Palace Players: An Introduction

A Palace Players Piece

 

Mentally, she went over the menu again.  Step by step she built each dish, julienning red peppers, braising lamb shanks in olive oil with fennel and coriander, tossing a salad of blood oranges and roasted beets.  If she’d paid more attention, she wouldn’t have taken the corner of Scott Road so sharply or at such a speed.  The Camry wouldn’t have spun off the road, slipping halfway into the trees.  She wouldn’t have hit her head.

She came to with rain pouring over her face.  It took her moments to realize that she was moving, that someone bent over her to cover her from the storm.  The rain was suddenly blocked out completely.

“My car,” she said.  She was surprised at how clear her voice was, how unafraid.  Should she be afraid? She didn’t think so.  Maybe later she would be.

“It’s okay.  You ran off the road.  Damn near hit me too, which is probably the only reason I saw you.  The rain makes it hard to see.”  It was a man’s voice, loud above the downpour slamming against the pavement.  “We’ll need to call a tow truck.”

She nodded, turning her face into his jacket.  He was carrying her, she realized, like some kind of maiden in a fairy tale.  The Prince rescuing Sleeping Beauty.  Robin saving Marian.  The Beast coming after Belle.

He opened the door of a black Tundra and slipped her inside.  She looked up at him.

Well, he definitely didn’t look like the Beast, she thought.

His back was to her now, the breadth of his chest and shoulders covered by a puffy vest and plaid shirt, a black baseball cap on his head.  He might have been a homegrown farm boy about to harvest the corn, or the senior quarterback at the start of a victorious season.  There was a sense of ownership in his stance, a solidity to his feet that said “This is mine.”  He didn’t look much like a man who was used to getting told no.

She guessed that applied to the elements too, since the end of his cigarette was still burning, despite the rain.   She didn’t remember smelling smoke on him, but the clove was definitely there, sitting on the sideview mirror, unmoving but still smoking as rain pelted down.

He pulled out a cell phone and dialed, explained the situation, then hung up.  Climbing in the car, he flashed her a crooked kind of smile.  “You’ll only be stuck with me half an hour or so.  I guess they think the storm’ll let up soon.  They’ll be here after that.”

“Thanks for stopping.”

“My pleasure.”

She believed him.  For reasons unknown to her, she felt peaceful, safe.   Half an hour here didn’t sound terrible at all.  Instead, it felt very much like a beginning.

You can read another Palace Players piece–written by my dear friend JD–at iminthemiddleofyourpicture.wordpress.com.