“I’ll remember that. In the meantime,” he continued, holding the open map out to her, “how about if you take charge of map folding? When I need a break from the road, I’ll let you know. Okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed.
Bolt believed there was an art to folding a map correctly and he had to suppress a wince at the haphazard way she went about doing it, ending up with a wrinkled wad about twice its original size. Ordinarily he would have grabbed it back from her and folded it himself, properly. But she was humming softly as she carelessly tossed his map into her bottomless pit of a bag, and for some reason he didn’t want her to stop.
“All set,” she said, glancing at him with a smile he thought it best to ignore.
It was just a smile, he chided himself. With a bit of an overbite, at that. But somehow, when she turned it full force on him, it made his thoughts skip like a worn needle on an old record album.
“Good,” he said, his voice unexplainably gruff. “Then let’s get going. If we’re going to add hundreds of miles onto the trip at a pop, we can’t afford to waste time at rest stops.”
Chapter Five
To his annoyance, Bolt discovered that it wasn’t easy to make up for lost time in a ‘57 Chevy. He coaxed the speed as high as he dared in view of the car’s advanced age, and they drove for several miles before Cat’s quiet chuckle broke the silence.
“What’s so funny?” he asked her.
“I was just thinking about the look on that guy’s face when you told him we were on our honeymoon. He looked...flabbergasted.”
“I’d say more likely disappointed,” Bolt suggested dryly. “I showed up and spoiled the big move he was planning to put on you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that was it. I mean it, he seemed downright shocked. I guess we must look like the original odd couple or something.”
“Maybe. I still think he was disappointed.”
“Why did you tell him we were married in the first place?” she asked, turning so she was half facing him, her legs curled up on the wide seat.
Bolt glanced at her, letting his gaze sweep from her face to her bare legs for as long as was safe. “So he’d be disappointed,” he admitted.
“No, really.”
“Really.”
“Why? Were you afraid if he got the idea we were simply traveling together he might challenge you to a duel or something?”
“A duel?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at her.
“Right, a duel. You know, with swords and the glove and—”
“I know what a duel is,” he broke in, “and to be honest, the prospect never crossed my mind. It was just an impulse, that’s all.”
“Do you always act on impulse?”
This time he took his eyes off the highway for longer than was safe. “No. Never.”
She leaned against the door and appeared to contemplate that.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” he said after a few minutes.
“All right, go ahead.”
“How come you didn’t tell that guy back at the rest stop not to call you sweetheart unless he meant it?”
“What?” she countered, laughing bewilderedly.
“That guy called you sweetheart,” he reminded her, “and you let him. When I did it, you told me not to call you that unless I meant it.”
“Oh, that. I was hardly going to quibble over what he called me when he was going out of his way to do me a favor.”
“He was going out of his way to do you a favor?” he growled in disbelief. “I walked away from my own work, flew clear out of the country to drive a car that’s nearly forty years old hundreds of miles so you wouldn’t have to, and now I’m headed for Wilmington, Vermont, for some reason I’m not even sure of. If you think he was doing you a favor, what do you call this?”
“All right, all right,” she said, laughing. “I admit you have gone out of your way for me. But you have to remember that at the time I told you not to call me sweetheart, I was pretty ticked off. I thought you were just one of Uncle Hank’s automatons who was interfering in my life and being a real pain in the butt about it in the bargain.”
“And now?”
“I still think you’re interfering in my life,” she said cautiously. “As for the rest...” She shrugged and said, “I may have been a little overzealous in my original assessment.”
Bolt shot her a grin. “Don’t count on it.”
Again they rode without speaking, the only sound the soft strains of jazz that Cat had somehow coaxed from the radio. After an hour or so even that faded to static and she reached to turn it off. The quiet felt good. Earlier, he had feared she might turn out to be a real yakker. She had the sort of sparkle and exuberance he associated with women who couldn’t go too long without hearing the sound of their own voices. But Cat was clearly just as comfortable with the silence as he was. Perversely, that made him want to talk to her more than he would have otherwise.
But about what?
He suddenly realized how little talking he did to women. On a date, he always relied on whatever woman he was with to keep the conversational ball rolling. She would usually talk about herself for most of the evening, which suited him fine. It meant he was only required to respond with smiles and an occasional expression of interest or, even better, fascination. Eventually they reached the stage of the evening when instinct took over and talking wasn’t what was required of him at all. When, after a few dates, a woman moved on to the next stage, where she wanted and expected more from him emotionally, he ended it.
Once in a while he met a woman who would try to draw him out. Invariably she went away frustrated. He just wasn’t given to the sort of honest, soul-baring exchanges that seemed to come so easily to most women. He disliked talking about himself, and given his preference avoided most talk altogether. That was probably the reason he was having so much trouble coming up with something to say to Cat now.
“So, tell me about this project of yours,” he urged after a great deal of concentration. Work seemed like a safe topic for openers.
“It’s sort of complicated,” she replied hesitantly.
Bolt smiled. “That’s not a problem. We’ve got plenty of time on our hands for you to explain it to me.”
“I guess we do, at that,” she said with a laugh. Again she curled up on the seat and faced him. “Well, for starters, have you seen any of those coffee-table books that have come out recently with titles like How They Met or Fabulous Gifts or The First Time?”
“No.”
“Hmm. This could be even more complicated than I thought. You see, these books are about celebrities, movie stars and famous people in general, and they feature lots of photos and some text about how the famous person met their mate or the most memorable present they ever received or the details of the first time they made love.”
“How does whoever writes these books find out this stuff?”
“They interview the celebrities, of course.”
“You mean they tell someone all this, about how they met or the first time they made love, knowing it’s going to be in a book for anyone who wants to read about it?”
“Uh, that’s sort of the point of the whole thing.”
“Whew.” He shook his head. “Sounds weird to me.”
“You mean you think it’s weird to ask someone that sort of question?”
He nodded. “Asking. Answering seems even stranger. Even wanting to read the book strikes me as a little like stopping on the highway to gawk at an accident. Some things just ought to stay private.”
“I agree.”
“So is that what your project involves?” he asked, his brows lowered in a frown. “Asking celebrities about their love lives?”
“I would hardly admit it now if it did,” she retorted. “But actually it’s not that, at all. Although you might still think what I have planned is an invasion of privacy. I was just using those books as an example because they were half of my in
spiration.”
“And the other half?”
“That came from a decorating magazine I was looking through one day.”
“Let me guess, we’re driving a hundred and some miles out of our way to take pictures of some big shot’s bathtub for a book on bathrooms of the stars.”
“Sorry, that’s been done,” she said, laughing.
Bolt groaned. “Of course.”
“Actually I’m going there to photograph the library of a woman I consider one of the greatest American poets ever.”
“A library?”
“That’s right. You see, the magazine I was telling you about featured a layout on a famous interior designer’s Manhattan apartment, and in one of the shots the photographer caught about half of the built-in bookcase in the den. I found myself turning the magazine sideways so I could read the titles of the books on the shelves and I was utterly frustrated by the fact that no matter how much I strained and squinted, most of the printing in the picture was too small to read.
“I kept muttering to myself about the photographer not pulling in closer for the shot,” she continued. “I mean, the room was beautiful, but let’s face it, we’ve all seen plenty of Oriental rugs and Louis the Thirteenth chairs. What fascinated me was the chance to see which books this very successful woman chose to keep around. There were books on interior design and fabric and antiques, of course, about what you would expect. But there were also novels and biographies, and suddenly it came to me.”
“It did?”
“Yes. I decided that if I was that curious about which books accomplished people read, then it stands to reason others might be, too. I mean, wouldn’t you like to know which cookbooks a famous chef keeps on the shelf in her kitchen? Or if a master of the horror genre ever curls up with a book of poetry? Or, in this case, what on earth it is that inspires Madelaine Van der Court’s beautiful images?”
“Who’s Madelaine Van der Court?”
“The poet we’re going to Wilmington to see,” she explained. “She was the first person I wrote and told what I had in mind and asked for permission to photograph her library.”
“I sure am hoping she said yes.”
“Of course, she did. Do I strike you as the type of person who would drive hundreds of miles out of the way on a whim?”
He glanced sideways briefly. “Was that a rhetorical question?”
“No, but since you needed to ask, I’d prefer you didn’t answer it. I’ll have you know that Ms. Van der Court was extremely gracious and encouraging. She said she’s often wondered herself what sort of books influenced the people she most admires and she can’t wait to see my article when it’s published. She even invited me to stay with her. Remind me to get some background comments from her on the house itself while we’re there, will you?”
“Want to run that past me again? The part about inviting you to stay with her?”
“That’s right. She told me she lives in an old carriage house just outside of town and she loves having company. Not exactly what you’d expect from a poetess, is it?”
“I really don’t know a whole lot of poetesses. Poets, either, for that matter.”
“Neither do I, but I always assumed they’d treasure their solitude. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“So what did you say?”
“To whom?”
“The poetess. When she invited you to stay with her?”
“I said yes, of course,” she replied in a tone that seemed to question his grip on reality. “Did you really think I would pass up a chance to stay with Madelaine Van der Court?”
“No. No, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I get it,” she exclaimed, leaning forward to touch his arm reassuringly. “You’re worried about coming along with me unannounced. Don’t be. When we last spoke I was still hoping to bring a friend along, and Madelaine said that was no problem. She’ll just assume you’re my friend.”
“As opposed to your bodyguard?” he asked, eyebrows lifted.
“As opposed to whatever.” After a moment, her voice more subdued, she asked, “So what do you think? Of my idea, I mean.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” he told her. “Ingenious, actually.”
“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”
“Trust me. I wouldn’t. Those other books you told me about seemed to me to appeal to the lowest common denominator in people. A little on the sleazy side, even. Your idea isn’t like that. I never thought about it before, but you’re right, I would have liked a chance to browse around the private libraries of some of the famous people I admire, see what they kept on the shelves.”
“Really? Like whom for instance?”
“Jefferson. Benjamin Franklin. General Patton.”
“Sorry, none of them are on my list.”
His mouth curved into an easy smile. “Then I guess I’ll have to wait for the sequel.”
“Please, right now all I’m shooting for is one little article in a small-circulation magazine.”
“Maybe you should aim higher. I mean it,” he said in response to her skeptical look. “Heck, if those other books you mentioned can find their way into print, yours ought to be a best-seller.”
“I honestly hadn’t thought about trying a book,” she replied thoughtfully. “I just assumed that as a novice I’d have to pay my dues and work my way up to that point.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve been working. You’ve sure done your homework, at any rate. I don’t know anything about the book business, but I know all about getting trapped inside your own expectations. All I’m saying is, don’t sell yourself short.”
“A book,” she murmured, as if the word was a piece of rare marble she needed to consider from every angle. “All right, I’ll think about it.”
Bolt nodded. For his part he was doing his best not to think too hard about the night that lay ahead. He had already resigned himself to the fact that with Cat along he would have to stop to sleep sooner or later, but he’d assumed they would be staying at motels along the interstate.
If you couldn’t be home, motels were the next best thing. Motels were easy, the rooms small and boxlike, easy to scope out with a glance. If you needed to, you were free to go outside before you turned in for the night and walk the perimeter just to see what was out there. Just to reassure yourself that nothing and no one was waiting out there in the darkness. He didn’t have much experience as a house-guest, but he had a hunch that sort of behavior wasn’t de rigueur.
In a motel you could also keep a light on all night if you wanted to and run the air conditioner full throttle to cover the noise in case it was a bad night and you awoke with a scream in your throat. Even if you did scream, there was no one to whom you owed an explanation.
It would be different in someone’s home, with Cat and the poetess sleeping in nearby rooms. He’d never actually seen a carriage house, but he envisioned something big and old and full of moving shadows. A place with creaking floorboards and countless nooks and crannies and long curtains that would dance in the New England night breeze as soon as he turned the lights out and tried to sleep. Madelaine Van der Court might be one hell of a poet and hostess, but he sure wasn’t looking forward to spending the night with her.
He was still brooding over the prospect when he caught sight of the black Mustang in his rearview mirror, about four cars back. The front windshield of the car was tinted, making it hard to see who was inside, but that didn’t affect Bolt’s gut instinct in the least. It was twanging wildly as he signaled a move to the slow speed lane and kept watch in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” Cat asked a few minutes later, just as the Mustang shot into far left lane, doing close to ninety as it sped past them.
“Nothing,” he replied distractedly.
“Then why have you been glaring in the rearview mirror for the past five minutes?”
“I was noticing that car,” he said, nodding at the Mustang’s disappearing rear end. “That was
your buddy from the rest stop driving it.”
“How do you know?”
“I remember the car. And I caught a glimpse of him as he passed us.”
“That’s not really a surprise, is it? I mean, we are both on the same road, headed in the same direction, right?”
“Right. Except that we killed quite a bit of time before leaving the rest area,” he reminded her, “and since then we haven’t exactly been setting any speed records with this baby. I’d have thought he’d be miles ahead of us by now.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he had car troubles of his own.”
“That doesn’t explain why he was hanging way back there until I slowed so much he was forced to make a move.”
“It might. Maybe he wanted to be sure everything was working right before he floored it.”
“Maybe,” Bolt allowed. “But then how about the fact that the guy riding with him just happens to be the same guy who really went out of his way to be friendly to me back at the rest stop? I recognized his shirt,” he explained.
“So you recognized his shirt. What are you implying? That these guys might be following us?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” he countered grimly.
“Why on earth would they do that?”
“I don’t know.” He flicked her with a quizzical glance. “Got any suggestions?”
“Yes, I suggest that you have a very suspicious mind. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No one has to tell me.”
“Relax, Hunter. I’m sure it’s all just a coincidence.”
“Maybe,” Bolt said.
Maybe, he said again to himself. Except he didn’t believe in coincidence.
Strange man, Cat decided as she rested her head against the seat and turned to gaze out the window. Fortunately years of being around Uncle Hank had acquainted her with his particular form of dementia, the tendency to think the world was filled with bad guys, most of whom were out to get him and those he loved. She knew enough not to take it too seriously. The very idea of being followed by a good Samaritan and some guy who committed the sin of being too friendly...sheesh.
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