I’ve always romanticized small towns. A place where everyone knows your business, but somehow everyone still gave a little bit of a shit about you. I might have romanced the idea but knew I could never try to experience it. I left the idea for the romance novels I stashed in my nightstand and in my beach bag. I have always needed the lights and sounds of the city. Despite the fact it was mostly flashing blue lights and sirens couldn’t deter me away. There was always something to do, some fun to be had. So it would just be my luck that my car would break down in some Podunk town in southern Tennessee. It was the day I left my life behind in Chicago. My parents moved to Florida a few years ago and here I was on the most embarrassing trip of my life, moving back in with my parents at the ripe old age of twenty-six. One more thing to add to the list for my new self-help book “How to Make Your Shitty Year Even More Fucking Spectacular.” First; I lost my job (which, to be honest, doesn’t matter because I hated it anyway), second; I found out my husband was having an affair, wait - make that three affairs, third; he filed for divorce and his bloodsucking leech of an attorney had the audacity to call me the “bloodsucking leech” of a wife that was just using him for his money and status which in turn led to four; him taking my dog from me because even the dog deserved better than my bloodsucking qualities so that has pretty much left me losing almost all of my money, my car, and my dignity.

I bought a blue 2004 Honda Civic with the money I had left after the divorce. I shouldn’t even say after the divorce; it hasn’t even been finalized. But I have concluded it has pretty much been settled before it even reaches a judge. My entire life is packed into the back of my Civic. Or should I say what is left of my life is in it. After my husband – ex-husband, claimed my car, I bought this old beat up one just to move my sorry ass to Sarasota. Might as well stamp an ‘L’ on my forehead folks, I have become the inside joke of all my former friends.

I was halfway to the next chapter in my life when I hear the sputtering of my exhaust pipe. I make it three more miles before the transmission fails to give me any power. Finally, exactly 587 miles from my old life, the engine of old Blue Betty starts smoking and leaves me stranded right by mile marker 36. After slamming my hands on the steering wheel more times than necessary, a poetic retelling of vulgar curse words, and twenty minutes of crying, someone knocks on my window. I look up to notice an older man with graying hair and a rotund middle section staring at me. I glance in the rearview mirror and notice a tow truck behind me. Maybe there is some God somewhere who no one even knows the name of and was just trying to do one good deed looking down upon me. I roll my window down halfway and say hello.

“Hi-ya there, miss, it’s looking like you’re having yourself there some car trouble.”

I just nod and blink back the tears that had been a waterfall seconds earlier.

“Well, I was just on my way back from Towson and saw you on the side of the road. I live just off the next exit, over in White Creek. I can tow you there to the shop I work at and take a look at your car.” He smiles at me revealing perfectly clean white teeth. Not exactly what I expected out here in God-knows-where.

I had no idea what to do. I was so low on cash I knew there would be no way I could afford a tow. I don’t even allow myself to think of the cost to fix Blue Betty. And what was I supposed to do when I got into White - town? whatever the hell the name of the town is. Unless they have ten-dollar-a-night motels, which even out in these backwoods seems unlikely, I can’t even afford to stay in town to get my car fixed. It was at that moment I realize I would have to call my parents. It was already bad enough I was moving back in and now I needed to ask for money. PATHETIC.

“Uh, ma’am.” The man knocks me out of my thoughts and I realize that I had probably been staring blankly for five minutes. Great, he probably thought I was deaf and dumb. “It seems like you’re not having the best day. I have no problem towing this car in for free. Besides, Boss is out of town. He won’t even know about it.” He smiles at me once more, his kindness reaching his wrinkle crested eyes. Once again, I found myself nodding and murmured a thank you. Can I even form words today?

He pulls his truck in front of my car as I stand on the side of the road in the sweltering heat, grateful he showed up because the July sun in Tennessee was unforgiving. After he has my car hooked up, I jump into the cab of his truck.

“You can relax ma’am. I’m not a serial killer or anything.”

That’s when I notice I have been white-knuckling my purse to my chest. “Isn’t that what serial killers say though?” I try to play it off as a joke but pretty sure it came out as a squeak.

“Didn’t think about that,” he laughs. He pulls his right hand off the wheel and extends it in my direction, I was pretty proud of the fact I didn’t jump at the movement. “The name’s Mort. I grew up in White Creek, lived there my whole life. Not too many missing persons cases or dead bodies. Well, that have been found.” He glances over and must have seen my face pale and eyes widen. “Kidding. But White Creek is a nice little town. Even my grandkids have stayed. I am sure you will feel at home while we get your car fixed up. What’s your name anyway?”

I realize I’ve been staring and being rude with my silence, but his welcoming demeanor was loosening me up. A little. “I’m Harper,” I say with more gusto than necessary. I shake his hand and decide to let his southern hospitality get the best of me as he nods, puts his hand back on the wheel, and turns back to the road. “I didn’t mean to be rude or anything. I am from Chicago and you need to be on your toes a bit up there.”

“I can understand that. Bit crazy up there from the little we hear down in these dirt road towns. Big city girl,” he shakes his head laughing, “always cautious. Well, just a head’s up. One night in White Creek and everyone will know your story. Even if you hole yourself up in a hotel. I swear some of the women here are spies or just have hidden cameras everywhere. Guess it gives them something to talk about while they pretend to play bridge and sip on brandy. I don’t even think they realize there is supposed to be cards in bridge but the rest of us leave them to their own devices. If you end up staying here, keep away from Marge and her ladies of gossip-mongering. I think they even have a secret initiation ceremony to get into their little group.”

My mouth hangs open as I stare at Mort. I take a sip of water from the bottle I grabbed from my car and spew it all over his dashboard when he says, “Too bad Marge is my wife and I have to see her every day. Good thing is she thinks I am going deaf, so she keeps her mouth shut around me.”

A smile creeps across Mort’s face as I laugh, the first laugh I’ve had since my life went down the drain, and it felt good. “Glad I could make you laugh,” he says as we enter the small town of White Creek, Tennessee; population 842.