For Pete’s Sake

Horns blared. A crashing sound came from down the street.
“What the devil was that?” The chief exclaimed.
Peter stood and helped the chief to his feet.
A massive out of control old Chrysler was coming up Main Street. It swerved toward Fred’s barbershop, taking out a bench and then the trashcans at the corner. A man and a woman ducked into an open doorway, just in time.
The door opened at Maggie O’Connell’s Dress Junction, and a young girl came out, her arms loaded with bags and boxes. The car was a block away, and headed straight for her.
Watch out! Peter screamed inside his head, but of course she couldn’t hear him.
He jumped up and ran across the street. Tackling the girl he fell on top of her, back through the open doorway just as the huge car crashed into a light post next door.
“What just happened?” she asked. She sat up.
A crowd gathered in the street. The woman in the car cried and fought with the door. The Chief struggled with the driver’s door. The rear tires spun, the engine raced, and the car butted the light post.
“Turn the dang thing off,” the chief yelled at the woman.
She turned the switch, and the engine died.
Silence hung in the hot summer air. Everyone babbled at the same time.
Christie, the girl he had just knocked to the floor, cried. The beautiful dress she’d saved all spring for was in a heap, dirt smudges all over it. A lilac perfume bottle broke when she fell, the scent on everything.
The woman driver was sobbing, explaining that the gas pedal got stuck. The chief tried to get the banged-up driver’s door open, all the while cursing under his breath. The chief’s deputy, Hank, opened the undamaged passenger door.
The chief said, “It’s about time you showed up, Hank. Don’t just stand there gawking, help the lady out.”
“Yes, sir.” Hank said. “I’ll do that.”
Peter stood and gathered Christie’s packages. She watched him as he carefully separated each item and attempted to put things back in the correct boxes and bags. His sandy hair hung loosely over his forehead and partly covered his face. The sleeveless shirt he wore was stained and wet with sweat, his muscular arms deeply tanned. From where she sat on the floor, he looked like a giant, a very handsome giant, grinning.
“Do you think this is funny?”
He shook his head and pointed toward the street.
Christie laughed and held out her hand.
“Well? Are you going to help me up or not?”
Peter pulled her up. He started to dust her off, but she stopped him.
“Thanks anyway,” she said. “I can handle it from here. I’m Christine Ford. What’s your name?”
Peter couldn’t answer. He stared at her with ice blue eyes, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. Where have you been hiding all summer?
“My friends call me Christie. I think you may have saved my life.”
Peter nodded and grinned.
“He can’t talk, Miss Ford.”