TITLE: Blame It On The Brontës
Anne Bronson pressed her foot on the accelerator—the truck did nothing. Not even a lurch. No good gas-guzzling piece of crap. There should have been plenty of fuel to get to the house. A cavern opened up in her stomach. Did Jeff Gordon get this pit in his gut when he ran out of gas resulting in his big loss at the New Hampshire Speedway? Anne’s race was even bigger. Twenty minutes till midnight. Damn.
Hauling out her purse and overnight bag, she climbed down from the truck. She kicked a tire and let out a small scream as she saw the damage her instinctive motion caused to her black leather Manolo Blahniks. Tapping her fingernails against her teeth, she looked up and down the dark road. No headlights. No life. No sound. With a deep sigh, she began walking. Two miles to the house. She had twenty minutes to get there. In six-inch heels. Looking skyward, she muttered, “Hey, Mom, you up there? If you are, I need a little help right about now.”
Suddenly, headlights crested over a hill in front of her. Anne blew a kiss skyward. “Thanks, Mom. Always could count on you.”
She put down her purse and bag and moved to the middle of the road, waving her hands, hoping to be spotted before the car either mowed her down or went whizzing on by. This was a million dollar hitchhike.