I put on my lipstick in two expert swipes, grabbed my keys and jacket, jammed on my heels and ran for the door. There was a cab ambling down the street, evidently looking just for me.
I could get used to living like this.
I flagged the cab down and settled in, relieved to find my tiny calculator in this purse. I could calculate the tip to the precision of eight decimal points, instead of winging it and mucking it up.
As a bonus, there, tucked in the tiny side pocket where I should put my keys, was a pressed four leaf clover. I remembered finding it one day in the back lot of the office, growing through a crack in the concrete of all things, and had pressed it just on general principle.
Tough luck, I’d said to Elaine and laughed.
Now it made me smile again. But maybe luck was tougher than we tend to believe. I smoothed the pressed leaf and eased it back into the pocket. I felt a thousand times better than I should about life the universe and everything, even when the cab driver took the corner on two wheels.
He was obviously anxious to be rid of a cheap tipper like me.
* * *
So, the yard was abandoned.
It wasn’t really surprising at that hour of the morning, but I was disappointed that Nick wasn’t there waiting for me. He’d come, though. He was the kind of guy who kept his promises.
At least he used to be.
Doubt wiggled its toes.
Let’s take a moment to set the scene. The head office of Coxwell & Pope is not the most glam place in the world. There’s a gravel lot in front of the relentlessly functional square building of taupe brick, which dates from the late fifties. It’s a building that says “no frills” in its every line.
It had been built by a paving company to house the owner/manager/salesman and his secretary, as well as all their files. That company’s backhoes and pavers had once parked in rows along the side of the highway. I remember seeing them as a kid on our trips to the city. The big yellow monsters with their jagged teeth had been a landmark of being “almost there”, or in the other direction, of “nowhere near home”. In those days, this had been a no-man’s-land of cheap real estate.
No-man’s-land had moved much closer to Maine since then. Now the lot was smaller, the land on either side having been sold off when the paving company moved on. Far from being beyond the reach of civilization, we were nestled in the midst of a gasoline alley that stretched from Boston almost all the way to Rosemount.
The small fenced back lot was perfect for our baby backhoe and minimal inventory of interlock and interesting rocks. Mostly we used it as a staging area, buying what we needed shortly before installing it rather than keeping inventory. Our business was very susceptible to personal taste, which meant that any inventory would have had to be enormous to be useful.
I preferred letting the big interlock companies and tree farms keep the inventory—and pay for it—until I knew I needed it.
Our office rubbed shoulders with a fried chicken place and an obscenely expensive nursery. Both Elaine and I had sworn off chicken shortly after we took the office three years before—the smell of the fat all day and most of the night is enough to put anyone off deep-frying for good—and often joked about poaching customers from among the nursery’s well-heeled clientele.
What was good about our location was its visibility. We had a beautifully big sign, with flowing green text that proclaimed Coxwell & Pope to be purveyors of exquisite garden design and landscaping. When we noticed all the Land Rover Ladies taking a good look at the sign from next door, obviously not wanting to risk their fancy shoes on the gravel, we had added our phone number to the sign. It was cheaper than paving the lot and we have had a few calls from Back Bay.
Including Mrs. Eugenia Hathaway, my personal favorite and patron saint of the Land Rover Ladies. Except she has a Jag, in a lovely hue of emerald.
Mrs. H., though, was our ticket to profitability and possibly to a whole lot more.
The back gate was still locked up, the Bronco Beast—also embellished with logo—sat cold and hulking beside the office door. It looks completely decrepit, but it’s not as old as you might think. I guess hard living had aged it beyond its years. All the office lights were out and the sky was pale pearly grey. Determined to see the bright side, I resolved that I could get some work done on those sketches while I waited for Nick.
The fat for the chicken was already heated up—I could smell it and my stomach was not impressed. Fried chicken for breakfast was not an appealing concept any day of the week. I was thinking that the yogurt might have been a good choice after all as I did the key shuffle.
Which was why Nick nearly gave me a heart attack when he stepped out of the shadows.
I did squeal his name.
He looked as though he might have laughed at me under other circumstances. “You were expecting someone else?”
“Of course not.”
He looked just as yummy as he had the night before, which didn’t help me find my composure. The dark shadow of a day’s beard only made him look a bit more mysterious, his eyes more startlingly green. My heart, having jumped, now lodged solidly in my throat.
Worse, I felt myself blushing. I figured I’d blushed more in the last twelve hours than in all the years since I was Fat Philippa. “I didn’t see you.”
“That would be the point.” Nick shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze assessing. “You were the one who said I shouldn’t be seen.”
“Right.” I opened the back passenger door of the Beast and managed a smile. “The windows are tinted, so if you stay down, we can stick to that plan.”
Nick climbed in and looked around himself with some surprise. “Do you think you could have found anything bigger?”
I bristled that he dared to criticize my baby. “It’s useful.”
Nick snorted. “Where does the stewardess sit?”
“Very funny.” I slammed the door and got in behind the wheel—a neat trick in a straight skirt but one I had mastered—and started the engine.
The truck grumbled to life, coughing and farting its way to a throaty rumble that made the keys jingle in the ignition. The Beast is well-seasoned, pretty much reliable and possessed of enough quirks that it commands affection.
“Seriously, I’ve flown on smaller aircraft.” Nick leaned forward between the seats. “Is that a cup holder?” His expression effectively communicated his disdain, and I—who dearly love this snorting behemoth—was insulted on its behalf. “Why on earth would you need such a gas-guzzling monster?”
I met his gaze in the rear view mirror. “We move trees. We plant shrubs by the dozen and perennials by the thousand. Sometimes I even have to deliver interlock stones to the crew. A bicycle, however environmentally responsible, wouldn’t quite be up to the job. And I don’t think we could afford the comp for the rickshaw drivers.”
Nick leaned back, looking cool and dangerous. I eyed him in the mirror and felt as though the Marlboro Man had slid into the back seat to lecture me on bio-sustainability.
Before I was even awake.
“But you could get a new one. It would have to be more efficient than this. How many miles do you have on this thing?” He leaned forward again, peering at the odometer, which had stuck many moons ago at 162,000 miles.
“New trucks cost a lot more.”
“Capital investment. Put it on the books.”
“That won’t pay for it.” I shook my head. “Tell you what—the next time we win the lottery, my first acquisition will be a shiny new truck.”
I got a raised eyebrow for that. The Beast was running as smooth as silk now that it had warmed up.
Maybe it was showing off and defying Nick’s attitude.
“But every time you take this puppy to the corner for a coffee between then and now, it adds a little something special to the atmosphere.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Phil, we have to be responsible with the planet...”
“Global warming is good for my bus
iness.”
Nick looked shocked for one satisfying moment, before he realized I was joking. Then he leaned forward to argue.
“Don’t tell me again.” I held up a hand. “You don’t even have a car and never have had one.”
“Don’t need one.” Nick’s eyes were cat-bright. “But if I did, it would a fuel efficient little number, not something out of a Mad Max movie. Do you know...”
Enough was enough. I slammed the truck into reverse and would have peeled some rubber if there’d been any asphalt in the lot. As it was, the truck slid sideways, grappling for traction, and spewed up a lot of dust before it lunged onto the road with a roar.
Nick swore and disappeared from my rear view mirror. I heard a thunk and allowed myself a smile.
“Oh,” I said, eyes wide in mock innocence. Scarlet O’Hara is one of my best imitations. “Didn’t you have your seat belt fastened? Sometimes I just forget how powerful a great big gasoline-sucking pollutant-spewing vehicle like this can be.”
“Very funny, Phil,” Nick growled. “Glad you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”
I didn’t think it was the time to reveal that I had lain awake half of what had been left of the night, replaying that kiss. “Don’t come complaining to me. You could have stayed in my spare room.”
He sat up straight, probably as surprised as I was that that suggestion had fallen from my lips. Clearly, malicious aliens had seized control of my tongue. I shut up and drove, the silence telling me that I wasn’t going to weasel easily out of that flub.
Nick sounded grim when he finally spoke. “How exactly would that keep you from being involved?”
I felt my cheeks get hot and concentrated on the road. It was dead straight and empty, so required my relentless attention. “Where did you sleep?”
“I didn’t.” He looked out the window, his expression somber. “I just walked.”
My heart squeezed. He looked very lonely and very tired and the sucker impulse is tough to quell. He had to be running on empty. “We could stop and get a coffee.”
That earned me a sharp glance. “Let me guess—drive through at a burger joint? Do you know what those people are doing to rain forests? And never mind the impact on the population here and abroad with their artery-clogging menus...”
I pulled over in the parking lot of a donut shop and hit the brakes, then glared at him in the rearview mirror. “Let’s get something straight, Nicholas Sullivan. I am doing you a favor. Now, you can keep the lectures and we can go to Rosemount, or you can spout your opinions from the curb as you try to hitch a ride. Your choice.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “And when did Phil Coxwell start talking so tough?”
I gave him a look of mock ferocity. “You said my baby is ugly.” I patted the dash of the truck soothingly, as though its feelings might be hurt. “Them’s fighting words.”
“This truck is your baby?”
“You better believe it.”
Nick grinned then, the smile softening his features and the twinkle in his eye banishing my annoyance. “I surrender. I could use a cup of brew, regardless of where it came from. It can’t be worse than the worst ever.”
I pretended I wasn’t affected by his smile. “Which was?”
“Tepid water and used coffee grounds, strained through a sock, somewhere in Bhutan.”
My eyes widened, but one glance told me he wasn’t lying—about the sock or the location. Once again, I felt suddenly stay-at-home, the most unlikely companion possible for a man who traveled the world with enviable ease. “I don’t even know where Bhutan is.”
Nick’s expression had become distant, his thoughts on the other side of the world. “It’s east of the sun and west of the moon. The last Shangri-La.” His gaze locked with mine so suddenly that I jumped. “More pragmatic travelers connect through Tibet. Bhutan’s in the Himalayas. You should go sometime. You’d love it.”
“Why do you say that?”
Nick leaned forward, bracing one elbow on the back of the front passenger seat. “The colors, Phil. Last time, we went in March, because there’s a religious festival around the solstice. We sat for three days watching priests, all in costumes and masks, dancing and chanting. The crowd waved streamers and pounded their feet on the bleachers, the sound of drums and cymbals got right into your blood.”
He shook his head. “You end up with children on your shoulders who you don’t even know and at the end everyone is dancing together, caught in the moment. It’s magical and marvelous.”
The focus in Nick’s eyes shifted back to me, but they stayed the same turbulent green. He looked at me, then the warmth of his fingertips landed on my shoulder. This time, I couldn’t blame the heat in his eyes on either lightning or champagne.
His hand rose, his fingertip ran across the curve of my bottom lip. I didn’t even care if he smudged my lipstick.
In fact, I was hoping he’d smudge it wit his mouth.
His gaze dropped to my lips as though our thoughts were as one. He leaned in a bit closer and I couldn’t resist. I reached out one hand and touched the stubble on his jaw, yearning for another kiss.
Just to see how much was champagne and how much was real, of course.
But Nick pulled back as though he had been jerked by a string. He scowled out the side window and his words turned brusque.
“You’d love it, Phil. It’s actually more colorful than your kitchen.” All the affectionate warmth had been banished from his tone, his comment that of a stranger. “You should go sometime.”
It was hardly an invitation.
Trust Nick to make sure that I knew where I stood. Honesty was this man’s terminal disease.
I turned off the ignition with a flick of my wrist and reached for the door handle, trying to lighten the moment. “I don’t know if I’d be up for exotic destinations if I had to drink the coffee.”
“The sock was clean!” Nick protested, clearly relieved that I offered the chance of retreat. “But the coffee was horrible. It was a sign of desperation that we drank it anyway.”
“I think we can do a bit better than that today.”
“I’d hope so. It would be pretty scary if the glories of civilization couldn’t do better than tube socks for filters.” Nick watched me, but the intensity was gone from his eyes. “You don’t think they have any of those double chocolate numbers, do you?”
I feigned shock. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the guy who just lectured me on environmental friendliness? Shouldn’t you be asking for tofu and twig filling?”
Nick nodded with mock solemnity. “A man’s got to know his weakness. Double chocolate donuts are mine.”
“Uh huh.” An army of brothers taught me to establish quantities before shopping for food. “When did you eat last?”
“Yesterday. Airline food.” Nick grimaced. “And I use the noun loosely.”
I laughed despite myself.
I splurged on half a dozen double chocolate donuts. Nick fell on them like a ravenous wolf. I declined his offer to share—which probably relieved him—and entertained myself with the driving.
And it was fun. There was no one on the road ahead of us, at least not going in the same direction we were—no one except a sleepy little russet Honda. It was puttering along, clearly not a morning car, or maybe not driven by a morning person. Yet I, a non-morning person myself, was feeling frisky. And it wasn’t even eight o’clock.
Must have been the chocolate bar.
I pulled up right behind the Honda, imagining that the Beast exhaled a puff of smoke at the little car’s back bumper. The driver slowed down and put the right signal on. I waited, but he or she didn’t turn anywhere.
It was my cue to pass.
The sounds of donut destruction halted. “You’re not going to do this,” Nick admonished, but he was wrong.
I didn’t answer, just gauged the oncoming traffic, which was pretty heavy. The Beast was ready to rock, pistons a-pumping, spar
ks a-firing.
I chose my gap and floored the accelerator, easily passing the Honda and swerving back into the eastbound lane with the breadth of two baby hairs to spare. I had a fleeting glimpse of the woman in the oncoming silver Lexus, who looked as though she had swallowed her teeth.
The Beast swayed hard on its shocks before reestablishing its balance—there was that heady sense of an almost-roll—and I felt better than I had all morning.
A long way ahead, another car lurked in my lane. I smiled a predatory smile and touched the gas, urging the Beast on. Clearly I had missed the fun of driving to Rosemount by plodding along in the rank and file of the evening commuter exodus.
Oh yes, if nothing else, I can drive.
The first thing I asked my brother James when he won the job of teaching me to drive was how to squeal the tires. He refused, supposedly on principle, but I figured he didn’t know how to do it. Eldest son, you know, scion of responsibility etc. etc.
So I asked Matt—Number Two son—and he ratted on me to my father, who promptly suspended my driving lessons for six months “until I learned some decorum.” Father is big on the carrot-and-stick scenario. Punishment always figures largely on his agenda. I guess that makes him a good judge, a better conservative and downright splendid church father—if one of the “you’re all going to hell and good riddance” variety.
Not that I have any issues with that.
Zach, of course, being the youngest son and household rebel was up for squealing tires, though he cheerfully admitted that he didn’t know how to do it either. We figured it out together, along with how to make nice regular figure eights on the iced-up Rosemount High parking lot. It was fun, even if we did pay dearly for our transgressions once discovered.
Zach, though, is nuts. I never drove donuts on the ice on Mary Lake. I’d drive out with him, because I was sure he was going to plunge through the ice and die a cold wet death and there would be no one around to save him but me. How exactly I was going to do that wasn’t clear to me at the time.
Fortunately he never did break through the ice, so I never had to figure it out. But then Zach is the proverbial cat of nine lives, the one who always lands on his feet.