Free The Sandcastle Sister by Lisa Wingate

about surprising Evan half a world away, saying good-bye stinks.
    “Better get crackin’.” Fortunately, RC is true to form   —naturally unsentimental. Johnny volunteers to do the dishes, and RC helps us finish packing. Then we carry everything down to the Jaguar. I’m so worked up, I feel like I could fly from here to Norfolk . . . without an airplane.
    The excitement lasts right up until I slide into the driver’s seat to start the engine and let it warm while we go upstairs to make a last pass through the bedroom and say our final farewells to Johnny, who can’t run up and down the steps like the rest of us.
    I turn the key and nothing happens. The Jaguar is deader than a doornail.
    Fifteen minutes of tinkering with switches, and it’s still completely lifeless. Johnny makes his way down to look things over. Between the four of us, there’s quite a bit of knowledge of engines and farm machinery, but the apparatus under the Jaguar’s hood looks like it belongs in a fighter jet. We’re afraid to mess with it beyond trying Johnny’s jumper cables and battery tester.
    “No tellin’ who you can find to work on this thing around here,” Johnny admits. “But don’t worry, okay? If it’s not fixed by lunchtime, we’ll drive you to the airport and keep your car here. The folks who own this house are friends. They won’t mind a bit.”
    I agree with the plan but hope that with enough calling around I can find an insta-mechanic, and that the repair will be a quick fix . . . maybe a loose connection or something. I don’t know what Evan will say if I have to tell him I abandoned his Jag at a beach house way down on Hatteras Island. Will my presence in Paris be enough to make up for an offense like that?
    I go back upstairs and start working my way through the phone book while Johnny and RC gather their tools and cleaning rags for work. There’s a boat they’ve promised to have ready today.
    RC stops at the door, smiles. “You’ll be here when we get back, right?”
    “Yes. If I do get the car fixed, we’ll hang around until after lunch and leave then.” My standby-flight plan is toast now anyway. I’ll just have to keep my fingers crossed for the connection to my overseas plane.
    RC gives me a long, thoughtful look, and for a minute I wonder what she’s thinking. “One way or another, we’ll get you to the airport by the time that flight leaves this evening. Don’t worry.” She sends a patient smile. “Since you’ll be here at lunch, we can do the hugging then.”
    “Rain check,” I tease. RC not being much of a hugger, the promise of one lets me know how much she feels this new sister connection, how much it means to her.
    “You got it.” One of her now-familiar winks comes my way. “Hang in there, kiddo.”
    I watch her descend the stairs and disappear from view. The little Hatteras house turns lonely and quiet, and despite a day that warms and becomes idyllic, this isn’t where I want to be. After several futile attempts to find a mechanic who can work on a Jaguar today , I give up and call RC to let her know we’ll need that ride to the airport, for sure. My repeated apologies for the imposition are met with a casual laugh.
    “It’s not every day you get to help out the course of true love,” she jokes, then adds that they’ll be home in a couple hours   —plenty of time to offer taxi service. I tell her I want to at least pay for the gas, and she says we’ll talk about it.
    I call Evan just to hear his voice, but he doesn’t answer. I text, but he doesn’t respond. No doubt he has the phone on silent and has forgotten about it. He’s as notorious for that as he is for forgetting to silence the phone before he steps up to a speaker’s podium.
    Finally, there’s nothing left to do but distract myself by digging through some work projects. Sinking into an e-copy of a manuscript on my submissions pile is a surefire way to pass the time. Luckily, the story is compelling, and