Driving in Neutral

by Sandra Antonelli

  It made her want to bury her face in his neck.

  Why don’t you just drool, Olivia?

  “Sorry.” Maxwell pulled the phone away from his ear. “You all right?”

  “I bet you played football in college,” she coughed.

  “A nerd like me on the football team? Nah, I was on the cross country team.”

  As he let her go, she glanced down, expecting to see a scorch mark of some sort on her skin. She said, “Cross country. That’s not surprising considering how much you like wide open spaces.”

  “Is that more psychological crap that coach friend of yours told you?”

  “Maybe. How come you’re not down by the boathouse with everyone else?”

  “Pete asked me to make a few calls.”

  “Ella is going to kill you if she sees you again with that phone.”

  Emerson watched her, looking at the small scar near her mouth as she spoke. He wanted to trace the arched shape with his tongue. “Business never sleeps,” he mumbled.

  “If you must mutiny, why don’t you use the telephone alcove under the main stairs for your calls? It’s sound-proofed.”

  “Have you seen the size of that alcove?”

  “So are you going to keep Timmons hanging there?” She pointed to the phone in his hand.

  He rolled his eyes and put the phone back to his ear. “Okay, okay, let’s just leave this…yes that’s what I said…I don’t care what I told you a minute ago, this is what we’re doing now. Got that?” He switched off the phone, turning to face Olivia, curious. “How did you know I was talking to Timmons?”

  “He’s the one you yell at all the time.”

  “Only because he’s an idiot.”

  “If that’s the case, why don’t you get rid of him?”

  “Because idiots like him keep a lot of other people employed.”

  “That’s a very interesting theory.”

  “I have a lot of interesting theories.”

  “Yes, I bet you do.”

  Emerson cocked his head. “Why do I get the impression you didn’t come out here to hear about my Timmons theory of idiocy?” He noticed her cheeks were slightly pink. Her fingers tugged at strands of hair that had come undone from the clip at the back of her head and she gripped her wrist, her palm wrapped just below her watch. A pleasant tightness spread across the inside of his stomach.

  “Your speed in discerning the obvious is astounding.” Smiling, she shifted her feet, her red sandals shuffling on the terrace stone. “I have to go into Lake Forest and rather than rummage around through your things, I thought it would be polite of me to ask if Craig left my car keys in your room when he left my suitcase, or if you had the keys.”

  “Well thank you for the consideration. I don’t have the keys, so let’s go rummage around my room.”

  They spent a few minutes upstairs, searching his room and found nothing.

  Olivia sighed from the doorway. “I guess I’ll go down to the dock and ask him.”

  “That’d be a great idea, only he and the other stooges set sail about ten minutes ago. By now they’re out there on, or in, Lake Michigan.”

  “How come you’re not?”

  “I had to yell at Timmons, remember?”

  “Are you sure it’s not because you’re terrified of water or have a morbid fear of boats?”

  Emerson crossed his arms and leaned against one of the posts of his bed. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “I suppose I deserve it.”

  “You only suppose?”

  He laughed brightly and dug around in the pocket of his shorts. “While I don’t have the keys to your James Bond-mobile, I do have the keys to Pete’s Jeep.” They jangled from his hand as he moved toward her in the threshold. “How about I drive you?”

  She made a face. “I don’t have a spare half hour to hang around the town square and wait for you while you holler at Timmons again.”

  “I’m trying to be nice here, especially when it seems I keep stepping on your toes like I’m some kind of bad dancer, which I’m not. I know how to dance.”

  “Everyone says they know how to dance and everyone’s wrong.”

  “I’ll show you tonight. We can dance tonight and…you’re not going to dance with me, are you?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  Maxwell nodded, lips compressed. “So can I give you a lift into town?”

  The little voice inside her head said something about waiting until Pete came back from sailing to find out where he put the Aston Martin keys, but her body disconnected from her mind. Her foot slipped off the clutch and she leaped forward, snatching the keys from his hand, bolting from the bedroom.

  Half a second later, his footfalls rattled the grandfather clock in the hallway. She beat him to the Jeep by four steps and was seated behind the wheel as he jerked open the passenger door.

  The first few moments of the drive into town were quiet and Emerson took Olivia’s initial silence as an indication of how much she would have preferred to make this jaunt alone. Unaccustomed to being a passenger, he sat in the open Jeep and gripped the edge of his seat when she took off in a cloud of dust. She whipped around the circular driveway at the front of the house and he was glad they weren’t enclosed in her little car again. But as she drove through the property he suddenly found himself wondering if she still had a red fireproof suit.

  With his head dipped forward in the pretense of adjusting his seat, he shot her a sidelong glance. What he saw was better than the slightly grainy image in his mind. He forgot about the red suit because the wind blew loose strands of her hair and curled bits around her face, framing her cheeks. The unbuttoned neck of her flower-speckled sleeveless blouse breathed and billowed, showing off her sugary pink throat and dip of her cleavage.

  Emerson sat back and was grateful his sunglasses were polarized and extra dark. He knew he was staring.

  The Jeep flew along the tree-lined private drive that twisted through the estate. She drove the route as if it were part of a forest stage in rally racing and he held on to his seat, watching her.

  She said, “Driving this Jeep makes me think of my brother, eight-track tapes and onion rings.”

  Emerson licked the corners of his mouth and let go of his seat long enough to adjust his sunglasses. “Why is that?”

  “Hector’s first car was an army surplus Jeep. It had an eight-track tape player.”

  “And the onion rings?”

  “When I was really little, maybe three or four, he took my sister and me to a real drive-in restaurant. I remember we had onion rings while the Beatles were singing Magical Mystery Tour on the eight-track.”

  “What was your first car?”

  Olivia felt her eyes go squinty as she went nostalgic and smiled. “I bought a beat-up green Porsche 914. It was a piece of junk, but I loved it. It was the first car I ever raced. I drove my boyfriend to the prom in it. I wore this huge, pink poofy dress that took up over half the car.”

  “I bet it made for an interesting prom night,” he snickered. “Were you one of those teenagers who lost your virginity in the back seat of a car on that magical evening?”

  She shot him a glance and quickly looked back at the road. “Where does it all come from with you? Do I need to slap you with a gag order or get Ella to serve you with sexual harassment papers to quit it?”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “Whoa! I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a probing, nosy question most people ask when they’re partially zonked in a social situation, but one I had the effrontery to ask without the benefit of booze. A wedding is a social situation, isn’t it? Driving into town together is a social situation. We’re not at work and it’s not like I’m asking your cup size, am I?”

  “Only because you ascertained that information rooting through my suitcase.”

  Oh hell. Emerson thought he was being silly, playful, but she was blowing this all out of proportion, turning it into something ridiculous.
It was making him a little uncomfortable. She’d sued a magazine—and won—but did that mean she was really the type to bring a lawsuit against him for harassment?

  “What’s the matter, feeling a little claustrophobic again?” She glanced at him.

  Emerson exhaled. Hard.

  “Hey, come on.” She reached over and cuffed his shoulder, grinning. “I do have a sense of humor.” She said, “Tell me this. Given your aversion to small spaces, did you have a prom night date disaster in a car? Did something latex break? Is there a little Maxwell running around somewhere as a result?”

  Emerson chuckled. “No. It’s not that at all. I didn’t go to the prom and a car has never struck me as a comfortable place for intimacy. You know, where is the gearshift supposed to go? How do you not smack your head on the roof and not kick out one of the windows? How did we get onto this topic?”

  “I started it with the whole eight-track tape/onion ring thing and you related it to car sex. And by the way, there’s no back seat in a 914. It’s strictly a two-seater.”

  He gave her shoulder the same playful knock she’d given his. “Back seat or not, where there’s a will, there’s definitely a way, and I can’t help if the Jeep makes me think of sex.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because a Jeep would solve the problem with the roof and windows, since there aren’t any. Don’t you think?”

  “You’d still have the gear shift to contend with.”

  “As well as the issue of privacy.”

  “A claustrophobic guy like you wants privacy?”

  “Are we back to that again?”

  “Back to what?”

  “The Adventures of Emerson and the Little Wet Rodent,” he chuckled, gave her wink, and then wanted to throw himself from the moving vehicle.

  She tapped the wheel and snorted. “It’s so obvious. You always find some way to bring that up, some way to drag me back into that elevator with you, and it’s a cry for help. Deep down, you want me to cure you of your phobia.”

  She accelerated, took a sharp corner and he held on to his seat. In the next twelve minutes their discussion ranged from what brand of peanut butter tasted more like peanuts, how Skippy was an often overlooked brand of peanut butter as well as an Australian television show about a Kangaroo, to the fact that in the USA Jif was a creamy peanut spread, while Down Under Jif was a creamy no-scratch cleanser.

  Then they’d reached the downtown shopping district of Lake Forest, which had an English influence with a town square and tall clock tower. Olivia parked the Jeep in front of Wagstaff’s Fine Jewelry, which was situated on one corner of the square, beside Kenton’s, an ice cream shop that boasted it had as many flavor varieties as Heinz.

  The jeweler, Mr Wagstaff, was a plump man. His clothes were of the expensive designer golf course fashion older men with money often wore. Sadly, despite the quality of his clothing, his fine leather belt cinched his middle and accentuated the short space between the top of his doughy stomach and man-titties. Worse still was his comb-over.

  Starting from the midline of his ear and curving around the back of his head, long, gray sections of hair were drawn up and pasted to a sunburned scalp. Pinkish-red skin peeked out like an angry neon rash. “Afternoon, honey,” Mr. Wagstaff said nasally from behind a cabinet full of gold bangles laid upon pale green satin.

  Olivia clenched her jaw to keep from laughing out loud. She glanced at Maxwell, thinking he’d noticed the Wagstaff wrap-around ‘do too, but he was perusing a glass case full of gold chains and muttering something about the Bee Gees and tight pants.

  “Somepin’ I can help you wit today?” Wagstaff smiled.

  Olivia raked her bottom teeth over her top lip, barely keeping her amusement in check. “I’m here to pick up an order for Fulton.”

  Wagstaff scratched his double chin and pulled a black leatherette book from a drawer behind the display. He flipped through it. “Fulton…Fulton… Ah, the gold Elgin watch. That’s a fine piece. Well, there’s no mark here. Lemme look and see if Trudie’s done with it, okay, honey?” The fat man gave Emerson a nod. “Be with you in a minnit, sir,” he said before disappearing through a narrow paneled doorway.

  Emerson sidled over to Olivia. He leaned in close and said, “Did you see his h—”

  “Don’t. Don’t focus on it. If you say something I won’t be able to hold it in.” She turned around, her back to the display cases, and looked up at him, her eyes wide and beseeching.

  “How does he get it to stay that way? Hair spray? Gel? Wax?”

  A laugh burbled out before she pinched her nose and shut off the sound with a hand over her mouth. She went still for a moment, then dropped her hand and inhaled, her voice cool and steady. “Did you notice how it sweeps up from the back too?”

  “And he’s got it pulled in from both sides. It’s got to be waxed. And glued. And probably varnished. It’s so shiny.” Emerson sniggered.

  Another roll of laughter sputtered from her nose, her merriment unrestrained until she mashed both hands over her mouth and nostrils to dampen the noise.

  Emerson leaned closer and whispered, “Ask him. Ask him how he gets his hair so shiny. Ask him what product he uses. Go on, ask him. I dare you.” He watched her try to regain her composure and damn it, she did. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her hand to her mouth, and inhaled steadily. When her palm dropped and she turned, she had no expression. Yet for all her blank-face skill, she seized his hand—and held on with a death grip.

  The round man returned and smiled at them, smoothing a plump palm over his head.

  Olivia’s thumb curled around his and squeezed. Emerson shifted his grasp, weaving his fingers between hers, squeezing back.

  “It’s always nice t’ hear two love birds laughin’ ‘bout somepin’.” Mr. Wagstaff smiled. “Now honey, I have to ‘pologize. Trudie is a bit behind today. It’s gonna take a little longer than we tol’ you. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Are you kidding?” Emerson huffed. “Of course it’s a problem. We can’t traipse all the way back out here again. We’re dealing with a wedding timeline. What’s the point of giving a pick-up time if the item isn’t going to be ready? Is this how you conduct business?” Glowering, he moved forward and Olivia pulled back, her stiff elbow blocked his advance.

  She stepped in front of him. “Is there some trouble with the job? Something tricky?”

  Mr. Wagstaff sighed. “I know we gave you a time, and we are totally t’blame fer the delay. I accept full responsibility. I’m very sorry.”

  “Would you have an idea of when it might be finished?”

  “Trudie says she should have the engraving done in twenty minnits. Is that okay?” Apprehension was plain on Mr. Wagstaff’s chubby face as his eyes flicked from her to Emerson. “Fer all the trouble we caused, I’ll be happy t’ get you an’ yer wife some ice cream from Kenton’s from next door. They’ve got fifty-seven varieties, just like Heinz, only none of ‘em taste like steak sauce.”

  Dark chocolate cranberry almond crunch was the unusual flavor Olivia chose, but Emerson went with green apple. He liked the idea of ambling around the town square, window-shopping and eating ice cream cones, but the afternoon sun was too intense. The ice cream began melting faster than they could lick it. Milky trickles started to run over golden cones as soon as they exited Kenton’s ice cream shop.

  They found a park bench beneath the shade of a maple tree and sat.

  Olivia handed him a paper napkin. “Have you ever considered you might have anger management issues?” she said.

  Emerson licked the joint where the apple ice cream met the cone. “I think I manage my anger very well.”

  “I can’t argue with that. You did a great job getting hostile back there in the jewelry store.”

  “I wasn’t hostile.”

  She clicked her tongue. “You practically used him as a stand-in for Timmons. Do you miss your little whipping boy?”

  “You know if you talked less and
ate your ice cream faster, you wouldn’t have chocolate all over your knuckles.” He sneered, wrinkling his nose.

  Olivia made a face back. “You’re like my brother. It’s taken him over sixty years to learn you don’t have to yell to get what you want.” She watched him bite the tail off his cone and suck ice cream through the end.

  He smacked his lips and said, “Look at it this way. This is how I manage my anger. I get mad, speak my mind, and poof, it’s over. I’m relaxed and I’ve got what I want.”

  “Of course, because you use dictatorial intimidation tactics.”

  “This coming from the woman with the chocolate Hitler moustache. Good Lord, you’ve got ice cream all over your chin too.” He handed back the napkin she’d given him. “It must be good if you make that much of a mess.”

  She wiped her mouth with the crumpled paper. “It’s very good. Want to try it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great, and when you’re back in Kenton’s can you get me another napkin?”

  It took him a second of watching her lick a circle around her ice cream before he got it. “You mean I can’t try yours?”

  “No. Go get your own.” She stuck out her tongue and turned the cone against it.

  Emerson stared at her.

  “What are you going to do, yell at me until I let you try mine? Holler until I submit?”

  “Just for that, you have to go back into the jewelry store and face Mr. Twenty-First Century Hair Fantasy alone,” he said.

  “Like I was going to let you come back in there with me.” She licked her ice cream again and then shook the cone at him. “There is no way that’s going to happen. You are going to sit here and wait.”

  In one motion, Emerson grabbed her wrist and yanked her close, sliding her across the bench until she was just a few inches from his chest. “I may employ a bit of intimidation…” He drew her closer and watched her lips part, her eyes widen. The heel of her hand pressed into his breastbone to push him away. The conductive energy of her touch shocked through him, but before she shoved him away, his head dipped. His mouth closed over her ice cream. Cone and all stuck out of his mouth for a moment like a strange, misplaced Pinocchio nose and he swallowed the semi-frozen blob, pulled the empty, sugary cone from his mouth, and finished his words with his sinus cavity smarting from the rush of cold, “but at least I’m not a control freak like you.”