Chapter 2

Bella POV: "The Talkin' Song Repair Blues"

The ride from Atlanta to Texas isn't a particularly long one when you've spent so much of your life in a home on wheels with the asphalt beneath your feet. I was more at home riding through southern states in that old rusty truck than my apartment back in Georgia. I listened to what ever country station I could find until it went out of range, and then I found another. The thing that made driving this trip so long was the heat. My air conditioning decided the right time to quit was about thirty miles into Alabama. Southern heat is no joke in the beginning of August. When I was about halfway into Mississippi, the sun was beating down on that ole rusty pick-up like it was the last day it'd ever shine. The temperature was over 100 degrees and the humidity in the air was unbearable. I had stripped out of my t-shirt and was sweating in the driver's seat in my old tattered tank top when I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to find a mechanic. I had been holding off at the last few gas stations, but I just couldn't anymore.

The next town was 20 miles away. I continued to drive west on Highway 32 until I reached a little town called Charleston. I knew this place. It wasn't too far from where we used to live in Yocona. I didn't remember much about that place since it'd been nearly five years since I'd been there, but I knew it was small. I was surprised to see they'd put a McDonald's in a gas station on the outskirts of town and even a Subway on the court square. I kept driving until I came upon a Chevron station owned by the North MS oil conglomerate that based themselves out of this little town.

I parked my truck, wiped the sweat off my brow and from under my armpits, and tried to tame my wind-wild hair from the rolled down windows. I was more of a lost cause than usual, and I was hot. I didn't much care for how I looked at the moment, and I was debating changing my brand of deodorant. I climbed out of the truck and made my way into the station. The cool gust of air conditioning hit me like an 18-wheeler with no brakes. It felt good. I was in the middle of enjoying the coolness on my overheated skin, when a scruffy looking man in a navy blue pair of coveralls with the name "Willy" on the left breast and a beer gut asked, "What can I do you for, ma'am?"

What you can do me for is to sit quiet and let me enjoy regulating my body temperature. That's what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Well, I've got a problem. My air conditioner has just quit working, and I'm making my way over to Texas. It sure would be nice to not have to do without air in this heat."

"Yes, ma'am, I agree. Weatherman said it's s'posed to hit 110 on the heat index today. Say, is that your old chevy sittin' by the pump?" Willy asked.

"Oh, yes sir. I'm afraid it is."

"Well shoot, darlin'. I ain't got no parts for something that old. No offense, miss. I can't really help you, but I can tell you who might," Willy told me.

"Alright." was my response. I should probably be gracious he was sending me to somebody who could help, but I don't really appreciate being called "darlin'" by anybody.

"You see that building across the street, there?" Willy asked with an outstretched arm and grease smudged pointed finger. I noticed he was missing a pinky. I bet that's a good story.

I nodded.

"Well there's a man there might can help you. His name is Winfield, but I can tell you right now, he's a bit of a sum'n a bitch, but if anybody can fix you up 'round here it's him."

"Well thank you for your time." I told Willy, the pinkiless, scruffy mechanic with a way with words. At least he didn't call me "darlin'."

"Oh, you're welcome there, darlin'. Hope he can fix that air of yours."

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't appreciate endearments even when it's so common in the south. I'm a nearly 22 year old woman and an independent one at that. I'm not Willy's darlin' or anybody else's for that matter. But when I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, he smiled a big ole tobacco stained grin at me, and I was so disturbed that I forgot what I was going to say. I left and drove across the street to a mechanic who I was prewarned was a "sum'n a bitch." This day just couldn't get any better.

I slammed my truck door and walked in the tiny little cinderblock shop. There was an older woman who had black hair with white peppered in it. I guess it would technically be "salted" in it, now wouldn't it? She was sitting with her legs underneath her reading an old Danielle Steele novel. She was wearing a striped button up shirt, white pants, and white Ked's shoes, a whole lot of white for a mechanic's shop. There was an older, white-haired man sitting in a worn leather recliner in a red button-up shirt and navy blue slacks. His black rimmed glasses were perched low on his nose as he scowled at his book. He was smoking a Marlboro Red. Oh, he must be the sum'n a bitch. He, too, was reading an old Danielle Steele. How bad could he really be if he was reading that? There was a big fluffy black dog on the floor by his chair sound asleep.

"What do you want?" asked the sum'n a bitch, never taking his eyes off his book in between puffs of the Red. Really, what mechanic reads Danielle Steele anyway?

"I… um… my truck's air conditioning quit and I was told by a man named Willy that you could help me," I stuttered.

He raised an eyebrow and looked over his glasses then. "Well it's a good thing. Willy wouldn't know how to fix an air conditioner without losing the other pinky." He actually cracked a smile, granted it was a kind of evil protagonist type of smile but it was a smile, nonetheless. Now, I was really beginning to wonder what happened to that pinky.

"Yes, sir. He said he didn't have any parts for a truck as old as mine." I frowned a little. Yeah my truck wasn't flashy, but it was all I had to my name at the moment.

"Of course he doesn't have the parts for that hunk of junk." He was back to looking at that book and taking another drag.

"Winfield," the woman half-heartedly chastised. It was the kind of thing you could tell she does a lot, like she was already expecting to have to say something. She didn't bother looking up from her book either. It was just an automatic response. Maybe those books are just that good. I'd have to give Danielle Steele more of a chance. I was beginning to get aggravated.

"Well, can you help me or not? I'm not exactly having the best day, and if you can't help me, then don't waste my time," I huffed out. I usually try to filter my thoughts and say the polite version of what I'm thinking, but this guy was pushing my buttons.

Winfield turned his scowl from the book to look me straight-on. That cigarette was stuck to his lower lip. If looks could kill, I'd be hanging from the oak tree out front about now.

"Sir," I added more politely with a nod that somewhat resembled a curtsy. Somehow, I think Willy's warning wasn't accurate enough.

"I can fix it if you'd just wait a cotton pickin' minute. I got the damn part," Winfield said with the cigarette still attached to his bottom lip before he turned back to his book. I just stared at him with an open mouth. He was going to finish the chapter and his cigarette.

"Why don't you pull around back? I'll go help you pull in," the woman said as she got up from her chair. I just nodded and spun on my heel to go back to my truck. I pulled around back, and she ushered me in so I didn't hit anything. I'm sure that would've gone over well with Danielle Steele's biggest fan upfront.

"Thank you," I told the woman. I wasn't going to take my frustrations out on her. She was nice, sort of, and I was raised right.

"You're welcome. Are you new in town?" she asked.

"Oh, no ma'am, just passing through on my way to Texas."

"Texas! What on earth is out in Texas?" asked the woman. I thought about this. What exactly was in Texas? What was I expecting to find? I didn't know, but it was part of who I was.

"Home." I told her.

"Oh, so you've got family out there?" the extremely nosey woman asked.

"Not exactly," I said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, then who?" she asked. Now, by this point I was seriously regretting taking pinkiless Willy's advice and coming over here. First, Mr. Marlboro Red now this nosey old lady. I decided to shut her up.

"My daddy, actually. I'm going to pay a visit." I said.

"Thought you said you didn't have family there," she said skeptically.

"Oh, not anymore. He died five years ago."

"Sorry to hear that," she said, and I began to do a little happy dance in my head that she was finally going to stop talking. "So, what are you going to do when you get there?" she asked. She's incorrigible. Well, I guess if I had to work with Mr. Scowls-at-Everything, I'd talk to whoever I could. Before I could answer, Winfield walked out with a part in his hand and scowl on his face.

"Alright, you two go chit chat out of my way," he ordered.

"Need anything?" the woman asked him. He didn't even answer, just turned around and headed for my truck. She walked in the backdoor, and I followed since I assumed that's what I'm supposed to do. Plus, I'd rather have Nosey Rosey for company over the sum'n a bitch anyday.

We went back up front and the big fluffy dog came over for me to pet. Come to find out, her name was Fluffy. Original. I found out Fluffy was old and arthritic and that the salt and peppered hair woman was married to Mr. Sunshine for fifty years. Bless this poor woman's heart. She told me they had a weenie dog named Rusty, who I bet was rust-colored, that died a few years back. She just couldn't bring to get her another dog for the house. She had a son and a daughter, and she was proud of them both. She had only one grandchild, and she was about my age. Apparently she hung the moon, and I didn't hear about it. I finally decided to walk to that Subway and get myself some lunch.

On my walk there, I saw many fabulous things. There were old buildings lining the streets that were painted the most hideous colors imaginable. The trim didn't match the walls, and it kind of looked like an Easter egg basket blew up on this town. I got catcalls and whistles from the guys lining the sidewalk. I guess they had nothing better to do. There was a video rental place smaller than Paris Hilton's closet, a snack bar, a fireworks store, a law firm, and a dollar store next to another dollar store. When I got to Subway, I ordered a sub and sat down to eat, taking my time before I walked back.

When I got back to the shop, Winfield had my truck blowing cold air. I was happy, I almost forgave him for being a "sum'n a bitch." He was seated back in his old chair with his book and his Marlboro Red. The woman told me the price from behind the counter, and I couldn't believe she was right.

"Are you sure that's right? That seems awfully cheap," I said.

"Oh, yeah. We don't get a lot of old trucks through here anymore, and we have a few too many parts. He wouldn't charge you for something he was glad to get rid of. Besides, he said you remind him of our granddaughter." she said.

"Are you sure? I mean, I hate to not pay you what the part is worth, and it doesn't seem like a fair---"

"Just pay the damn bill would you? It's fair enough. That old part ain't worth much anymore," Winfield interrupted without looking up from his book.

I just nodded and paid the woman. I tapped Fluffy on the head and thanked them both on my way out, but before I got to the door, Winfield spoke.

"I changed your oil for you and aired up your tires. They were lookin' a little low. Don't wait so long to have your oil changed. In a truck that old, you need to check your oil level and your tire pressure often. You do know how to do that, don't you?" Winfield asked. I just stared at him, flabbergasted. He changed my oil and checked my tires? He didn't have to do that, and I'm pretty sure he didn't charge me for all that.

"Oh, uh… no, sir?" I said, but it came out more as a question. Winfield sighed, stood up, and motioned for me to follow over his shoulder. I followed him back to my truck in the garage. He showed me how to check my oil and my tires. He even gave me a little metal thing to check the pressure. Of course, all the while he was showing me these things, he was complaining about how a girl my age ought to know things. Then he complained about me driving all the way to Texas by myself, especially in an old pick-up truck. I think underneath the griping, he was worried about me. It touched me.

When he was done fussing, griping, and complaining, he handed me my keys and turned to walk back to the shop. It really hit me then was this man had done for me. He fixed my air conditioner, changed my oil without asking, and taught me how to check up on my truck. He charged me next to nothing for it all. It occurred to me then that he really wasn't a mean old man. That was just his exterior. I did the only thing I could do to thank him. I ran in front of him and hugged him. I think I scared him a little because he just stood there. He didn't really seem like the hugging type, but no matter, I was. He finally patted my head like I was Fluffy. When I let go, I backed up with tears in my eyes.

Winfield looked at me and said, "When you back up, don't hit nothing." Then he walked in the shop. I remembered one more thing then, and I caught the door before it shut

"Hey! What did happen to Willy's pinky anyway?" I asked after him.

He threw a glance over his shoulder and said, "A case of beer and a meat grinder. Don't buy any deer steaks from him." I just stood there and blinked a few good times. Well, huh, it was a good story, afterall.

A/N: I started writing Chapter 9 of "Old Moon," then decided to write this for some reason. I am finishing "Old Moon" I promise! I have another fic I'm working on that's a crossover with the Sookie Stackhouse novels. If you haven't read them, do so. I've been gone. I know. I'm back, I think. School's crazy, but I'm able to concentrate on this some now.

This chapter is based on a lot of real like. Charleston, MS does exist and it looks very much like that. The people are very much real people. When I sat down, this really wasn't my intention, but I like it. Oh, and I'm really sarcastic, so I hope you get all of Bella's sarcasm. Hopefully the dialogue is still southern, granted Willy's a redneck. Anyway, we'll get more Edward later. I'm not entirely sure I'm gonna do as many chapters from his POV. I kind of like Bella's thought process, and I think she'll be fun. The chapter is named "The Talkin' Song Repair Blues," which is an Alan Jackson song that's pretty funny.

Review or Winfield will scowl at you over a Danielle Steele book.