Happy Ever After
Page 44
She spotted the car now, a low-slung beast in shining black. “That’s quite a car.”
“It’s heading toward cold tonight. I didn’t think you’d want the bike.”
She walked off the portico and had to admire the lines. Del had been right. It was very slick. “It looks new, but it’s not.”
“Older than I am, but it’s a nice ride.” He opened the door for her.
She slid in. It smelled of leather and man, a combination that only made her more aware of being female.When he got in beside her, turned the ignition, the engine made her think of a fist, coiled and ready to strike.
“So, tell me about the car.”
“Sixty-six Corvette.”
“And?”
He glanced at her, then shot up the drive. “She moves.”
“I can see that.”
“Four-speed close-ratio trans, 427 CID with high-lift camshaft, dual side-mount exhausts.”
“What’s the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there’s not much difference between the gears.”
“You got it. It’s for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.”
“There wouldn’t be any point having a car like this if you weren’t.”
“We’re on the same page there.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Altogether? About four years. I just finished restoring it a few months ago.”
“It must be a lot of work, restoring cars.”
He slanted a glance at her as his hand worked the gearshift. “I could point out the irony of you saying anything’s a lot of work. Plus it’s a driveable ad for the business. People notice a car like this, then they ask about it.Word gets around.Then maybe some trust fund baby who’s got his granddaddy’s Coupe de Ville garaged decides to have it restored, or some dude with a wad of cash wants to revisit his youth and hires me to find and restore a ’72 Porshe 911 wherein he lost his virginity, which takes some doing in a 911.”
“I’ll take your word.”
He grinned. “Where’d you lose yours?”
“In Cabo San Lucas.”
His laugh was quick. “Now, how many people can say that?”
“A number of Cabo San Lucans, I imagine. But to return to the car, it’s very smart.The idea of a driveable ad for your business.”
It did move, she thought. Hugging the curves of the road like a lizard hugged a rock. And like the bike, it spoke of power in subtle roars, smooth hums.
Not practical, of course, not in the least. Her sedan was practical. But . . .
“I’d love to drive it myself.”
“No.”
She angled her head, challenged by the absolute denial.“I have an excellent driving record.”
“Bet you do. Still no.What was your first car?”
“A little BMW convertible.”
“The 328i?”
“If you say so. It was silver. I loved it.What was yours?”
“An ’82 Camaro Z28, five speed, cross-fire fuel-injected V8. She moved, at least when I finished with her. She had seventy thousand hard miles on her when I got her off this guy in Stamford. Anyway.” He parked across from a popular chophouse. “I thought we’d eat.”
“All right.”
He took her hand as they crossed the street, which gave her, she told herself, a ridiculous little thrill.
“How old were you when you got the car?”
“Fifteen.”
“You weren’t even old enough to drive it.”
“Which is one of the many things my mother pointed out when she found out I’d blown a big chunk of the money I was supposed to be saving for college on a secondhand junker that looked ready for the crusher. She’d have kicked my ass and made me sell it again if Nappy hadn’t talked her out of it.”
“Nappy?”
He held up two fingers when they stood inside, got a nod and a wait-one-minute signal from the hostess. “He ran the garage back then, what’s mine now. I worked for him weekends and summers, and whenever I could skip out of school. He convinced her restoring the car would be educational, how I was learning a trade, and that it would keep me out of trouble, which I guess it did. Sometimes.”
As she walked with him in the hostess’s wake, she thought of her own teenage summers. She’d worked in the Brown Foundation, learning along with Del how to handle the responsibility, respect the legacy—but the bulk of her holidays had been spent in the Hamptons, by the pool of her own estate, with friends, with a week or two in Europe to top it off.
He ordered a beer, she a glass of red.
“I doubt your mother would’ve approved of the skipping school.”
“Not when she caught me, which was most of the time.”
“I ran into her yesterday.We had coffee.”
She saw what she’d seen rarely. Malcolm Kavanaugh completely taken by surprise. “You had . . . She didn’t mention it.”
“Oh, it was just one of those things.” Casually, Parker opened the menu. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner.”
“We’re having dinner.”
“Sunday dinner.” She smiled. “Now who’s scared?”
“Scared’s a strong word. Consider yourself asked, and we’ll figure out when it’ll work. Have you eaten here before?”
“Mmm.They have baked potatoes the size of footballs. I think I’ll have one.” She set her menu aside.“Did you know your mother worked for mine occasionally—extra help at parties?”
“Yeah, I knew that.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Do you think that’s a problem for me?”
“No. No, I don’t. I think it might be a problem for some people, but you’re not one of them. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me . . .”
“What?”
“That there’d been a connection there, back when we were kids.”
The waiter brought their drinks, took their order.
“I changed a tire for your mother once.”
She felt a little clutch in her heart. “Really?”
“The spring before I took off. I guess she was driving home from some deal at the country club or wherever.” Looking back, bringing it into his mind, he took a sip of his beer. “She had on this dress, the kind that floats and makes men hope winter never comes back. It had rosebuds, red rosebuds all over it.”
“It’s heading toward cold tonight. I didn’t think you’d want the bike.”
She walked off the portico and had to admire the lines. Del had been right. It was very slick. “It looks new, but it’s not.”
“Older than I am, but it’s a nice ride.” He opened the door for her.
She slid in. It smelled of leather and man, a combination that only made her more aware of being female.When he got in beside her, turned the ignition, the engine made her think of a fist, coiled and ready to strike.
“So, tell me about the car.”
“Sixty-six Corvette.”
“And?”
He glanced at her, then shot up the drive. “She moves.”
“I can see that.”
“Four-speed close-ratio trans, 427 CID with high-lift camshaft, dual side-mount exhausts.”
“What’s the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there’s not much difference between the gears.”
“You got it. It’s for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.”
“There wouldn’t be any point having a car like this if you weren’t.”
“We’re on the same page there.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Altogether? About four years. I just finished restoring it a few months ago.”
“It must be a lot of work, restoring cars.”
He slanted a glance at her as his hand worked the gearshift. “I could point out the irony of you saying anything’s a lot of work. Plus it’s a driveable ad for the business. People notice a car like this, then they ask about it.Word gets around.Then maybe some trust fund baby who’s got his granddaddy’s Coupe de Ville garaged decides to have it restored, or some dude with a wad of cash wants to revisit his youth and hires me to find and restore a ’72 Porshe 911 wherein he lost his virginity, which takes some doing in a 911.”
“I’ll take your word.”
He grinned. “Where’d you lose yours?”
“In Cabo San Lucas.”
His laugh was quick. “Now, how many people can say that?”
“A number of Cabo San Lucans, I imagine. But to return to the car, it’s very smart.The idea of a driveable ad for your business.”
It did move, she thought. Hugging the curves of the road like a lizard hugged a rock. And like the bike, it spoke of power in subtle roars, smooth hums.
Not practical, of course, not in the least. Her sedan was practical. But . . .
“I’d love to drive it myself.”
“No.”
She angled her head, challenged by the absolute denial.“I have an excellent driving record.”
“Bet you do. Still no.What was your first car?”
“A little BMW convertible.”
“The 328i?”
“If you say so. It was silver. I loved it.What was yours?”
“An ’82 Camaro Z28, five speed, cross-fire fuel-injected V8. She moved, at least when I finished with her. She had seventy thousand hard miles on her when I got her off this guy in Stamford. Anyway.” He parked across from a popular chophouse. “I thought we’d eat.”
“All right.”
He took her hand as they crossed the street, which gave her, she told herself, a ridiculous little thrill.
“How old were you when you got the car?”
“Fifteen.”
“You weren’t even old enough to drive it.”
“Which is one of the many things my mother pointed out when she found out I’d blown a big chunk of the money I was supposed to be saving for college on a secondhand junker that looked ready for the crusher. She’d have kicked my ass and made me sell it again if Nappy hadn’t talked her out of it.”
“Nappy?”
He held up two fingers when they stood inside, got a nod and a wait-one-minute signal from the hostess. “He ran the garage back then, what’s mine now. I worked for him weekends and summers, and whenever I could skip out of school. He convinced her restoring the car would be educational, how I was learning a trade, and that it would keep me out of trouble, which I guess it did. Sometimes.”
As she walked with him in the hostess’s wake, she thought of her own teenage summers. She’d worked in the Brown Foundation, learning along with Del how to handle the responsibility, respect the legacy—but the bulk of her holidays had been spent in the Hamptons, by the pool of her own estate, with friends, with a week or two in Europe to top it off.
He ordered a beer, she a glass of red.
“I doubt your mother would’ve approved of the skipping school.”
“Not when she caught me, which was most of the time.”
“I ran into her yesterday.We had coffee.”
She saw what she’d seen rarely. Malcolm Kavanaugh completely taken by surprise. “You had . . . She didn’t mention it.”
“Oh, it was just one of those things.” Casually, Parker opened the menu. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner.”
“We’re having dinner.”
“Sunday dinner.” She smiled. “Now who’s scared?”
“Scared’s a strong word. Consider yourself asked, and we’ll figure out when it’ll work. Have you eaten here before?”
“Mmm.They have baked potatoes the size of footballs. I think I’ll have one.” She set her menu aside.“Did you know your mother worked for mine occasionally—extra help at parties?”
“Yeah, I knew that.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Do you think that’s a problem for me?”
“No. No, I don’t. I think it might be a problem for some people, but you’re not one of them. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me . . .”
“What?”
“That there’d been a connection there, back when we were kids.”
The waiter brought their drinks, took their order.
“I changed a tire for your mother once.”
She felt a little clutch in her heart. “Really?”
“The spring before I took off. I guess she was driving home from some deal at the country club or wherever.” Looking back, bringing it into his mind, he took a sip of his beer. “She had on this dress, the kind that floats and makes men hope winter never comes back. It had rosebuds, red rosebuds all over it.”
