Flirting In Cars

  “What a shame, Renata,” said a blonde to the brunette. “It’s an incredible price for forty acres with a view of the mountain.”

  “You’re going to wind up with a strip mall in your backyard,” Renata insisted, with a definite hint of upper-class British in her accent. “And that’s not all. They’re also going to subdivide the whole area near the base of the mountain. A year from now, there will be ticky-tacky houses as far as the eye can see.”

  “Are you sure?” This from the second ponytailed blonde. “My husband does a lot of work for Audubon and I thought he said that area was some sort of designated wetland thingy. Breeding ground for some rare bird or turtle or something.”

  Renata shrugged, then leaned closer to her coterie of listeners. “Well, maybe it is. But Arcadia doesn’t have any proper zoning, which means it’s all up to the discretion of the planning board. And the big man on Arcadia’s town planning board just got a clean million for a tract of land that’s worth maybe half that. Three guesses who paid him the big bucks.” She looked at the women knowingly; they stared back blankly.

  “You’re saying the developers paid him off,” said Zoë, becoming interested. Maybe Bronwyn was right about doing a local story.

  The women looked startled, except for Renata, who narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Zoë reassured her. “I’m not going to tell anyone else. It’s just that I’ve been hearing about this developer a lot lately, and I’m getting curious.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Renata, flicking her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “Have we met?”

  “Oh, I’m Zoë Goren. My daughter, Maya, and I just moved here from the city, and we’ve been renting this amazing colonial just outside of Arcadia. I was actually thinking of buying, but given what you just said…” She let her voice trail off, something she often did when interviewing reluctant subjects. But Renata was more than reluctant. She was recalcitrant.

  “Well, Zoë,” she said with a practiced smile, “I’m sure you shouldn’t pay any attention to what I say. After all, you hardly know me. How do you know you can trust my opinion?”

  “Oh, I don’t trust anyone’s opinion,” said Zoë lightly. “Not even my own. That’s why I always like to gather as much information as possible before making any kind of judgment.” You rebuke me, she thought, and I correct you. Move and countermove.

  Renata raised her eyebrows. “And you say you’re a new parent?”

  “Yes. My name is Zoë Goren, mother of Maya, fourth grade.”

  “Oh, Zoë, hello,” said the redhead in a strong Brooklyn accent, offering her a plump hand with a wedding ring ablaze with diamonds. “I’m Kiki Armstrong. So glad you could come. And Renata has a fourth-grader, too. Allegra’s in the fourth grade now, right?”

  “Yes.” Renata looked a little rueful as she added, “I can hardly believe how grown up she is.”

  “It’s funny I should bump into you like this,” said Zoë, feeling encouraged. “My daughter asked me to try to arrange a playdate. Has Allegra mentioned Maya?”

  Renata looked pensive. “You know, I believe she has.”

  “So we should get them together.”

  Renata smiled, but didn’t respond with an invitation.

  “And is your daughter enjoying her first year at the school?” This from Kiki, filling in the awkward gap.

  “Very much so,” Zoë replied. It struck her that Renata might be assuming that this talk of a playdate was merely a ploy to get the development story. “But it’s still a bit of an adjustment for her, getting used to a new environment and group of kids.” She nodded at Renata. “That’s why I mentioned the possibility of our girls getting together sometime outside of school.”

  “That would be nice.” Renata sounded almost sincere, but added instantly, “Allegra gets quite busy on the weekends, though.”

  “That’s too bad. Well, I’d better be getting back to relieve the sitter, I promised Maya I wouldn’t be out long.” She smiled at all the women and turned, using all her years of dance training to make a graceful and dignified exit. But when she got to Pete’s car, she crumpled into the backseat, feeling as though someone had pulled out her plug. “Let’s get the hell out of this place, Pete,” she said, and then, when he didn’t respond, she added, “Pete?”

  For one terrible moment she thought he was dead. “Pete?” She opened the car door so the ceiling light went on. “Pete, are you asleep?” To her relief, Pete finally lifted his gray head. His hair was sticking up in the back. “Who lef’ the lightsh on,” he asked thickly.

  Okay, good that he was still alive, not good that he was having trouble talking. “Pete, do you know where we are?”

  “Coursh I do,” he said. “Now, lesh go to bed.”

  Crap, crap, crap, he’d gone and gotten himself toasted. “Pete, did you have something to drink while you were waiting? Pete?” She leaned forward, making an effort to keep her voice very calm and clear. “Pete, look at me. Did you have any alcohol?”

  Pete tried to look at her, but there was something wrong with the left side of his face. He squinted at her, suddenly looking like Popeye. “I’ll jush have a Bud,” he said, “and the meatloaf.”

  “Oh, Pete,” she said, finally comprehending.

  Sixteen

  B ack at the firehouse, a pepperoni pizza had restored Danny’s good humor. “Dude,” he said, rolling his shoulders till they popped. “I’m beat. Spent all day on patrol, and now this.” In the background, the radio was playing a soft rock song from the seventies, and Mack wondered if the room they were in had changed at all since “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero” had topped the charts. The dark orange fabric on the couches and chairs looked like they would have fit in just fine in Archie Bunker’s living room, and the old photographs of Arcadia on the wall had probably been yellow back when Mack was still in diapers. He supposed a few of the paperbacks in the bookcase might be new, and there had to be a few new interdepartmental softball trophies behind the glass case. Mack hadn’t attended any of the games, or the picnics and awards dinners, or the annual pig roast. In general, the firehouse volunteers were a tightly knit clique of men and women, and Mack couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he didn’t belong. Growing up, the garage had been his home away from home, and then he’d had the Rangers. He wasn’t sure what he had now, besides a newfound fondness for poetry.

  Put like that, it sounded ridiculous and fluffy, even in his own head. But in the high school textbook he’d found strange combinations of words, like spells, that captured the feeling of the familiar suddenly become unfamiliar. Not all poems, of course. A lot of it was pure shit. But still, Mack got the feeling that some of these guys knew what it was like to feel like you were floating up inside your head, unable to remember how to operate your eyes and hands and feet.

  “Hey, Mack, we done here? ’Cause I’m about ready to see my girl.” Mack glanced at Danny, who was finishing off a can of soda. He had some kind of Chinese writing tattooed on the inside of his right biceps. Mack wondered whether it said what Danny thought it did.

  “We still need to clean out and restock,” Mack replied, taking another bite of pizza. It was almost cold, but that was all right. At least Danny had stopped treating him like a suspected racist.

  “Shoot, I forgot about that.” Danny opened the pizza box and peered inside. “Hey, did you eat the pepperoni off that last piece?”

  The radio bleeped, shocking them both upright. “Dutchess 911 to Arcadia 5627, respond for a seventy-eight-year-old Caucasian male, possible stroke at 29 Foxfield Lane off Route 82.”

  Mack pressed the button to respond. “Dutchess 911, this is Arcadia 5627. We are just finishing another run and low on equipment. Can you also notify Northern Dutchess paramedics?”

  “Affirmative,” said the female voice at the other end. “But their ETA is twenty-five minutes.”

  Mack turned to Danny. “We didn’t have time to restock after the last run, so we’ll have to take the
basic ambulance. And make some noise, kid.”

  Danny looked confused.

  “Siren, Danny, and let’s move it.”

  It took them nine minutes to get to the location. Danny pulled up at what appeared to be Dracula’s castle, behind a knot of anxious dressed-up people.

  “He’s over there,” said a brunette in a mink coat, leading Mack and Danny over to the one car that wasn’t a Mercedes or a BMW. There were a lot of well-dressed folks dithering about in the cool evening air, most of them still holding drinks as if this were a part of the evening’s entertainment.

  “Danny, get these folks to move back.”

  In an eager, carrying voice, Danny yelled out, “All right, everyone, let’s make some space so we can work.”

  Mack approached his former coworker, wondering whether the stars were in some strange, unlucky alignment tonight. “Hey, Pete,” he said in a strong voice, “it’s Mack. How are you?”

  Still sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, Pete turned a little toward the sound of his voice. “Get out of my way,” he said, slurring his words. “Can’t you shee I’m driving?” The left side of his face was slack, the corner of his mouth drooping.

  “Let’s pull over for a sec,” Mack suggested, shining a small pen-light into his friend’s eyes to check his pupils. The left one was dilated and fixed, and much larger than the right. “You know who I am?”

  Pete moved his head, as if trying to focus his right eye. “Mm,” he said. Mack patted his hand, then reached around to take a pulse. Breathing normal, awake but not oriented to person, place, or time.

  “He was like this when I found him fifteen minutes ago,” said Zoë, startling Mack. He hadn’t noticed her sitting in the passenger-side seat next to Pete. “He’s been sitting out here for almost an hour, though.” She sounded surprisingly calm, but when she looked at Mack, her face looked strangely naked. “I shouldn’t have left him out here in the cold, but he didn’t want to come in.”

  “Well, that was not a contributing factor, and everything’s under control now.” Except that he’d used up his oxygen, which Pete needed now. Damn. Where were the paramedics? He checked Pete’s arms and neck for any tags. “Pete, do you ever take insulin? Are you a diabetic, Pete?”

  Pete looked past him, clearly not understanding. Mack opened a patch to County. “Dutchess 911, this is Arcadia 5627 on the scene. What’s the paramedics’ ETA? Subject needs oxygen, and our supplies are depleted.”

  “Arcadia 5627, this is County. Paramedics should be pulling up there momentarily. Do you see them?”

  Mack turned; to his relief he spotted their ambulance coming up the drive.

  “Affirmative,” he said, getting off the radio. He recognized both professional paramedics and approved of the way they had Pete masked up and ready for transport in less than three minutes. Mack gave them his wife’s number from memory, but said he’d call her and see if she needed a lift to the hospital.

  “I don’t understand why you want to run around pretending to be a basic EMT,” said Mario as he started Pete’s IV. “How come you don’t come ride with us?”

  “I’ve done enough twelve-hour days back to back in the army,” Mack said. “I like my easy life.” He was suddenly aware of Zoë, listening in the background.

  “Yeah, well, then take it easy,” said Mario, and then he flicked on the ambulance’s siren and they were off.

  “Is he going to recover?”

  Mack started to reply and then realized that Zoë was shivering in her short-sleeved dress.

  “Hang on a sec.” He reached into the back of the ambulance and found a clean wool blanket to drape over her shoulders. “Better?”

  Zoë nodded, looking miserable. “I thought he was drunk at first.”

  “You figured it out faster than most.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “I was mad because I just wanted to get home.”

  “You did fine by Pete.” He looked at her, still shivering slightly under the thin blanket, and had to fight the urge to put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Excuse me,” said a pretty, plump redhead in a fur coat. “Is the old fellow going to be all right? Is there anything I can do? I feel responsible, this happening right in front of my house.”

  “Careful, Kiki,” said the sharp-faced brunette beside her. “You don’t want to say something that leaves the impression that you hold yourself responsible for this unfortunate event.”

  Mack tried not to show what he was thinking about the brunette. “No one’s to blame, miss,” he said, speaking to the redhead. “He had a stroke.”

  She gave him a warm, slightly cynical smile that reminded him of Deanna from the diner. “Renata can’t help thinking like a lawyer. Zoë, do you need someone to give you a ride home?”

  “That’s all right,” Mack said. “We can take her.”

  “Are you sure? Because I can easily arrange for someone else…”

  “No, thanks, I’d rather go with Mack. Besides, my daughter’s staying at his sister’s house.”

  Mack thought Zoë didn’t quite notice the brunette’s reaction. Yes, lady, he thought, she’s choosing the local yokel.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else I can do…” Kiki gave them both a gracious smile.

  “No, we’re all set.” Partially because the fur coat crowd was watching, he put his arm loosely around Zoë’s shoulders as he walked her back to the ambulance.

  It hummed between them throughout the drive. Mack tried to ignore the undercurrent of desire as he dropped Danny off at the fire station with the ambulance. He told the younger man he owed him one, but Danny said he didn’t mind having to clean up and restock by himself, he understood the situation.

  But how much did he really understand? Sure, Mack had a good excuse: he had to swing by Moira’s and pick up Zoë’s daughter, and then he had to bring them both back home. But how obvious was it that the moment he’d put his arm around Zoë’s shoulders, he’d felt every nerve in his body prickle with awareness? He’d tightened his hand on her shoulders, almost involuntarily, and she’d looked up at him. That was all that had happened, but now they were sitting alone in his pickup truck and there was something else in the air that hadn’t been there before. He thought of the way she’d looked at him, and then about the naked picture of Zoë pregnant, and his mouth went dry. He didn’t think he was wrong about this, but now that they were sitting with a gearshift between them, he wasn’t completely sure. Reaching out his hand, Mack tested the waters. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She took his hand, and he threaded his fingers between hers. Her eyes met his, and she caught her breath.

  No, he wasn’t wrong about this. Impulsively, he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her knuckles. “You were good with Pete,” he said. He wondered if she would feel guilty about doing anything enjoyable after what happened, and hoped not. Maybe he’d become callous, but the way he looked at it, you never knew what the next hour was going to bring. Maybe you’d agree to hire yourself out as a taxi and have a stroke. Maybe you’d go out for a date and get totaled by a drunk driver. Maybe you’d decide to do a little extra work in the garden and drop dead of a heart attack. Why, right this very minute, terrible things were happening to people just like him and Zoë. So if you brushed up against someone who suddenly made you feel twice as alive, the real crime was not taking hold of pleasure with both hands.

  “Mack? Are you okay?” She stroked her thumb against his palm.

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Fine. I’m just…I like holding your hand.” He figured that was more polite than saying, I haven’t had a hard-on from this kind of contact since seventh grade.

  “I like holding your hand, too.” There was a small, knowing smile on her lips. She brushed her thumb against his palm again, and he felt a wave of heat. “But maybe we should get out of here before Danny comes back out.”

  “All right,” he said, letting go of her hand to turn the key in the ignition, his heart suddenl
y slamming in his chest. If just touching her fingers could affect him like this, he wondered what the rest of the night was going to be like. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice sounded normal. “Off to Moira’s.” And then, the minute he said it out loud, he realized that nothing was going to happen tonight. She might want him as much as he wanted her, but when it came right down to it, logistics was going to trump lust. They’d get Maya, bring her home, and she’d be unsettled and they’d go through that whole can-I-sleep-in-your-bed routine. There were banks of fog on the back roads now, forcing him to drive slowly.

  “So. Zoë. I was wondering, does Maya ever sleep in her own bed?” The moment the words were out, he wished he hadn’t been quite so blunt. It was just, Jesus, what a night, first Jess and Moroney and the fucking Mexican place, and then Pete. He felt like he’d been awake and strung out for days, and for a moment he’d thought he was going to get a chance to feel good.

  Zoë glanced at him, and he could see she was only a little surprised by the change in subject. “Of course. It’s just that since we moved to the country, she’s a little unsettled.”

  “She has to learn to handle being frightened.”

  “I know that.” Their eyes met, but only for a moment. He had to keep watching the road.

  “Put your hand on the wheel.”

  “What?”

  “I said, put your hand on the wheel.”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “Do it anyway. I won’t let anything bad happen.”

  “Maybe we should try this in the daylight?”

  “Put your hand on the wheel, Zoë.”

  She put her hand on the wheel.

  “Hold it steady.”

  “Mack, this is crazy.”

  “If you let go, I’ll let go, and we’ll crash.”

  “I’m holding on.” They drove together, very slowly, as the mist drifted across the path of their head beams. Then they saw headlights coming from the opposite direction.