Page 7 of Last Wish Wedding

Ruth had a point, but Kelsey had given the driver her insurance information and hadn’t yet heard a peep from his employer. So, Kelsey dialed the number to the trucking company and was re-directed several times as they determined who she needed to speak with. Eventually, she ended up leaving a voicemail for someone in their human resources department. Although the driver, Mac, had assured her it would be taken care of, it sure didn’t start out promising.

The car she borrowed from Amy sat in the clinic’s parking lot, its faded red paint a stark contrast to her usual navy car. It even smelled different: of peppermints and old leather, nothing like her car’s familiar mix of coffee and Noah’s soccer gear. Kelsey tossed her bag in the back and checked her watch. She planned to make several stops around the island today in case she didn’t have a car later in the week.

The coastal road wound past weather-worn cottages and patches of stubborn snow hiding in the shaded parts. Kelsey downshifted carefully on the steep sections, still adjusting to the unfamiliar clutch.

Mr. Costigan’s cottage appeared through the morning mist. Its weathered shingles and climbing roses made it exactly the sort of place you’d expect to find in rural Ireland, not on an island off the coast of Maine. Costigan had lived in the house and in Portland on and off with his wife of seventy years before finally moving here full time after they retired. His wife had died a few years ago, and Kelsey knew from Ruth his health had been declining since then. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the front windows gleamed with fresh washing.

Before stepping from the car, her phone rang. The trucking company returning her call from earlier.

“So ma’am, you’re saying that one of our trucks hit you on I-95 on Saturday? And the driver was called Mac or Preston MacCormack?” A chill entered her gut at the tone of the woman on the other line, she sounded like she had her hackles raised. “I’m sorry to say, we don’t have any employees with that name ma’am, and I just spoke to our dispatch, and we didn’t have any drivers out on that route Saturday. Are you sure it was our company?”

“I’m sure,” she answered. “I have a picture I took of the wreck. Truman Trucking...”

“I’m quite sure, too, ma’am. But if you want to send me the photo, I’d be happy to research it for you. But as of right now, I can’t confirm the information you’ve provided.”

Disbelief welled in her stomach. There had to be some mistake. Could she have gotten the trucking company name wrong? She hastily wrote the woman’s email down and promised to send the photo right away. Ending the call, she pulled up the pictures she snapped at the last minute on Saturday. The trucking logo was clear in all of them. As she quickly sending the photos with a brief email, a realization dawned on her.

He’d lied.

The driver of the truck. He lied to her about how it would all be taken care of. Even his name was likely fake, “Mac” who drove a Mack truck. What if he had stolen the truck, and the sailboat it was hauling? The company didn’t have a record of him driving because he wasn’t supposed to be.

How could she be so stupid to fall for that!

Worse, now what was she going to do? If her insurance covered the damages, she still had a high deductible on her policy she would have to pay, which made the premiums more affordable. And they would likely raise her rates. And then there would be car loan payments. Her earlier bravado to go buy a new car evaporated.

Tears streamed down her face. This was a disaster.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Costigan standing at the open door to his cottage, peering out curiously at the strange car in his driveway.

“Ah, my favorite lady!” Mr. Costigan’s voice, still rich with Cork County despite over seventy years in Maine, carried from the front door. He stood in the doorway, one hand pressed against the frame for balance, his shock of white hair wild as ever. “Where’s your usual chariot, lass? Don’t tell me you’ve traded it in for this wee red devil?”

“Had a bit of car trouble.” Kelsey managed a smile before gathering her bag and following him inside to the book-lined sitting room that smelled of pipe smoke and earl grey tea.

“Trouble, is it?” Mr. Costigan settled into his armchair by the fire, wheezing slightly. “Who’s working on it for you? I hope you avoided Jones over in the Northwest Harbor, doesn’t know the right end of a screwdriver…”

She smiled at him despite her troubles, gathering her blood pressure cuff from her bag. “It’s in Portland with a body shop. I was hit on Saturday by a truck. It’s going to need a lot of work. Now, Ruth tells me you had a spill the other day. Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine. Just a stupid thing,” he said brushing her off as she inflated the blood pressure cuff. “Hey, I know the face of a girl whose been crying. Is it all that bad?”

Tears renewed, and it was hard to rebuild on her professional demeanor. She chastised herself for getting personal with a patient. “It’s fine. It’s just, the trucking company just told me that the driver who hit me doesn’t work for them. Not sure what to do now.”

“Well you make them pay, lass. What was the name of the company?” Mr. Costigan asked, as Kelsey tried to steer the conversation back to him.

“Truman Trucking & Transport. Now let me check your vitals.”

Mr. Costigan flinched as she pumped up the blood pressure cuff. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I pinch you?”

“No dear. I’m fine.”

“This is reading much higher than normal, Mr. Costigan. Have you been taking your medication as we discussed? Any chest pain? Staying away from salt?”

“Aye. I’ve been a good boy,” he replied pulling his arm away from her. “Did the driver give you his name?”

“Funny. He said his name was Mac,” she winced. Kelsey recognized that the conversation was heading where she didn’t want it to go. Her patients didn’t need to know everything about her. It was tough keeping to yourself living in as close-knit a community as Widow’s Point. She got used to the questions and scrutiny when she’d first arrived, as the islanders got to know and trust her, but Mr. Costigan didn’t need to know the finite details of her life, and she needed to turn the conversation back to him. “Not sure if that was his real name or not. Now let me listen to those handsome lungs of yours.”

The moon cast long shadows across Kelsey’s small bedroom as she finally crawled into bed. Her body ached from the tension of the day and the stress of struggling with the stick shift in someone else’s car all day. And she had to admit she was a little sore from Saturday’s accident.

She’d meant to tackle some paperwork after Noah went to bed, but their evening’s walk to their little cove had drained what was left of her energy.