The Gardens of Digby Green: Trowel Handle
“Hey, weren’t you listening to me? I told you to turn right.”
“Yeah, lady, I heard you. Do you want me to run out of gas before you get there?”
Rosalie glanced over. The gauge showed slightly less than a quarter tank. Maybe the truck didn’t get good mileage.
Her driver whistled. He held to the speed limit, possibly to conserve fuel. Steering one-handed, he caressed the handle of a trowel tucked between the driver’s seat and the console.
She shivered. When the gas station sign appeared, she relaxed a little, and the presence of a squad car in one lane of refueling vehicles, made her sigh.
“Donut-eater,” the man muttered as he stepped down from the truck.
He plugged the pump handle into his tank. As the fuel flowed, the policeman drove off.
Rosalie shivered again. She reached for her seatbelt, intending to step out of the pickup and into the gas station. Before she could release it, the man got back into his seat and started the engine.
He put the truck in motion.
“I need to be home by four, to babysit,” Rosalie said.
When the traffic gapped, he pulled into the flow, but in the opposite direction of her home.
Rosalie frowned. “What are you doing? This isn’t the way to my house.”
“You’ll get where you’re going, lady.” He accelerated, fondling the trowel handle.
“Take me back to the gas station. I want to get out.”
“Nope. I’ve got a delivery to make. You’ll get where you’re going… oh yeah, right on time.” He took a highway exit and began to hum “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.” Then, he laughed. “But I do. I do promise you a garden.”
“What are you talking about? Take me home.”
He turned off the road, into a vacant lot. “You’ll get where you’re going.”
The Gardens of Digby Green is a serialized story that posts on Fridays.
Next week, part twenty-four, Fill Dirt.
Find a link to purchase Heartland Treasures anthology here.
Ruth
Heidi Kortman