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The Sands of Santa Rosa
Chapter One
The mountains of northeast Georgia, next year
A dusty truck pulled up to the open door of Chastain’s Garage, and the motor died. The door screeched and shuddered as Gerald Kincaid swung it open.
“Dang it!” he said, stepped onto the asphalt ramp and slammed the door. He took a couple of calming breaths as he ambled into the building and glanced around the dark interior. “Howdy, Lonnie. Cotton ain’t here today? Just you and Frank?”
“Cotton’s takin' a break. Charlotte called and said she was about to take some biscuits out’n the oven, and the boy, you know how foolish he is over buttered biscuits and sorghum, he just had to go have him some while they was hot.” Lonnie glanced up from the wrench he was wielding. “Anything I can do for you?”
“No, I ain’t in no hurry. I can wait for Cotton.” Gerald found an upended five gallon bucket near the wall, scooted it closer to the green Honda Lonnie was working on, and took a seat.
“What’s your trouble?”
“Aw, it’s just that old truck is so wore out. It’s got to where it skips and misses more’n it hits. Other day, it just cut out completely. Lucky I was headed down from Turkey Roost Ridge, so I coasted most of the way home. I need to have Cotton check it out for me, see can he fix it.”
“Cotton’ll know what’s wrong, and if he don’t have time to work on it, I’ll fix it for you.” Lonnie knew Gerald didn’t like Frank McCraney to work on his truck.
“How come he won’t have time?”
“I don’t know that he won’t have time. I said if he don’t have time. Problem is, Stephanie Finlay brought her car in this morning.” Lonnie gestured toward a blue coupe in the next slot. “Told him she wants it back by closing. And you know how foolish Cotton was about her when they was in high school. I don’t think he ever got over her, even with her bein’ married now. Any time she says ‘jump,’ Cotton says, ‘how high?’ It’s enough to make you right sorry for him.”
The old gentleman on the bucket shook his head sadly. “Yep, right sorry.”
“Wish he could get her out of his system, find hisself another girl.” Lonnie shook his head
“He ought to just forget about women entirely and devote hisself to cars. I declare I never saw anybody with the knack of knowing what’s wrong with a car just by listenin’ to it like Cotton does.” Kincaid’s shoulders drew up and pushed his shirt collar against his scrawny, red-tanned neck. “It’s down right spooky sometimes.”
“It ain’t spooky, Gerald. That’s just how he is.” Lonnie hesitated, gave the old man a sideways glance.
“I know. And he’s that way ’bout lots more things than cars. It’s the Sight.”
“I reckon.” Lonnie closed the Honda’s hood, stretched his back and wiped his hands. “Charlotte’s mama had it, and her mama had it ’fore her. It skipped Charlotte, though, and lit on Cotton.”
Gerald pulled off his stained ball cap, wiped sweat off his forehead and laid the hat lightly atop his silver hair. “Pore boy. You know, they’s people don’t believe in the Sight nowadays.”
“They’d do well to pay attention to the things you cain’t see just as well as to the things you can see. Just ’cause you cain’t see somethin’ don’t mean it don’t exist.”
“I know, I know. I was just sayin’ there’s people that don’t put any stock in it.”
“They’re all outsiders. Folks that belong here, they know.”
“I reckon you’re right about that.”
Lonnie cocked his head listened. “Don’t think you’re gonna have to wait much longer. I believe I hear him comin’.”
Gerald turned his head toward the open bay doors. A faint thump, thump became louder.
“Yep, that’s him,” Lonnie said. “Thunder boy. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told that boy a dozen times, turn that music down. But will he listen to his daddy?”
“Maybe he cain’t listen. Maybe he done busted his eardrums on that loud racket.”
Both men chuckled and shook their heads as if to say, This younger generation…what are we gonna do with them.
A late model silver Dodge truck stopped in the lot. The door opened and a young man dressed in jeans, T-shirt and camouflage hunting cap stepped out. As he passed the old truck on his way to the open bay, he glanced at it and said, “What’s the problem with ’er, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Spittin’ and sputterin’ like a cat at a dog party, Cotton. Reckon you could take a listen?”
“Sure. Crank ’er up.”
Kincaid slid onto the seat and turned the engine over. He revved it a few times while Cotton closed his eyes and listened. He put his hands on the hood and leaned on it. After a minute, he signaled for Kincaid to shut the engine off.
The older man climbed out of his truck. “Well, what is it? What’s wrong with it?”
“Not much. Just need to clean the fuel filter. Won’t take long. Why don’t you and Daddy go have a cup o’ coffee, and I’ll have ’er ready to roll in a jiffy.”
