Twelve.
“And I’d think she’d be sick of it.”
You have no idea.
“So is it OK if I ask another girl instead?”
“Absolutely.” I hope we’re almost done since there is now a definite stomping up the stairs. A male stomping, not a Bitsy stomping. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
“Really? That’s OK?”
“Positive.”
Knock. “Nola! It’s me, Chip.”
Cripes. What if Eileen hears that? “Come in, the door’s open,” I call, praying that he’s not equipped with a rope and knife right off. What to do? What to do? I have to hide, at least my voice.
Eileen is still babbling as I’m running down the hall, half listening to her, “. . . and you’re sure my sister will be OK with that?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” I say, slipping into the bathroom and locking the door.
“That’s sooo great,” Eileen trills. “Thank you, thank you, Belinda. I never thought you’d say yes. Don’t forget—it’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s. I’ll send you a photo of the dresses as soon as I pick them. You are such a star to come all the way from England, just for little ol’ me. Oh, and bring Nigel if you want. That would be awesome.” She clicks off.
I don’t know what I’ve done. I’m not sure, but I believe I may have just agreed to be my sister’s maid of honor. As Belinda.
Which is when I think that this Belinda stuff, at some point, is going to have to stop.
Chapter Eighteen
I unlock the bathroom door and step out in slow motion, my head in a fog as I try to picture me, as Eileen’s bridesmaid (probably last in the lineup) and me, as Eileen’s maid of honor.
“I cannot be two places at once.”
“Funny thing. Me neither.”
I blink and come back to reality. Chip—or the man formerly known as Chip—is before me in a loose gray T-shirt that hangs off his shoulders and those faded jeans again. Does he wear anything else?
“Hey,” he says, standing back to take a look. “Don’t you look nice. Turn around.”
“Uh, sorry.” I click Belinda’s phone shut. “I’m not really a turning around kind of gal.”
“Boy. You are a hard case, aren’t you?”
And you’re not Chip, I want to say.
“So, ready to go?” He is rubbing his hands, possibly itching to wrap them around my neck.
“Actually . . .”
“Actually, I have a big surprise. I went through a lot of trouble for this, so don’t start making excuses that you have laundry to do or it’s the night you change Otis’s litter.”
“Does it involve a box cutter and dark green garbage bag?”
“What?” He is thoroughly confused.
“Just wondering.”
“Come on. They won’t stay open much longer.” He tries to take my hand, but I am too fast for him.
I study the man formerly known as Chip standing there with his messy blond hair and baby blue eyes and notice that they are accentuated by tiny laugh lines. His nose is a bit too large and somewhat hooked, as though it had been broken once or twice, ruining what would otherwise be classic good looks. Yet, these imperfections make him seem innocent and endearing.
Now you take a picture of Ted Bundy and study it as I have, often, and you’ll notice his features were neatly divided and perfect—a sure sign of a psychopath. This man formerly known as Chip doesn’t have it in him to murder thirty to a hundred women. You can tell by his nose.
“What’s the holdup?” Chip is saying.
“Listen. I gotta know. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Would you like me to be?”
That catches me off guard. “Not exactly.”
“OK, then, no. Being a serial killer is not one of my life goals.”
“Thank God.” It is flabbergasting how much consolation I take from that statement.
“What else?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Chip makes a face. “Are you serious? Are you implying that the only reason I might want to be nice to you is because I’m a serial killer and you’re a potential victim?”
I shrug. That pretty much cuts to the chase. “Kind of.”
“Man. You’ve got to get out more. Now stop screwing around and hurry up. We’ve got about ten more minutes.”
I don’t know where I expected Chip to take me. Dinner. Or maybe bowling. A movie. The thing is, I never thought we’d really end up going out because after we got the serial-killer status squared away, I had planned to confront him about his true identity while holding the Leatherman to his neck.
Why I didn’t say, “Hey, you’re not Computer Chip who works in Tech Ass” is a mystery. If I bothered to undergo some deep analysis, I’d probably conclude that I was afraid of pissing him off.
As for the nun thing, well, I hadn’t given myself over to God yet, had I? And, let’s be honest. Chip is cute. He’s fun. He listens. He’s kind of sexy. He’s got a groovy nose.
“Do you like sushi?” We’re speeding to Lord knows where in his Toyota pickup, down Route 1. “ ’Cause I’m addicted to sushi.”
Sushi? That’s what the big rush is for? Excuse me. A four-course meal at the Nassau Inn is worth a speeding ticket. Bait on rice is not. Besides, sushi’s not as great on the Weight Watchers points as you would think for something made out of itty-bitty fish and seaweed. One homemade chocolate-chip cookie equals four tuna rolls. I ask you, where are the priorities?
“Sure,” I say unenthusiastically. “But I only like California rolls and eel. Sea urchin, I can’t even look at. It’s too wobbly and gross.”
“Uni? I love that stuff. When I lived in Japan, I ate so much I had to go to the hospital for food poisoning.”
Japan. Ah, so. Another clue to the puzzle that is Chip. “When did you live over there?”
“Years ago. I used to teach English. Man, was that a blast.” He smiles to himself, recalling fondly the hours his stomach was pumped in Tokyo General.
“Where do you live now?” A reasonable question.
“I’m kind of bi.”
This could have so many implications.
“Bicoastal bi?” I ask. “Or Vince Lombardi Rest Area bi?”
Chip laughs. “I spend most of my time in L.A., though I spent part of my childhood here so it’s kind of like home. Either way, it’s complicated. Hey. We’re almost there.”
We can’t be almost anywhere, though, because we’re nowhere. Where we are is on the bleak, ugly auto strip. I am keeping an eye out for sushi restaurants when Chip swings into Princeton Mercedes Benz.
“Surprised?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
“Uh, kind of. Are you buying a car?”
“No.” He pulls right up to the showroom and kills the engine. “You are. We’re here to get that car you wanted, the Mercedes convertible.”
In a second, he’s out the door, leaving me awestruck, staring at the feast of luscious Mercedes posed behind the plate glass like a line of Amsterdam hookers. I can’t go in there. I can’t go into this gleaming showroom where cars cost more than my parents’ house. I have no business being here.
Chip flings open the door. “Geesh, you’re slow to move.”
“Chip.” I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “Whoever you are. I have the feeling you’re a pretty rich guy.”
“Born rich. Didn’t earn it,” he says honestly.
“But, I’m not. I’m an editor at a tabloid. I can’t afford . . . a Mercedes.”
“Sure you can. I’ve got it all worked out.” He holds out his hand and his expression is as eager as a little boy’s. There’s no way I can say no to that.
Together we walk into the showroom, where a tiny, ancient man in a dark, somber suit—looking more like an estate lawyer than the car salesman I’m more accustomed to—is waiting clearly just for us. “Good evening. So glad you could make it,” he says, nodding to Chip. “Nice to see you again,
sir.”
“Ditto.” Chip throws his arm around me. “Maurice, this is the woman I was telling you about. Nola Devlin. Nola, this is Maurice. Maurice will set you up just fine.”
Maurice extends a tiny, wrinkled hand that I shake in my stupor. “Hi,” I say weakly.
“I understand you are interested in an SLK65 in Capri blue?”
“Was I?” I say, flushing. “I don’t know about interested. Fantasizing, maybe.”
“Of course.” Maurice bows his head with the grace of a kung-fu master. “An SLK65 is a beautiful automobile, though very expensive.”
“One hundred eighty-five thousand dollars,” I blurt.
Maurice turns to Chip, who is grinning like an idiot. “Your friend has done her research.”
“I told you she was smart,” Chip says. “And you should see her dead lift.”
I give him a playful punch.
“Fortunately, Miss Devlin, I may have another model in stock that might fulfill your wishes, at least for now.”
My heart misses a beat as we follow Maurice out the door to the parking lot. How am I going to get out of this? I can’t afford a Mercedes. What will my dad say? Or my mom, for that matter? They’ll demand to see my checkbook and bank statements. They’ll think I’ve gone on a spending spree, that I’m in desperate need of lithium or a stern lecture. And what about the insurance? That’s got to be deadly.
“Right this way.” Maurice is taking us around the corner, his suit coat flapping in the warm summer breeze.
“Isn’t this a gas?” Chip says, giving my hand a squeeze.
As soon as we turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks. There it is. My dream car. Not an SLK65, but damn close. It is a Mercedes Roadster, model SLK230. In black with beige leather. The top is down and it is polished and sparkling and begging to be driven.
“Couldn’t find you a blue one,” Chip says. “Believe me, Maurice and I tried.”
“They’re very popular,” agrees Maurice, opening the driver-side door. “But this one is in top condition.” He motions for me to get in.
“I can’t . . .”
“You have to.” Suddenly, Chip throws himself over the door into the passenger side. “I love doing that.”
“Yes,” says Maurice.
“Come on, Nola. Maurice wants to go home. Let’s take it for a spin.”
There is Maurice, dangling the keys in front of me.
“It’s used?” I ask. “I’ll feel better about it if it’s used.”
“Pre-owned. Nine thousand miles, roughly. It was a lease.”
Nine thousand miles is not going to put this car into my budget, that’s for sure. I thank Maurice, take the keys anyway, get in, and sit for a few minutes, admiring the chestnut trim, the feel of the German-engineered stick shift, the smooth buttery leather. “They used to come only in automatic until 1999,” I say.
“So you know this car.” Chip slides an arm along the back of my seat.
My posture instinctively straightens as I feel the hard muscles of his forearm behind my neck. “They call it the, the Kom—Kompressor,” I stutter. “Reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Tentatively, I insert the key in the ignition, step on the clutch, and shift to neutral. Men always leave a car in gear. It’s like a law. Then I close my eyes and turn the key. It starts up smoothly.
“Boy. Do you take this much time with everything? Leaving the apartment. Getting out of the car . . . Put on your safety belt, sweetheart, and put your foot to the accelerator.”
A few minutes later, we are on Route 1, which is a pain because there are lots of lights and it’s mostly stop and go. “Hook a right there.” Chip points to a side road. “I know this road. It goes forever.”
We take the turn and I’m in bliss. The wind is blowing my hair and Chip’s, too. He’s leaning back and smiling in the sun as I push it to seventy, hugging the corners of the two-lane country road. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stealing glances at me.
“You know, this is the first time since I’ve met you that I’ve seen you so happy,” he shouts.
“Are you kidding? I’m in heaven.” I downshift as we climb a hill, appreciating the power, the tightness of the wheels to the curves.
“Take this left coming up.”
“Where are we going?”
“A park I picked out.”
A serial-killer park? No. No. Stop that, Nola. Besides, Maurice could nail him, easy. Unless Chip went back and did him in too. There’s always that.
The park is on the right and down a slight embankment. There’s a babbling brook, willow trees, green grass, and one bench. I stop the car and raise the top, which snaps shut with a satisfied click. For a minute, Chip and I sit in the darkness as my body tries to absorb the rush of adrenaline.
“You like it, don’t you, even though it’s not exactly what you wanted?”
“I love it.” I run my hand over the dashboard. “It’s as close to my dream as I’ve ever come.”
“Is this your only dream, a Mercedes?”
“No. I happen to have lots of dreams.”
Chip is staring at me again. Thoughtful. “OK, let’s have a nosh.” He rolls out of the car as I raise the windows and lock it. Only after I’ve stood there admiring its sleek black body for a while does the question pop into my mind.
Nosh?
Ahead of me, Chip is running down the embankment toward the river with a basket in his hand. Where it came from, I have no idea. Somehow he slipped it into the Mercedes from his Toyota. Or maybe he planned it all along.
Hmm.
“Don’t tell me Maurice offers a picnic with every test drive,” I say as Chip shakes out a red-and-white cloth under a willow tree.
“No, I do. Took the chance that you liked sushi. Lucky choice that I erred on the side of California rolls.” He opens the basket to reveal four black plastic containers and a bottle of white wine. A French Bordeaux. Producing a corkscrew, he puts the bottle between his legs and uncorks it. “Sorry. I only have plastic cups.”
“I can’t drink. I’m driving.” Besides. A glass of white wine, 4 oz., is 2 points. Unless it’s white wine vinegar. That’s 0.
“You don’t have to guzzle the whole bottle.” He pours out a glass and hands it to me. Then he lifts his to make a toast. “To your new car.”
“Chip, listen . . .” I sit down, put aside the wine, and he sits next to me, very close. So close I can feel the warmth rising from those great thighs. This is no way to tempt a future nun—with a man like Chip and a Mercedes convertible.
“That car . . .”
“Had a sticker price of twenty-nine thousand. I found a ding in the rear and talked Maurice down to twenty-three. Maurice is a savvy businessman; he knows better than to screw up the relationship he has with me and my family.” Chip hands me a container of California rolls. His are much more exotic—eel, roe, yellowtail, and, yup, uni.
“With monthly payments that’s about two hundred thirty-eight bucks. Insurance is another two hundred a month, but you’d pay that anyway, seeing that you’re living in Jersey and insurance here is out of control. It may be a few more bucks than you’d pay for a Honda, but there comes a time in a person’s life when you have to stop pushing aside your dreams and start living them.”
He pops the entire yellowtail into his mouth. Chews. Savors. Swallows. “And, Nola, you have reached that time.”
“Who are you?” I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to ask.
“Me?” He winks, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Who do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I mix wasabi into soy sauce (0 points both) and dip in a California roll (1 point).
“Sure you don’t want to give the uni another try?” He holds it out to me and I nearly turn green.
“No, thanks.”
“Your loss.” He bites into it and I am forced to look away.
“OK, I think that we’ve arrived at the stage, Chip, where we need to be honest with each other.”
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“Yes. Honesty. Always good.” Though he says this half-heartedly and seems more interested in what to eat next.
“I know you don’t work at Sass!”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I called down to Chip in Technical Assistance, the guy who was supposed to pick me up Friday, and totally embarrassed myself. He’d never heard of me.”
Fake Chip misses the point of this vignette. “How come you were calling the guy you thought was me?”
“To cancel the date.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m giving up men.”
“Really? Huh. How come?”
I chew the slightly tough California roll and, as my nose and eyes tear with the pain of intense horseradish, decide I could drink or eat anything made out of wasabi and soy sauce. “I’ve decided to become a nun.”
“That’ll be interesting. I don’t think of nuns driving Mercedes SLKs.” He points at me with his chopsticks. “Though, now that I think of it, maybe you could give the little orphan kids rides. There’s a movie where Mary Tyler Moore’s a nun and Elvis is a—”
“Chip! You’re not paying attention. The point of the story is not why I wanted to cancel, but that you weren’t Chip in Tech Ass.”
“Oh.” He frowns and sips some wine. “Go on.”
“And clearly your name is not really Chip. I noticed with my keen journalistic skills that Maurice was careful to not refer to you directly.”
“That’s Maurice for you. Discreet. It’s his middle name. Really. Maurice Discreet Smith. MDS. It’s monogrammed on his briefcase. Swear to God. Check it out when we go back.”
Does he take anything seriously? Unlikely. But I am determined and so I press onward. “I gather you’re rich. Maybe a trust-fund baby, probably loaded to the gills, which is why someone like Angie is all over you.”
“Not because of my baby blues?” He blinks.
“Well, maybe because of your baby blues, but more because of your stock portfolio. So my question is, who are you?”
“I’m Chip and I work at Sass! You can take it to the bank.”
This is so frustrating that I break down and slug back some wine, which turns out to be dry and excellent and worth each of the two points. What else would you expect from a guy who’s on a first-name basis with the owner of a Mercedes dealership?
The Cinderella Pact Page 14