Chapter Text
Karen Page cursed as she stubbed her toe on the corner of her bedroom doorway.
Her new rental was fully furnished, and she had been spending her first couple of days knocking her hips into credenzas, sweaters catching on doorhandles as she hauled boxes into their respective new rooms. She had unpacked almost everything, but the haphazardly packed bags and boxes of clothing had become the last, dreaded bastion of her move. And her toothbrush was missing, so she chewed on a handful of mints and pulled on two unmatched socks before shoving her feet into boots.
Karen had professional outfit in mind—she was going to be meeting with the mayor who hired her, Nora Rowland in under an hour. But that outfit she had failed to pack separately. The only other clothing she had been able to locate that were suited for the cool temperature outside was a pair of black jeans and a tattered jersey sweatshirt from her alma mater that she remembered wearing while doing cram sessions and also vomiting all over after drinking too much at a pub during Christmas break. She pulled on a slightly dressier, moody maroon blazer she’d been able to find to over hide the holes and frayed edges on the wrist of the sweater.
Her car, her beloved 90s Jeep Cherokee had rolled into town on its last legs, refusing to start the morning after her first night in her new place. She had had it towed using a credit card and had nearly choked in the morning when she got the call telling her that the current estimate was at $800.
Luckily, her new town of Hartford, in the upstate corners of New York, was small. Tiny, even. The downtown was within walking distance from her petite, brick bungalow rental. The season was just giving way to full fall colors and crisp mornings made for walks. It was October second and, if she was being honest with herself, the reason her clothes were still unpacked was because she had prioritized setting out orange string lights, pumpkin blow molds, ghost-shaped mugs, black wreaths, and even a collection of witch-themed romcom novels. She felt she needed the comfort of it all.
Halloween was solidified as Karen’s favorite holiday as a child. Christmas in the Page household had been a tense affair—extra hours at the diner, car heaters not working—or cars just not starting at all— too small coats and boots that her parents couldn’t afford to replace. It was a drafty old house, sleeping under piles and piles of blankets with microwaved potatoes at her feet like she was Laura Ingalls Wilder. And at school, everyone talked about the gifts they were expecting, asking for. Karen and her brother Kevin (her parents were very, very creative) knew not to make lists, to expect much besides thick socks and maybe some Hanes jersey sweaters.
Halloween, though?
Halloween was cheap. It was scary books from the library, gutting $3 pumpkins, Ouija boards at a sleepover. She and her brother could always manage to paint on whiskers with an eyeliner pencil, a cheap sheet they could cut holes in. Cats, ghosts, scarecrows, Rosie the Riveter. They looked a little shabby compared to the kids in store-bought costumes, characters right out of the latest blockbuster. But they didn’t care. Her parents were relieved, really, to send them out to get candy bought by somebody else. She and her brother would stay out until the last stoop went dark and pool their candy together in a corner booth of the diner while her dad closed up and actually refrained from asking them for help, under the glow of orange string lights, pumpkin shaped buckets filled to the brim. During this very unplanned career move and relocation the orange lights, horror lit, and her Halloween knickknacks gave her a little comfort, helped her to not feel displaced, and she pulled them out first.
The fastest path to town was through the small cemetery across from the house. She had always liked cemeteries—and this one was lovingly, painstakingly maintained, with a small stone path winding from one entrance to the other that spilled out by the town hall building. Though harried and feeling less than prepared, Karen enjoyed the scenery of grey and black headstones and falling leaves. She had thrown the name of the auto shop the car had been towed to, Hartford Auto Repair (catchy) into Google Maps and walked the path that led her through the cemetery, and then pulled her into downtown.
Karen had grown up in Vermont, where autumn was ritualistically observed, consumed by locals and people from all over the country. But Hartford had its own, unique feeling. Whereas her native town in Vermont was roughly shaped by blue collar workers, corporate farming, and body-taxing factory work, Hartford was rural, quaint and small—but it still felt tightly knit, shared. The trees looked alight with intense burning reds, yellows, and oranges that swayed and swished overhead, some leaves descending in the gentle breeze that twisted through the branches. She admired all of the decorated houses, porches with spiderwebs stretched between beams, yards and stairways with jack-o-lanterns. The neighbors left the leaves in their yards, the only signs of them being raked were in piles clearly made to be jumped in.
Downtown was sleepy, but alive. The town square had gazebos, benches, all of the public seating laden down with pound after pound of pumpkins, corn stalks, orange and black ribbons, miles of bulbs glowing even during the day. Hartford was a very close-knit community, that was what the mayor who hired her directly for the job had said. Mayor Rowland said to expect friendly faces, to be welcomed in quickly to community events and for the locals to be “harmlessly excitable”. Nora Rowland was Karen’s only contact in Hartford, and who would be doing her little orientation this morning. Karen’s phone led her past an atmospheric slideshow of storefronts: a bakery, a diner, a marketplace, an insurance office, a small combination dance and yoga studio, all of them aglow with orange lights and pumpkins in their windows, many warmly dressed parents walking with young children—likely fresh from dropping the older kids off at school.
Karen jogged across the only crosswalk in the downtown, where next to a hardware store was where her car was promised to be—Hartford Auto Repair, the front bay doors open to the street, the sharp smells of gasoline and metal assaulting her senses that had been basking in the wafting smells of pumpkin-scented coffee and fresh bread. Not to mention the noise—the deafening pitch of a drill winding up, workers shouting, and then on top of it all, the greatest hits of The Misfits blaring at an incredible volume.
She pushed through the front door into the narrow lobby, which was concrete floors, paneled wood, with a couple of the most uncomfortable looking chairs she had ever seen. The walls were haphazardly… Well, she didn’t know that she would call it “decorated”. But they were certainly covered. There was a large “hot rods” calendar with all kinds of scribble up on the wall, vintage license plates, a 90s Batman poster, a notice for a high school battle of the bands from two years ago, an American glag, several metal oil and tire brand signs, and Karen’s personal favorite: a poster of Megan Fox straddling a motorcycle.
Karen walked up to the counter, glancing through the panoramic bay window that looked out into the shop on her left. She hadn’t seen her car yet, but it could be out back. Currently there was a truck with two oil slicked techs—a man and a woman—arguing and pointing at the undercarriage beneath the lift, a tech making loud drilling noises doing tires. Then, she could only see part of someone who was obscured by the hood of a vintage muscle car, only able to make out that they were in street clothes—a black shirt, boots..
She jumped as the bells hanging on the door clanged as a tech walked through the door. Covered in grease, a deeply stained covered baseball cap backwards on his head, dark streaks on his face, a babyface if there ever were one, and a messy head of blonde hair. His name tag read Parker.
“Hey, how can I help you?” Parker asked, his tone casual, openly tired. Before she could respond he grabbed a coffee off the counter, checked the name, shrugged, then took a long drink.
“Well,” Karen started, passing her phone back and forth between her hands. “I got an call this morning about my car and honestly I’m just really surprised by the total so I was hoping to take a look at the itemization.” she said.
The kid nodded, as though he heard this daily. He reached for a sheet of paper on the counter in front of him. “What’s the car?”
“A Jeep?”
“Oh yeah, we only have one Jeep in.” The kid took another sip of coffee as he leafed through paperwork.
“Mhm, yep, looks like that total is gonna be four thousand, eight hundred, forty-two dollars, and… Sixteen cents.” Karen felt a physical response to the numbers being rattled off.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “What was that?”
“Yeah, it would’ve been the original total except that you added on the tires?”
“I didn’t talk to anyone about tires,” Karen assured him.
“Huh…” Parker seemed genuinely puzzled but not urgent. “Well, if I take those off then we do drop back down to about… Two thousand, eight hundred and thirty seven dollars and seventy-four cents.”
Karen blanched. “But… Just this morning I was quoted eight hundred dollars.” Parker’s brow furrowed, but almost in slow motion.
“Yeah, there’s no way, like, even without the tires we’re well beyond that. I mean, I get the sticker shock, the parts on a newer car like that can sneak up on you.”
Karen shook her head. “New?” She repeated. “It’s used.”
“Oh, sure, I mean: relatively new,” he allowed, but gave her an odd look.
“I just don’t understand how there could be this big of a failure in communication. I never approved tires. I thought you were looking at a battery?”
“Aw, no man that’s only like… Well, I mean it depends on the battery and like if you want us to do like the usual fluid checks which you absolutely should—“
“Right,” Karen cut in. “No, I will get the fluid thing, but… I was surprised by the $800, to be honest,” she said. “Because I knew something else might be wrong, but I didn’t know what exactly cost that much.”
Parker’s gaze narrowed, confused. He took another sip of coffee like that would help. “Right, well, I have your signature, you authorized this amount—the one over three-k, so I don’t know where the $800 came from.”
Karen felt the weight of the last couple days settle over her already tensed shoulders. The ten-hour drive got her in late and miss her appointment with the landlord—her new neighbor— who had to go pick up his grandkids from school. She sat in the car and avoided pointed eye contact with the movers who were ready to get to work and go home. The landlord was hurried, vague. She shouldn’t find half of her things. She had been swiping her credit card left and right for days. Using money she didn’t have for gas, eating gut-demolishing gas station food, a crappy motel that didn’t smell like bleach at all. All of this because she had been living her life on edge for months, following an article she had written while moonlighting at an indie-political paper in New York. It was short and sweet: a slumlord, a dirty cop, and an employee at city water; at the point that shadowed figures had started haunting her steps. The strain of it got to her, and she moved. The move had been sudden, expensive, and unfamiliar. And now this half-asleep child was arguing with her and she felt herself tipping over an edge.
“I never signed anything,” Karen said, her voice slow and tight. “So I don’t know how that’s possible? Are you sure this is my car?”
Parker glanced back at the paper. “It’s the only Jeep we have in here right now,” he said again. “And I mean, I say signed: but it’s a verbal approval that gets noted,” he shrugged.
“But I didn’t verbally approve anything, either.”
“Well, it says you did.”
“Well, maybe it’s a mistake?”
“Nope.”
Karen pursed her lips. “Is there, like… someone else I can talk to?” She asked. She refused to use the words manager, but Parker's sleepy gaze that kept getting caught on the Megan Fox poster wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence.
His irritation was visible as he took another drink of coffee. “I mean, the manager is here,” he said, throwing the word in her face with an intentional glance. “Do you want to talk to the manager, ma’am?”
Karen sighed, he no doubt saw her name on the order form. “Yes,” she muttered, defeated.
Parker nodded, a little judgmental look of thought so before he turned and slipped back out into the garage.
Karen could see the mechanics in the shop all stop and look directly at her through the glass as Parker went over and talked—well, more like yelled over the garage’s din— to the person buried in the engine of the muscle car.
Parker came back in, an odd smile on his face that Karen didn’t like. “Boss’ll be in, just a second,” he said.
Karen understood the look of satisfaction on the kid’s face when she saw the imposing figure that straightened into view from beneath the hood of the car.
He wore a black t-shirt that was streaked with the rainbow reflection of oil—damp with sweat and clinging to his heavily muscled frame in a way that made Karen swallow. Hard. He wore jeans covered with more black and bleach stains, roughed up combat boots on his feet. His hair was dark, cut with a fade, currently messy on the top, some strands hanging close to his eyes, clearly pushed around and out of his face, which was crafted by broad, stern, statuesque lines and curves. He looked like a goddamn classical Roman statue.
Karen stepped back a little as he pushed through the door. He didn’t look angry, exactly, but his heavy lips were in a severe line, his already austere brow and sharp jawline furrowed and tensed. He had puppy dog eyes, she thought, even as his gaze was narrowed, fiery and dark. As he moved just in the line of golden fall light coming through the window to her right, she could see the maroon undertones, like a spiced red wine.
He looked sweaty, dirty, deeply irritated, and heading her way.
He moved behind the counter, boots heavy against the concrete. He looked to Parker, grabbed the papers out of his hand with a quick, agitated movement, then looked at her. When he spoke she felt the depth of his voice sparking something in her chest, graveled and growly but not so rough it was unpleasant—like black coffee and honey.
“So,” he started. “You called yesterday and approved the labor and charges on the Jeep for nearly five thousand dollars but today you claim that I told you it was eight hundred dollars and are expecting to take it home for potentially less than that?”
Karen felt a little overwhelmed having the full force of his his gaze and tone settling over her, but still bristled at his bitchy phrasing. “Uh, no,” she snapped. “I called yesterday, but someone called me today and told me eight hundred.”
“This is your invoice,” the man said, holding up the papers in his hands. “We talked about it on the phone yesterday.”
“I didn’t talk to you,” Karen said, and of that she was certain. She would remember that voice anywhere. “I got the second call this morning.”
The manager snorted. “You’re out of your mind. There’s no way,” he said.
Karen’s gaze narrowed. “Look, I talked to someone,” she said.
“Do you remember their name?” The man challenged.
“No, I didn’t think I would get tested later,” Karen snarked, avoiding looking at Parker as she asked for a third time: “Are you sure this is the right car?”
“The Jeep? The Jeep I talked to you about on the phone yesterday afternoon and you approved all of the labor and charges?” The guy supplied caustically.
“I never approved anything!” Karen exclaimed. “Why would you work on my car when I didn’t approve anything?”
“Look, lady,” the man didn’t raise his voice but his irritation was palpable. “The tires you ordered alone are over a grand,” he said. “I ordered those specifically after you approved it. We overnighted them like you asked, the shipping cost alone—that we’re eating half of, by the way— was three hundred.”
Karen laughed despite herself, shaking her head. She laughed when she was angry. “Why would I put brand new thousand dollar tires on a twenty year old car?”
The man stilled, his gaze narrowing. “What?”
“My 90s Jeep Cherokee? Why the hell would I put tires like that on it? It barely runs!”
The man looked back and forth between the paperwork in his hands, and both Karen and Parker. “Is this a joke?” He asked.
“I’m not laughing,” Karen assured him. The man flipped the paper in his hands for her to look at. “This is a service order for a 2022 Jeep Unlimited for a Stephanie Lewis.” He said, looking back to Parker. “You didn’t once bother to ask her name?”
Parker seemed unbothered, picking the coffee back up, and the man’s gaze narrowed even more as he caught sight of the name scribbled on the side of the giant cup—Frankie, with a little heart drawn next to it.
Karen felt like her brain was short-circuiting. “I’m sorry, my turn to ask if this is a joke?”
“How did you not know you didn’t drop your car off here?” The man asked her, he wasn’t accusatory or even harsh, his genuine bewilderment was much more cutting.
“Me!?” Karen barked a caustic laugh. “You’re the ones who gave me some other woman’s invoice! And I didn’t drop it off: I had my car towed yesterday after it wouldn’t start, I got two calls, and now you’re saying you don’t even have my car?!”
The man sighed, tossing down the paperwork on the counter. “Fuck, you had it towed?” he muttered, running the back of his hand across his brow, leaving another black streak. “Is your car at Auto Repair of Hartford?”
“Again, a joke?” Karen asked. “This is Auto Repair of Hartford.”
“No, this is Hartford Auto Repair. Your car is likely at the other shop on the opposite side of town: Auto Repair of Hartford.”
“I-…” Karen pulled up her phone, pulling up the call logs. “Look, I got a call from you guys,” she said, holding the number up for the manager to see.
He looked at it for only half a second before he shook his head. “That’s not us.”
“So you're genuinely, truly telling me that this town has two auto shops and they are both named virtually the same thing?” Karen felt as though she was trapped in really bad improv show.
“We were here first,” Parker threw in a little indignantly, the information seeming very important to him.
“What in the fuck? Why!?” Karen seethed.
“Like he said, we were here first so you can ask the fuckheads over there and the Hartford Chamber of Commerce. You’re not the first to get it confused,” the manager said, looking at her more directly. “But you are the first one to come all of the way into the wrong one and demand we give you someone else’s car for eight hundred dollars.” His face and voice deadpanning.
Karen’s gaze narrowed. “I never demanded any car, I only asked about my car,” she said.
“Which we don’t have," Frankie <3, said with a tight smile.
Karen straightened. “It’s a surprise you have any cars back there when you’re such an asshole,” she snapped.
The man’s smile only got bigger. “You’ll realize why when you go to pay your eight hundred dollars for the fucking oil change they gave you,” he said. “But please, feel free to leave us a review on Facebook that no one under the age of sixty will ever see or care about.”
Karen glowered for a moment, but then felt her phone vibrate and she glanced at the screen—from Nora Rowland, confirming their meet-up at library in five minutes. Fuck.
Karen shoved the phone into her bag, giving the two men behind the counter one last glare—Parker had long since checked out, now unabashedly staring at Megan Fox, sipping on his boss’ coffee.
“You suck,” Karen said in place of a goodbye before she turned to the door. Childish, but she had little left to offer at the moment.
“Don’t forget that Facebook review!” Frankie <3 called after her as she pushed through the door and out onto the sidewalk, cursing as she went.