Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Nolan

The BMW M8 purred like a contented cat as we cruised east on Interstate 40 toward Nashville. The car was a dream machine, like the rental agent told me, but I'd miscalculated one crucial factor: Mr. Dalton's size. There was no way he could squeeze into the back seat. So instead of having Zena as my copilot, I was stuck beside her father.

To my surprise, Mr. Dalton's earlier grumpiness had been replaced by curiosity. His eyes roamed the car's interior, nodding approvingly as he ran his hand along the Merino leather upholstery.

"This car certainly has some power," he finally said, shocking me. It was possibly the first time he'd spoken to me without complaining, yelling, or barking orders.

I nodded nonchalantly. "It's got a 4.4-liter Turbo V-8. 617 horsepower."

Mr. Dalton seemed impressed I knew that, but that was another thing I learned from the rental agent. At least we had cars and sports in common. It was a universal language for most guys.

Our conversation ended there, but that was more than enough for me. The energy was about to shift, anyway. I'd downloaded Tina Turner's greatest hits onto my phone and connected it to the car sound system. A surprise for Mrs. Dalton. As "What's Love Got to Do with It" played through the speakers, her eyes went wide with delight.

Zena squeezed my shoulder and shot me a radiant smile in the rearview mirror as she and her mother began belting out the lyrics. I cranked up the volume and joined in, keeping my voice low enough to avoid shattering the windshield or causing nearby cattle to stampede. Mr. Dalton remained silent, but after a minute, I noticed his foot tapping on the floorboard, which was more than anyone could expect.

When "We Don't Need Another Hero" played next, Mrs. Dalton called out, "I don't need another hero. I have you, Nolan!"

Our laughter filled the car with warmth and happiness as Zena and Mrs. Dalton sang along again. Mr. Dalton would flip down his passenger-side visor. I caught him watching his wife in the small mirror. His brow furrowed as if the concept of unadulterated fun was foreign to him, or worse, something he'd forgotten how to experience himself.

For the next hour, the car became a rolling concert hall, with Zena and Mrs. Dalton as our enthusiastic headliners. They belted out hit after hit, their voices harmonizing over the purr of the engine and the rush of the wind. Their energy was infectious, filling the car with a jubilant atmosphere that even Mr. Dalton's stoic presence couldn't dampen.

Mr. Dalton shifting uncomfortably in his seat, wincing slightly. Recognition dawned on me. He needed to use the restroom again.

"Nobody kill me," I said as a cover for him as I turned down the music for a moment, "but I could use a bathroom break. Mind if we stop at the next exit?"

Mr. Dalton piped up immediately. "Good idea. I could probably go too, since you're stopping."

I took the next exit, but instead of the gas station or fast-food joint I expected to see, we found ourselves on a two-lane road surrounded by rural farmland. Cows, horses, and goats watched us pass with mild interest.

Mr. Dalton's squirming intensified as I continued to drive. "Where are we? I don't see any restrooms."

I pointed to an approaching sign. "Apparently, we're in Zu Zu."

Mrs. Dalton giggled. "You sound like a baby uttering his first words. Zu Zu."

Zena followed that up with, "Ma Ma!"

We all laughed, except Mr. Dalton, who was probably too preoccupied with his discomfort.

A few minutes later, he pointed to another sign off the side of the road. "Are you serious? Now we're in Yum Yum?"

Zena snorted. "Yum Yum, Tennessee! That's adorable! I had no idea it even existed."

"You see?" Mrs. Dalton smiled with satisfaction. "This is why I love road trips. Life slows down and you discover new things!"

Mr. Dalton's patience had clearly run out. "Would someone please find us a bathroom?"

I caught Zena's knowing look in the rearview mirror.

"I'm sure there has to be one coming up soon," I said.

We passed a small church and its adjacent cemetery before Mr. Dalton practically yelled, "Pull over. Now."

It wasn't ideal, but I guided the car onto the dirt shoulder, partly sticking out onto the road. Mr. Dalton bolted from the car, making a beeline for a tree near the edge of the cemetery as we all stayed put.

Mrs. Dalton's brow furrowed. "Wow—he really had to go."

Zena explained my observations from the plane and terminal, suggesting it might be a sign of a more serious issue.

"It most certainly could be," Mrs. Dalton said, concern etching her features. "I'll talk to him privately when we reach the hotel in Nashville. Thank you for being so observant."

When Mr. Dalton returned, we were all staring at him.

"What?" he demanded.

Mrs. Dalton pointed to his pants. "Your fly is open, dear."

Mr. Dalton glanced down at his zipper. "Right." He zipped it up and got back in the car without another word. He turned to me and asked, "Didn't you have to go?"

I shrugged. "I did, but the urge passed."

He glanced down at my pants, but kept quiet as he fastened his seat belt.

I pulled into the driveway of a farm next to the cemetery to make a U-turn and drove until we entered the highway. Fifteen minutes later, I flicked on the turn signal and smoothly guided the BMW off Interstate 40 again.

Zena's brow furrowed with curiosity. "Another stop?"

"You'll see," I replied cryptically, navigating the car toward a colorful building with hand-painted signs in the distance that had caught my eye from the highway.

As we drew closer, the quaint roadside fruit stand came into view, bursting with vibrant fruit. Mrs. Dalton's gasp of delight from the backseat was music to my ears.

"Strawberries!" she exclaimed, brimming with childlike excitement.

We piled out of the car, stretching our legs on the gravel of the parking lot. As Mr. and Mrs. Dalton made their way to the fruit stand, Zena hung back, tugging gently on my arm.

"You're racking up some serious points with my mom," she said, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

I shrugged, feeling a mix of pride and genuine happiness. "I love seeing her light up like that. She deserves it."

Zena's smile softened. "Keep this up, and you might win us both over."

"Might?" I said with a chuckle. "Sorry, but I'm pretty sure I already have." Feeling bold, I glanced quickly at her parents before leaning in and stealing a quick kiss.

"You're living on the edge lately," she whispered. "What has gotten into you? You're more, I don't know, motivated?"

I grinned, feeling invincible. "What can I say? You make me want to break all the rules."

Zena laughed. "Don't get carried away."

We rejoined her parents as Mr. Dalton paid for two baskets of fresh strawberries and turned to face us. "We can wash these when we get to the hotel."

Mrs. Dalton's eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you kidding? These beauties are freshly picked, fresh as can be, organic, and begging to be eaten right now!" Without further ado, she plucked a plump strawberry from the basket and bit into it. Her eyes closed in bliss, and she let out a contented sigh. "Oh, it's pure heaven."

She held out the basket. Zena and I didn't hesitate, each grabbing one and enjoying it. Mr. Dalton, however, eyed the fruit like it was a complex spreadsheet, clearly tempted but hesitant.

"Oh, come on, Everett," Mrs. Dalton cajoled. "Live a little!"

After a moment's internal struggle, visible in the furrow of his brow, Mr. Dalton finally reached out and plucked a strawberry from the basket. He examined it briefly and blew on it before taking a tentative bite. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he nodded approvingly.

"See?" Mrs. Dalton's voice was triumphant. "This is living!"

"Spontaneity is king!" I declared, the simple pleasure of the moment filling me with giddiness.

Emboldened by his apparent newfound appreciation for spontaneity, Mr. Dalton plucked the largest strawberry from the basket. With a glint of defiance in his eye, he popped the entire fruit into his mouth, leaving only the green leafy end peeking out between his lips.

For a moment, we all stared, caught between amusement and disbelief, at this uncharacteristic display. But our smiles quickly faded as Mr. Dalton's body suddenly went rigid. His eyes widened in panic, bulging slightly as he frantically pointed to his throat. The hue of his face deepened alarmingly, transforming from a flush of embarrassment to a dangerous shade of red. The jubilant atmosphere evaporated instantly when the realization hit us.

Mr. Dalton was choking.

"Everett!" Mrs. Dalton exclaimed with fear etched across her face.

I sprang into action, jumped behind him, and wrapped my arms around his midsection. Next, I performed the Heimlich maneuver, thrusting upward and inward with all my might. One, two, three attempts, and finally, the strawberry shot out of his mouth.

Mr. Dalton gasped for air, bent over with his hands on his knees. His face was still flushed, but the panic in his eyes had been replaced by relief.

"Dad! Are you okay?" Zena asked.

He held up a hand, taking a few more deep breaths before straightening up. "I'm okay."

Mrs. Dalton rubbed his back. "You scared the daylights out of me."

"Me too," Zena said. She turned to me, her eyes brimming with gratitude. "Thank you, Nolan. I think you saved his life."

Mrs. Dalton echoed the sentiment, hugging me. "You most certainly did. Thank you."

Mr. Dalton nodded, looking humbler than I had ever seen him before. "Yes, thank you. I appreciate that more than you know." He clapped me on the back twice.

I smiled, knowing that couldn't have been easy for him to say. "Of course. I'm glad you're okay, sir." My heart was racing from the adrenaline. Trying to lighten the mood, I added, "Though I'm pretty sure Mrs. Dalton said live a little, not die a little."

There was a moment of stunned silence before Zena and her mom guffawed, the tension of the moment dissipating. Mr. Dalton even chuckled, though it turned into a small cough.

"Well," he said, his voice still rough, "I suppose that's one way to make a road trip memorable."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Zena asked.

Mr. Dalton nodded. "I'm fine. I'm ready for another strawberry, although this time I will focus more on the chewing part."

As we savored a few more of the sweet, sun-ripened strawberries, I pulled out my phone to check our progress to Nashville. Something on the map close by caught my eye. In fact, it was just over on the other side of the highway. My eyes widened as I zoomed in on the screen and processed what I was seeing.

"What is it?" Zena asked.

I looked up with a mix of excitement and mischief bubbling up inside me. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Tell me," she said.

I shook my head. "It's a surprise, but it's something that was obviously meant to be. You'll see."

After we finished our impromptu strawberry feast and death scare, we got back in the BMW and I drove to our surprise location. Mr. Dalton eyed the entrance back onto Highway 40 East that I had passed.

"Why aren't we getting back on the interstate?" he asked, gesturing toward Nashville.

"We need to make a quick pit stop," I replied mysteriously, driving across the bridge to the other side of the highway. I made a right between the Shell station and McDonald's.

Zena leaned forward from the back seat. "Suddenly in the mood for a Big Mac and fries?"

"Tempting, but I'm good," I said.

Fortunately, nobody saw the museum sign with the arrow pointing down the street. We rounded the bend past a couple of motels. In the rearview mirror, I saw Zena's eyes get wider. Okay, she'd spotted the sign but kept quiet.

Mrs. Dalton was the first to notice the giant mural on the side of one building. "Look! There's Tina Turner! What is this place?"

Mr. Dalton squinted at a sign. "It looks like we're at the West Tennessee Delta Heritage Center and Tina Turner Museum."

Mrs. Dalton's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "That's it, Nolan. I'm adopting you."

We got out of the car and walked inside the Flagg Grove School building, where we were greeted by a friendly docent named Charlotte, who shared the history of the one-room schoolhouse.

"This school was once attended by young Anna Mae Bullock, aka Tina Turner, and built by her great uncle in 1889," she said. "The school was originally in Nutbush, but they moved it here to Brownsville and refurbished it." She gestured off to the side. "Those are the original desks and chalkboard over there. Look around and let me know if you have questions."

We thanked Charlotte and decided to start with the exhibits in the glass cases that featured costumes Tina had worn while performing in concert. As we passed an older couple who turned away from a display of gold records, I was going to share a friendly nod and a smile when Zena surprised me.

"Hello," she said warmly to the couple.

The couple turned, their faces lighting up with smiles.

"Well, hello there," the woman replied. "Isn't this all just so fascinating?"

I nodded in agreement. "It sure is."

The couple continued to Tina Turner's yearbook, and then Zena shot me a knowing smile.

I bumped her hip playfully with mine.

"Was that Midwestern enough for you?" she whispered.

I smirked. "Yes, but Tennessee is considered a southern state."

"That never stopped you before," Zena countered.

"Good point," I said. "But you forgot to mention the lovely weather and invite them over for a potluck."

As we shared a laugh, Mrs. Dalton pointed to a concert photo on the wall and asked, "Remember when we saw her at the Sports Arena, Everett?"

Mr. Dalton nodded. "I won't ever forget that. Lionel Richie opened for her. It was an amazing show. April 28th, 2000."

I whistled, impressed. "Your memory is amazing."

"That is because it was the day after our fifth wedding anniversary." Mrs. Dalton nodded at the concert photo. "He'd wanted to take me, but didn't have the money for the tickets, so I bought them myself and surprised him."

I eyed them both, confused. "What do you mean, he didn't have the money?"

"Everett was working for a start-up, fourteen hours a day, with barely enough money to cover rent and food," she said.

"It paid off," Mr. Dalton interjected. "I eventually sold that company for five hundred million."

Mrs. Dalton's smile faded. "Sadly, that was the beginning of the end. It was also the last concert we ever attended."

The mood shifted as Mr. Dalton stepped to Mrs. Dalton, his face covered with guilt. I sensed the need for privacy and gently guided Zena away, giving her parents some space. We watched from a distance as they chatted quietly, Mr. Dalton listening and nodding more than a few times. He kissed Mrs. Dalton and took her hand.

Zena's eyes welled up with tears. "I can't believe what I'm seeing." Her voice was thick with emotion. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. It's like Dad had forgotten he had a loving wife, someone who needed love in return. For years, I've watched them drift apart, Mom's spirit dimming while Dad buried himself in work." Zena paused, taking a shaky breath. "I used to dream about them reconnecting, finding that spark again. But as time went on, it seemed less and less likely. And now, I'm watching them hold hands and smile at each other like they used to. It's overwhelming."

I nodded, wrapping my arm around her.

A tear slid down her cheek. "Thank you."

"Me?" I said. "I didn't do this."

"Yes, you did," she said. "This is all you, Nolan."

Suddenly, Mr. Dalton turned and spotted us. His eyebrows arched as he approached, his gaze fixed on my arm around Zena's shoulders.

"Nolan," he said. "Why is your arm around my daughter? There's no need to fake anything here today with us."

You are so wrong about that …

I hesitated, trying to come up with a good reason. "Well, because …"

Zena jumped in to save me. "They really have the AC cranked up in here and I was cold. Thanks, Nolan. I'm better now." She removed my arm, flashing a quick, nervous smile.

Mr. Dalton's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Nolan, can I speak to you in private?"

Mrs. Dalton sighed. "Honestly, Everett, leave him alone."

"It's okay," he assured her. "It's not what you think."

Mr. Dalton and I stepped outside, the afternoon sun warm on our faces. He cleared his throat, his usual bravado replaced by an unfamiliar vulnerability.

"First, thank you for this," he said, gesturing toward the museum. "Well, for everything."

"Of course …" I nodded, unsure where this was going.

"Watching my wife smile and laugh today has been bittersweet," he continued. "Sweet, because I used to be a big fan of her passion and her zest for life. And bitter, because I realized I'd forgotten those qualities, too obsessed with other things." He sighed heavily. "I'm afraid I killed her zest for life."

I was shocked by this uncharacteristic display of emotion and sincerity, but finally said, "That zest is still there. It needs some coaxing to come back out again."

"That's where you come in," he said firmly.

Confused, I said, "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

"I want to ask you for a favor," he said.

I recoiled. "No. Not another favor. No, no, no."

"You don't even know what it is yet," he argued.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "I'm already doing you a favor right now, remember? Not that I had much choice with a gun practically pointed at my head."

"That's not true," he defended. "Well, not entirely."

"Oh? So you're telling me it's a coincidence you fired someone for not doing you a favor while I was in your office?" I asked.

Mr. Dalton sighed. "Fine, you got me. That call was staged to encourage your cooperation."

I stared at him, torn between admiration for his cunning and anger at being manipulated. "Wait, it wasn't even real? You didn't fire anyone?"

He shook his head. "No. I was talking to my assistant."

I stared at him, not knowing what to say.

"I'll make it worth your while," he offered. "Name your price."

I shook my head. "I don't want your money."

"Do it out of the kindness of your heart," he pleaded.

I sighed, afraid to ask, but not being able to stop myself. "What kind of favor, exactly?"

He looked almost sheepish. "Well, you obviously have a way with the ladies. I was hoping you could coach me a little. Or a lot."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Pardon me?"

When he had asked me to fake-date Zena, I felt like the professional male escort in The Wedding Date , but without the escort experience. However, his latest proposal as a coach had me feeling more like Will Smith in Hitch.

He launched into an explanation of trying to make things right with Mrs. Dalton and why he thought I'd be an excellent coach, but I cut him off.

"No! You don't need a coach," I said firmly. "Do you remember why you fell in love with her?"

He nodded. "Of course. Many reasons."

"Focus on that!" I said. "Appreciate her, don't take her for granted, give her attention. She's dying for it, and it doesn't take money to accomplish that because you did not have a penny when she fell for you. Make her your top priority. Touch her, give her a thoughtful massage, hug her more, kiss her more. Surprise her with those things you used to do. That's all! You don't need a coach for that."

Mr. Dalton clapped me on the back. "Thanks, coach."

Zena emerged from the bathroom with her mom and asked, "Everything okay with you two?"

"Yup—just guy stuff," I said, though Mrs. Dalton looked skeptical.

"Well, we should get going," Zena said. "I'm dying for some Nashville fried chicken."

"Let's make that happen!" I held the keys in the air toward Mr. Dalton. "You're driving."

He looked surprised. "Why?"

I grinned. "Because I want to sit in the back with Zena."

Mrs. Dalton nodded. "Sounds good to me. I would love to ride shotgun, but are you sure you remember how to drive, dear? The accelerator is the large vertical pedal on the right."

"Give me those," Mr. Dalton grumbled, snatching the keys from my hand.

As we piled into the car and he took off driving, I felt like we'd turned a corner, in more ways than one. Still, there was one thing that was bugging me and I needed to say something.

"My grandma drives faster in reverse than you at this moment, Mr. Dalton," I joked. "Come on, step on it and show us what this baby can do. As your wife says, live a little, but this time follow directions correctly and try not to kill us."

"Challenge accepted. How's this?" He punched the accelerator, pushing us all back against our seats.

The speedometer climbed quickly, 80, 90, 100 …

Zena's hair whipped my face as I regretted my challenge.

Especially when the police siren suddenly wailed behind us.