Write On, Ride On

• 

Sara eased the Subaru into the passing lane and accelerated around another truck. Soon we settled into that comfortable rhythm road trips eventually find—the conversation flowed easily, the miles slipped by, and Prince Edward Island waited for us across the bridge.

Judy spent most of the morning reading Culpability, a novel the rest of us insisted she would love. By lunchtime she closed the book, rubbed her temples, and admitted she wasn't feeling well. Between the headache, an empty stomach, and reading in a moving car, she thought driving for a while might help.

Sara pulled into the Cobequid Pass tollbooth, and she and Judy swapped places.

Nothing felt unusual.

A few miles later, Judy frowned. "The brakes feel...soft."

From the back seat, Sarah asked, "Soft how?"

"I don't know," Judy said. "They just don't feel right." There weren't any warning lights. No strange sounds. The Subaru drove normally enough, but the brake pedal sank farther than expected.

"I don't like this," Sara said quietly. "Let's stop and get you something to eat, then I'll drive."

After a quick bite, we climbed back into the car. Sara backed out, tapped the brakes, and frowned. "Yeah...I see what you mean." As we merged onto the highway, she pressed harder. "I don't like this at all." Panic crept into her voice. "We need to get off at the next exit." Whatever was wrong, we weren't driving another mile until we figured it out.

Without another word, Sara signaled, took the next exit, and coasted into the parking lot of an Esso station. It took nearly everything she had to press the brake pedal before we finally came to a stop.

None of us knew it then, but that quick stop would become the reason we were still alive. If the brakes had failed thirty minutes earlier, while Sara was weaving around transport trucks, or later on the eight-mile stretch of the Confederation Bridge, there would have been nowhere to pull over—nowhere to escape.

I can still picture it. Sara presses harder against the brake pedal. Again. Nothing. The speedometer climbs instead of falls. Guardrails on either side. No shoulder. No exit. Just eight miles of bridge and the terrifying realization that we aren't stopping.

Would she have thought to pull the emergency brake? I don't know. Even if she had, there wasn't much comfort in that thought. At seventy-five miles an hour, you don't stop on a dime. You pray there's enough road left.

Just a week earlier, I'd been in Wyoming when my son called to say the mountain pass had been shut down after a truck lost its brakes and killed three people. Looking back, I can't help but wonder if our story came within thirty minutes of ending the same way.

We could have been the next headline.

Sara called CAA (Like our AAA) while Judy searched for rental cars and repair shops. I Googled what to do when Subaru brakes feel "soft" and learned that air in the lines or low brake fluid could be the culprit. Hoping someone behind the counter knew more than Google, I wandered inside the station.

A popcorn machine hummed, filling the store with the warm scent of butter and salt. Anthony stood beside it, the glow framing his smile before I finished explaining our predicament. "I'll see what I can do." He followed me outside without hesitation. I handed him the brake fluid, and he poured nearly the entire bottle into the reservoir.

Anthony and I exchanged a hopeful glance. Maybe that was all it needed.

Sara climbed into the driver's seat while her boyfriend Steve remained on speakerphone.

"Pump the brakes." She did. "Again." She pumped several more times while Steve told us to check underneath the car.

I knelt beside the rear passenger tire. At first, I didn't see anything. Then several drops landed on the pavement. Then more. Within seconds, brake fluid formed a small puddle beneath the car.

"There's a puddle of oil," I called. The three of us gathered around the leak. No one needed to explain what it meant. Ten minutes earlier we'd been passing transport trucks at highway speed. In another hour we'd have been crossing the Confederation Bridge.

What if Judy hadn't noticed?

Standing in that Esso parking lot, it struck me how much this trip had already asked of all of us. Sara had decided not to travel to the United States, so Canada became our meeting place instead. I'd flown from California. Erica had driven from Colorado. Judy had come from Pennsylvania. We'd spent more than a year comparing calendars, booking flights, reserving a cottage by the sea, and counting down the months until the four of us could spend a week writing together.

Instead, we were stranded in Amherst, Nova Scotia, with enough luggage for a two-week adventure and no idea how we were going to reach Prince Edward Island.

At first, we made practical plans. Maybe the tow truck would arrive quickly. Maybe Erica could turn around and rescue us. Maybe Sara would stay behind with the car while the rest of us continued.

Anthony had been the first stranger to step forward. He didn't know us. He certainly didn't have to leave the counter or crawl around a stranger's Subaru in the middle of his workday. But he did.

Before the tow truck arrived, we carried our bags next door into the NSLC Express, where a woman behind the counter greeted us with an easy smile. She immediately reminded me of one of my closest friends back home.

"You have a twin living in California," I told her.

She laughed. "I've always wanted one."

Within minutes I was explaining why three women and a mountain of luggage had taken over her liquor store. She listened without rushing us, completely invested in our story. When we introduced ourselves, I learned her name was Jen. Then she leaned both hands on the counter. "Okay," she said. "Let's figure this out." It was such a simple sentence. Not, "That's too bad." Not, "Good luck." Let's figure this out. I've never been very good at simply waiting, and Jen seemed to sense that immediately.

"I could drive you somewhere while you wait," she offered, suggesting a nearby pub. Somewhere to sit, read, and talk while we waited sounded wonderful. The irony of a non-drinker spending the afternoon in a liquor store wasn't lost on me. Then she stopped.

"Oh no." I froze. "I loaned my car to a friend this morning." For just a second she looked as disappointed as I felt. Then I was already on to Plan B.

"What about Uber?"

No Uber.

"A taxi?"

"I'd call Baker's Shuttle."

She picked up the phone, made the call, and handed it to me. George Baker himself would arrive in fifteen minutes. When our new plan came together, I walked outside to tell Sara and Judy that we'd wait at the pub while Erica stayed on Prince Edward Island.

After I called Baker's Shuttle, Sara and Judy joined me inside. As we traded stories about our writing adventures, Jen said she felt bad for us and wanted to buy us some of her favorite spritzers. When I told her I didn't drink, she disappeared into the cooler and returned with two cans of sparkling wine.

"My favorite," she said, handing one to Sara and another to Judy. Then she looked at me. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. That was really sweet of you."

Sara immediately asked for her address, determined that Jen would be the first recipient of an honorary Write On shirt—the same ones the four of us had worn to kick off our little writer's camp. I was convinced those shirts carried a little magic. They seemed to disarm strangers the moment they saw them, quietly announcing that we were people who loved stories.

Less than thirty minutes earlier, I'd never heard of Amherst.

Now I was sitting in a liquor store talking with women who already felt more like neighbors than strangers.

Just then, the front door swung open and two women walked in.

Without thinking, I smiled. "Welcome to the best liquor store in town!"

They laughed.

"I don't know," one of them replied. "It's the only one we've been in today."

The shorter of the two introduced herself as Sarah—with an "h." She had an easy smile and the kind of outgoing personality that made conversation effortless. Her friend Michele was quieter, content to let Sarah lead while she smiled along beside her. They fit together the way longtime friends often do.

"So," Sarah asked, "what brings you ladies here?"

I laughed. "Broken brakes."

She glanced at the pile of luggage, and we filled them in on everything—the writing retreat, the Subaru, Anthony, the tow truck, and the fact that our friend Erica was already waiting for us on Prince Edward Island while we tried to figure out how three women and a mountain of suitcases were going to get there.

The moment I mentioned Prince Edward Island, Sarah and Michele looked at each other.

"We live there," Sarah said. "We're headed back after we stop at Frenchy's."

"You are?"

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sarah looked at Michele and they continued to talk.

"We could take you." I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly.

"You'd take us?"

"Of course."

There was just one condition. "We have to stop at Frenchy's first." Apparently no trip across Nova Scotia was complete without a visit to the legendary thrift store. At that point, after the day we'd had, waiting for two strangers to finish shopping before driving us to Prince Edward Island seemed perfectly reasonable.

Phone numbers were exchanged. Baker's Shuttle would take us to a nearby pub while they shopped, then they'd pick us up afterward and continue on to Prince Edward Island. Erica could stay where she was and meet us at the Visitor Information Centre instead of driving all the way back to Amherst.

As we waited, Sara said something that surprised me.

"You know, I don't think I would've asked for a ride if it hadn't been for you."

I looked at her.

"You just started talking to them like they were already friends," she said. "That made me brave."

I smiled. I wasn't trying to be brave. I've always believed every stranger carries a story worth hearing if we're willing to ask one more question. Sometimes that question leads to friendship. Sometimes it leads to a ride across Prince Edward Island.

While we waited for Baker's Shuttle, I asked Sarah and Michele how they'd met. Years earlier they'd struck up a conversation while vacationing in the Dominican Republic. One ordinary introduction had turned into a lasting friendship—and now they were opening their car doors to three stranded writers they'd known for less than fifteen minutes.

Outside, a white van with Baker's Shuttle printed on the side pulled into the parking lot. George Baker climbed out. He reminded me of a sterner-looking Santa Claus—broad-shouldered, white beard, weathered face, and an expression that suggested he wasn't interested in wasting anyone's time. We loaded our luggage, climbed aboard, and I remember thinking, Well...this ride is going to be efficient.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

The moment George pulled away from the curb, his stern expression gave way to a mischievous grin.

"So," he said into the rearview mirror, "let's see if you ladies can answer this one."

Before long we were solving riddles, laughing, and getting an unexpected tour of Amherst. George pointed out historic buildings, shared stories from around town, and eventually challenged us to guess his age. After several failed attempts, I finally landed on seventy-seven.

"I knew you'd get there eventually," he said with a grin.

What should have been a ten-minute shuttle ride became a guided tour led by Amherst's unofficial ambassador. By the time George dropped us at Duncan's Pub, we'd laughed, learned more about the town than we'd ever expected, and almost forgotten we were still depending on two women we'd met less than an hour earlier to rescue us.

Almost.

We settled into a booth, surrounded by luggage, ordered potato skins and drinks, and waited. At first, waiting was easy. Then the minutes began to stretch.

Sara picked up her phone. "Should I text them?" she asked. "I was thinking... 'Hey, if you've changed your mind about taking us, just let us know so we can make other arrangements.'"

I laughed. "Too passive-aggressive."

"What would you send?"

I thought for a second. "What if we ask if they'd like us to order them a drink? That'll tell us when they're getting here."

She smiled.

"That's much better."

A moment later she hit send:

Hope you're finding treasures. Wondering your ETA so we can have drinks ready if you'd like something before the drive.

Then we waited.

Minutes passed.

No reply.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Judy wasn't worried.

"They'll come."

I wanted to believe her, but my imagination had already wandered into Frenchy's. Maybe they'd found incredible bargains. Maybe they were trying on jackets. Maybe they'd completely forgotten about the three stranded writers waiting in a pub.

Then Sara's phone buzzed.

We are leaving Frenchys now!

I don't think any of us realized how much we needed those five words until we read them. Relief settled over the table. A few minutes later, we heard their laughter before they reached our booth. They slid in beside us as if we'd known each other for years. For a while, no one mentioned broken brakes or delayed plans. We laughed about the day's events, they talked about the bargains they found, and we picked up the conversation as though we'd simply paused it.

When it was time to leave, we gathered our bags and headed outside. Judy and Sara climbed into Michele's car while I tossed my backpack into Sarah's back seat. The arrangement couldn't have worked out better.

As we pulled away from Amherst, Sarah and I talked as if we were catching up with an old friend. My son Blake called during the drive.

"Mom," he said, "I don't think you should be getting into a stranger's car like that."

Too late.

The conversation never really paused. Somewhere along the drive Sarah mentioned West Coast Swing dancing, which led to stories about family, traditions, and the people who mattered most to her. Almost every Sunday, she said, she and her fiancé, Greg, gathered with his family. There was something comforting about the way she described it—no obligation, no drama, just people who genuinely enjoyed being together.

Eventually she laughed as she admitted she hadn't exactly fallen head over heels for Greg the first time they met. His COVID haircut hadn't helped, and neither had the shirts that looked as though they'd wandered out of a twelve-year-old boy's closet. "But he just kept being himself," she said. What changed everything wasn't the haircut or the clothes. It was the way he treated people. The way he loved his family. The way he showed up. The way he listened. Somewhere along the way, she stopped noticing what he looked like because she couldn't ignore who he was.

Listening to her, I realized I'd spent the entire day surrounded by that same quality.

Anthony had stepped away from his job to help three strangers.

Jen refused to stop looking for solutions until she found one.

George Baker turned an ordinary shuttle ride into an unforgettable afternoon.

Sarah and Michele opened their cars—and their afternoon—to women they'd known for less than an hour.

And now Sarah was telling me she'd fallen in love with a man for exactly the same reason.

Kindness.

By the time the Confederation Bridge came into view, I realized our writing retreat had actually begun hours earlier—not when we opened our notebooks and not when our brakes failed, but the moment people chose to interrupt their own lives to help ours. A question became a conversation. A conversation became a phone call. One stranger pointed us toward another, and another carried us a little farther down the road. Looking back, the day unfolded like a line of stepping stones, each act of generosity leading naturally to the next.

It wasn't luck that carried us to Prince Edward Island. It was people.

People who didn't know our names, didn't owe us a thing, and still chose to become part of our story before quietly returning to their own.

Before we said goodbye, we exchanged addresses, and Sara promised to send each of our unexpected travel companions one of Judy's Write On shirts. A T-shirt could never repay what they'd given us, but we hoped it would remind them that their kindness had traveled farther than they probably realized.

When we finally pulled into the Prince Edward Island Visitor Information Centre, Erica watched as hugs were exchanged, laughter filled the parking lot, and everyone lingered a little longer before climbing back into their own vehicles, Erica smiled. "I thought you somehow knew each other." We laughed.

"Nope."

That morning, all of us had been complete strangers. By evening, it felt as though we'd been carried to Prince Edward Island by the kindness of people we'd met along the way. As the island came into view through the windshield, I realized I was already taking mental notes.

Whatever stories we'd come to write, one of them had already found me.

Judy, Michele, Sarah, me, and Sara.