Chapter 4

Colton cursed as the wrench slipped out of his hand and he banged his knuckles on the tractor manifold. He’d woken before dawn in a foul mood, and it had not improved in the hours since.

He blamed the damn story about the crystal. He’d gone to bed thinking about it and fallen asleep feeling a slight current where it lay against his chest. Then the dream had started.

And what a dream. He’d had more than his fair share of erotic encounters and had bedded more women than he cared to remember, but nothing in his real life had ever come close to the dream.

Even now, hours later, he was still trying to analyze just what it was about the dream that was so extraordinary. In it, he’d been in bed with a woman with dark hair. That’s all he could remember about her. Which was disappointing, considering the sex had inspired sensations that were more powerful than anything he’d ever experienced.

Not that the sex had been kinky or unusual. It wasn’t the act itself that had been so remarkable, but the feelings it evoked. And the fact that he couldn’t remember what the woman looked like in the dream.

He told himself he had to just forget about it. It was meaningless, despite Mirriam’s admonishment that dreams were portends that directed people. Colton figured his dream was little more than a mirror of his dissatisfaction with the pattern of his love life.

And pondering it wasn’t going to get this damn tractor up and running. So, pushing thoughts of the dream aside, he concentrated on the task at hand.

*****

Memory sipped from a take-out coffee cup and scanned the shops alongside the street as she drove. Some of them sparked her interest. She thought she’d just find a place to park and wander on foot, puttering through the shops.

A stutter from the engine of her car gained her attention. One sputter was followed by two and then another. She pumped on the accelerator and the car literally coughed, jerked, and then stopped completely.

Her first inclination was to restart it. That didn’t work. The starter ground and whined and after several minutes of sitting in the street blocking traffic, it went dead. Completely.

“Shit!” She fumbled for her cell phone in her shoulder bag, and then changed her mind at the blare of horns behind her.

Memory put the car into neutral, got out and started pushing. It wasn’t easy. Her 1959 Cadillac Eldorado was twenty-feet long, six-feet wide and weighed in at a full two tons. It was a lot for a hundred and thirty-five-pound woman to push. Bearing down, she dug in and tried to get it rolling. Nothing happened. She grunted, hunched down, tucked in her head, and tried again. At first there was no movement, then suddenly the car started rolling forward.

Memory’s head popped up, and to her surprise, she saw a woman on the opposite side of the car, pushing along with her. A big woman. Not just in height but girth as well. Dressed in a flowing skirt, colorful peasant blouse with a wide belt around her ample middle, with long dark hair and bejeweled wrists and fingers, she looked like something out of a gypsy movie.

There was, however, little time for Memory to ponder the appearance of her savior, because now that the car was in motion, she had to concentrate on steering with one hand while she pushed. Between the two of them, they got the car out of the middle of the street and over to the curb. Memory jumped in and steered the car into the middle of two parallel parking places.

As soon as she set the brake she got out of the car and hurried to approach the exotic woman who had so graciously come to her rescue.

“Thank you so much,” Memory said with a grateful smile.

“My pleasure, dear,” the woman replied in a voice that Memory could only describe as musical. “It’s a lovely car.”

Memory cut a look over at the Caddy. “Yeah, I love the old girl. She belonged to…to someone important to me.”

“Then it is more than a mere means of transportation,” the woman commented.

Memory nodded, thinking about her stepfather as she looked at the car. “Yes. He bought it the year he won the Pulitzer in Photojournalism. Said it took everything he had, and he nearly starved to pay for it, but it was worth it.”

The woman regarded her thoughtfully. “And now that he has passed, the symbol of his success finds care in your hands.”

Memory jerked around to look at the woman. “Why do you think he’s dead?”

The woman chuckled. “My dear, what man would relinquish such a prized possession as long as he drew breath?”

Memory laughed. “Well, you’re right about that. I had to beg to drive his baby while he was alive. He sure loved this car.” A frown marred her features. “It’s so odd. I had it serviced last month and it’s been running fine. I can’t imagine why it just stopped.”

“Perhaps it was simply destiny,” the woman said.

Memory shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s darn inconvenient. You don’t happen to know if there’s a place around that services classic cars, do you?”

The woman smiled and offered her hand. “Come, dear. Let’s go inside my school and I’ll give you the name of a very reputable person.”

“Oh, thank you,” Memory said, “Let me grab my stuff.”

She got her camera case and shoulder bag and followed the woman to the entrance of one of the small storefronts. A tasteful green awning sheltered the front window and door, and artful gold lettering announced “Mirriam’s.”

The interior was tastefully appointed with a distinctly exotic flare. On the walls were paintings of scantily clad belly dancers, sheer material swirling around them like liquid light. Sculptures of various cultures were scattered among plants and deeply padded backless benches. An antique desk from what Memory thought was the baroque period occupied a position of command in the room.

Mirriam floated over to the desk. That was the only way Memory could describe her movements, liquid and smooth. She placed her woven handbag on top of the desk then turned to Memory. “Now, you need someone to fix your chariot and I happen to know someone very adept with engines.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Colton Marsh.”

Memory pulled out her cell phone to dial for directory assistance. “Spelled like it sounds?” she asked as she dialed.

“No need,” Mirriam plucked the phone from her hand and closed it. “I happen to have a close personal relationship with Colton.”

With that, she picked up the phone on her desk and dialed with long nailed fingers. “Hello dear, I have a lovely woman here who is having problems with her car. Yes, I am perfectly aware of that. That’s why I called you. This particular chariot is a…” she looked to Memory for the information.

“A 1959 Cadillac Eldorado,” Memory said.

Mirriam repeated the information into the phone then smiled. “Yes, of course. I shall endeavor to keep her comfortable until you arrive.”

“I’m afraid it will be some time before he can get here,” she announced to Memory. “You’re welcome to stay here and wait.”

“Oh no, no, that’s okay.” Memory wanted to take her up on the offer. The woman was quite likeable, and exuded an air of something Memory couldn’t identify, but did intrigue her. She’d like to spend more time with the woman, maybe get a few shots of her. There was a certain erotic appeal to her that puzzled yet drew Memory. But she didn’t like the idea of imposing on the woman.

“I really appreciate all your help…oh, I’m sorry. I’m Memory Wells.”

Mirriam replied with a smile. “I am Mirriam.”

“So, you own this place,” Memory stated the obvious. “You said something about it being a school?”

“Why yes, dear. I teach belly dancing.”

Memory’s mouth nearly dropped open. Surely the woman was jesting. She moved well and was quite charming and attractive for an older woman, but a belly dancer?

Something niggled at her mind, but she couldn’t pull it into the foreground. Whatever it was, it inspired a sudden itch to feel her camera in her hand. Shooting a belly dancing class would be an interesting addition to her collection of travel photos.

“Perhaps you’d like to observe a class?” Mirriam suggested.

“Really?” Memory was delighted at the invitation. “Would you consider letting me shoot you?”

Mirriam put a hand to her ample bosom. “Well that hardly seems kind.”

Memory laughed. “No, I mean take photos. I’m a photographer.”

“Yes, dear, I know exactly who you are,” Mirriam’s voice dropped in timbre, making a slight chill run down Memory’s spine.

“You do? How?”

Mirriam’s smile was mysterious. “Why darling, even here in the south we ladies like to look at photos of luscious men. And when it comes to glamour photography you are without a doubt the reigning queen.”

Memory blushed and sipped at the tea. “So, is that a yes on the shoot?”

“How could I say no to the queen?” Mirriam said with a chuckle. “Oh my, look at the time. I must change for class. The ladies will be arriving shortly. Is there any special preparation you need?”

“Would it be okay for me to take a look at the studio so I can get an idea on the light?”

“Certainly, my dear. Right through there. I’ll be with you as soon as I change.”

“Thanks, Mirriam,” Memory smiled and watched Mirriam glide away. She opened the door to the studio and stepped across the threshold with a smile. She might have to deal with a broken-down car later in the day but right now she was going to have a little fun.