still River. I ordered chicken and Jason tried the steak sandwich. The evening air was cool, despite the glowing heat lamps, and at one point, Jason offered me his jacket. When I slid my arms into the sleeves, I felt a warm contentment settle over me. I hadn’t felt that kind of sinking relaxation in years.
Jason told me about Parker, who was just starting kindergarten then. He touched briefly on his ex-wife, but didn’t go into specifics.
“So, you’re part owner of Stirling Automotive?” I asked, sensing it was time
