by Penny McCall
“Tell me again why you chose this place?” Norah said, keeping her voice down and talking behind her menu. Even then her eyes shifted to the locals, a couple of grizzled old-timers nursing coffee at the Formica counter and a trio of teenagers at a table across the small dining room.
“We have a clear view of the parking lot,” he said.
“Good thing. There’s not much to look at in here. And I’m including the menu.”
“Are you kidding? Places like this usually have the best food.”
“Even the menu is greasy,” Norah said, closing it and slipping it back into its slot behind the condiments.
“It’s a long ride, and I’m not stopping between here and there except for gas. I guess you could get a hot dog at one of those convenience stores.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Reverse psychology working?” Trip said.
“Reverse psychology is unnecessary. I was making a commentary on the food choices here, not stating my intention to boycott.”
“Save the commentary, at least while the waitress is around, or you’re likely to get an added bonus.”
Norah thought about that a second then made a face. “Great, now I won’t be able to eat at all.”
“Neither will I if that waitress doesn’t get her act together.”
Said waitress glanced their way and completely ignored Trip’s we’re-ready-to-order smile. So he gave her a little wave. She shifted so she was leaning against the back counter, lifting one hand to lazily chip at the nail polish on her thumb. Trip opened his mouth—
“Spitting,” Norah reminded him, “in your food.”
“I don’t understand this,” he said, honestly puzzled. “I never have this kind of trouble with wo—waitresses.” Then he smiled because the waitress in question was meandering her way to their table.
“OMG,” a voice shrieked into the uncomfortable silence, cutting off Trip’s route to lunch.
The voice was followed by a teenage girl, tattooed, pierced, and wearing black—including her nails, lips, and hair—who skidded to a stop by their table.
“You wrote that book, right? The book that, like, explains, like, everything about men.”
Men was a relative term, considering her two friends were similarly garbed and not even close to adulthood by anyone’s standards but their own.
“I’m Jillian,” the girl said, pointing to her friends in turn, “that’s Tommy and that’s C Clip. His name is really Calvin Clipper, but he thinks C Clip sounds cooler. I tried to tell him you have to be cool, not just come up with a cheesy nickname, but he’s a guy, and you know guys.”
Norah smiled at the kid. “I don’t know cool, but C Clip sounds like one of those rappers.” The red in his face went from embarrassment to a hot kind of vindication, and while he was giving Jillian a snotty see-there look, Norah winked at her.
“Oh, sure,” Jillian said, completely mollified before she could even take offense, “right, sounds like a rapper.”
“Nicknames are really just a way of reflecting our true personality,” Norah continued, Jillian nodding like a bobblehead the whole time, “a way to honor the name your parents gave you while establishing your own identity.”
“Anyway,” Jillian said, reclaiming the center of attention, “I saw you on TV the other day. That Hollie Roget’s a bitch, right? But you got the last laugh.”
Norah looked at Trip. “Yeah, I got the last laugh.”
“So what brings you to Milwaukee?” Jillian wanted to know. “Nothing going on here, and I mean, like, nothing .”
“There’s beer,” Trip observed.
Jillian’s friends perked up at that notion.
The women ignored him.
“I’m . . . researching a new book,” Norah said.
“Man, can I be in it?”
Norah laughed a little. “I think you have to be. But of course I’ll need to change your name.”
“Oh”—Jillian’s face fell—“oh, sure.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Norah said, pulling out her cell phone, “give me your number, and I’ll call you if I have any questions. I imagine your name will show up in the acknowledgments.”
“Really? That’s, like, amazing.” And Jillian reeled off her number, stumbling to the door behind her friends, and only because C Clip grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along.
“That was, like, amazing,” Trip said, “how they all walked away feeling good about themselves. Except Tommy. I’m not sure he talks.”
Norah looked pretty pleased with herself.
“That’s some smile.”
“Just remembering how it feels to be young.”
“Sure, you’re all of what, thirty-two?”
That seemed to startle her. “The operative word there is feel,” she said.
“Isn’t that your choice?”
“Yes,” she squared her shoulders, “yes, it is.”
“You’ll have to tell me how to do that someday.”
“Do what? Make those kids feel good about themselves? It’s just basic psychology.”
Trip snorted. “Psychology is just a con masquerading as science.”
“Everything I said to them was absolutely true. It’s all in the way you say it.”
“Like a con. Don’t lie to the mark if at all possible.”
“You’d know,” Norah said, then clamped her mouth shut when the waitress, her pink plastic name badge identifying her as Polly, sidled up to the table.
“You a celebrity or something?” she said, curiosity overcoming her taciturn nature.
“Not really,” Norah said. “I wrote a book. On relationships.”
“Not . . . You wrote How to Create Your Mate.” The woman’s face lit up and she turned in circles, trying to find someone in the place she could tell about it. She came up empty, so she proceeded to chatter on about the book.
Trip had stopped paying attention after the word Mate, but Norah listened attentively, not able to get a word in edgewise, but nodding now and then and making what must have been the appropriate face at the appropriate time since it kept Polly’s verbal diarrhea flowing.
“Can we order?” he finally broke in.
Both women looked at him, Polly’s mouth clamping shut. Finally.
“I’ll have a burger, medium, American cheese, fries, Coke,” Trip said.
Polly didn’t write it down, but he figured it couldn’t be that difficult to remember.
“No salad on the menu,” Norah said glumly as Polly turned to her. “I guess I’ll go with the grilled cheese and water, with a slice of lemon if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Polly glared at Trip again, walking around the counter to the window. She had a short, pithy conversation with the cook on the other side, filled their drink order, then returned to the table and picked up the conversation where she’d left off. At least that’s what Trip surmised since he spent the time running over his plans for the rest of the day.
A little bell dinged, and Polly hustled back to the window to retrieve their food, Trip already salivating by the time she slid the plate in front of him.
“Wow,” Norah said, “thank you, Polly.”
Trip looked across the table and threw his hands up. “I don’t believe it. You got them to make you a salad.”
“The grilled cheese is on there, too,” Norah pointed out.
Polly sidled over to Norah’s side of the booth and leaned down a little. But her eyes were on Trip. “Chapter four,” she said to Norah. “Right?” And everyone in the place laughed.
Except for Trip.
THE FERRY LEFT AT TWELVE THIRTY. DESPITE THE goings-on at the diner, Norah and Trip made it to the dock in plenty of time, Norah standing by while Trip secured his bike personally, then following him to the premium seating on the uppermost deck.
“Nothing but First Class for the feds,” Norah said, taking a seat across the table from Trip.
“They only had premium tickets left,” Trip said
. “They’ll probably reject my expense report.”
“Maybe I should offer to pay my own way.”
“They’ll probably take you up on it.”
“Tell them to deduct it from the haul—”
“Ixnay,” Trip said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Didn’t you ever speak Pig Latin?”
“I grew up with a father who spoke English right to my face and still managed to make it so I couldn’t understand him until it was too late.”
“No wonder you’re old beyond your years.”
“Ouch.”
“Okay,” Trip allowed, “old probably wasn’t the right word, but since the other choices were inhibited, boring, and repressed, I decided old was the least objectionable.”
“I was wrong about you,” Norah said. “I accused you of being a con man, but a con man would never stoop to that level of honesty.”
“Did you just insult me?”
Norah smiled. “So what does it mean, ixnay?”
“It means be careful what you say because you never know who’s listening.”
Norah didn’t bother looking over her shoulder. She knew who owned that voice. “How did you know where to find us?”
“Some girl named Jillian plastered it all over the Web that you were having lunch at a greasy spoon near the ferry terminal in Milwaukee.”
Hollie plopped down at the next table, Loomis shuffling along to lurk behind her chair. “Sucks to be famous, doesn’t it?”
“Right this moment? Yes.”
Hollie just laughed. “You can’t be surprised to see me.”
“I understood the ferry was sold out. We only got tickets because of the bike.”
“It wasn’t hard to convince someone to sell me their ticket and take the next ferry,” Hollie said with a shrug. “The up side of being famous.”
“Don’t you mean infamous?”
“Really, Norah, it’s going to be a long trip if you insist on being unpleasant the entire time.”
Norah looked at Trip and relaxed. She didn’t have to give Hollie the satisfaction of objecting because Hollie wasn’t going to get away with stalking them. Trip was already on it.
“I mean,” Hollie was saying, “isn’t it convenient that there are two of us and two of you, and even the same sex. And it’s such a small boat—”
“Ship,” Trip inserted.
“That there’s really no way for us to avoid each other anywhere, even the bathroom.”
“Head,” Trip corrected her again.
Hollie looked startled, but then that word probably had a whole other connotation in her world. “Convincing” someone to sell her a ticket, for instance. Maybe an ungenerous thought, but it made Norah smile, and it had the added bonus of shutting Hollie up while she tried to figure out why Norah was smiling. Unfortunately, the silence didn’t last long, Hollie resuming her attempts to get a rise out of them. Trip crossed his arms and went into some sort of half doze/zen-looking state. Norah had psychology on her side. She knew it would drive Hollie crazy that she didn’t react.
Ninety minutes into the two-and-a-half hour trip Norah was on the verge of strangling Hollie and shooting Trip. She settled for kicking him under the table. He slitted one eye and peered out at her for a second or two. Then the other eye opened, he got to his feet without saying a word and wandered off, Loomis tagging along behind him.
Norah, annoyed, watched him go.
“Men can be so . . . inscrutable,” Hollie said.
“Wow, congratulations on the correct use of the word inscrutable.”
“Oh, the claws are coming out. Really, Norah, if you would just let me come along this wouldn’t have to be so unpleasant.”
“You should get a life of your own, Hollie,” Norah said, not completely out of spite. “You just need to get some perspective.”
“Perspective!? It’s your fault—” Hollie stopped, throttled back on her anger, impressing Norah again. “I’m trying to get a career,” she said. “Then I can worry about having a life.”
“Suit yourself,” Norah said, wondering where in the blazes Trip had gotten to.
Hollie sat forward just then, a frown on her face. Norah looked over her shoulder and saw him ambling their way. Hollie’s lackey was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Loomis?” she wanted to know.
“I left him in the head. I think he’s seasick,” Trip said, taking his seat.
“After two hours?” Hollie said, angry and suspicious, and rightly so considering Trip’s smug grin.
“He was doubled over the toilet, groaning. Sounded pretty bad to me.”
“And he had no help getting that way, right?”
Trip put on a sympathetic face. “I wanted to help, but there really wasn’t anything I could do for him.”
Hollie stewed about it for a minute, then crossed her arms and huffed out a breath, arriving at the inevitable conclusion there was nothing she could do about it.
Trip met Norah’s eyes, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smug little grin. “Don’t you want to . . .” He tipped his head toward the bathrooms.
“Why yes,” Norah said, getting to her feet and not bothering to hide her smile. “I was just about to do that very thing. It’s cold out there,” she said to Hollie, as if the woman didn’t already know that, “and then there’s the motorcycle—all that vibration. Not to mention the coffee, and, I don’t know, all that water out there just naturally gives you the urge to—”
“I’m going,” Hollie grumbled, beating Norah across the room.
Norah dawdled in the restroom, combing her hair, straightening her clothes, brushing imaginary lint from her sweater. She had no idea what Trip was up to, but she figured it would take some time.
When they returned, though, he was sitting in the exact same place they’d left him, in exactly the same position. When the captain announced they’d be docking, Trip sat up, that little smirk returning to his face.
Norah frowned at him, but he only popped up an eyebrow as the ship slowed drastically and there was a bunch of banging around down below, along with shouts from the crew.
“What the hell?” Hollie jumped to her feet, going for one of the life preservers stowed under her seat and taking it to the nearest steward.
Norah stayed where she was. “What did you do?” she asked Trip quietly.
“I don’t think Hollie is going to be a nuisance,” was his response, “at least not for a little while.”
The nuisance in question came back. “Some of the cars came loose, and they’re bashing into the other ones,” she said, giving Trip an accusatory stare. “It’s a mess.”
“That’s terrible,” Trip said.
“Hmmmm . . . I’m getting the impression you have a different role in Norah’s life than boyfriend.”
“Why? Wouldn’t you want your boyfriend to protect you from stalkers?”
Hollie didn’t take the bait. “I’d also be willing to bet my BMW is one of the vehicles rolling around down there, but your bike is perfectly fine.”
“There are some nice casinos in Michigan,” Trip observed, “since you like to gamble so much.”
“Is that a commentary on my chances of following you?”
“I’ll bet you’re going to have some time on your hands.”
“We’ll see,” Hollie said and took off.
“Are you crazy?” Norah asked him when Hollie was out of earshot. “Someone could have been hurt.”
“They never let anyone in with the vehicles when they dock for just this reason,” Trip said. “Besides, I only unhooked a few of them, and I made sure there are secured vehicles all around the loose ones.”
Norah sat back. “I’m still not happy about this, but there’s a little part of me that wishes I’d thought of it.”
“There may be hope for you yet,” Trip said, grinning.
“Not if I turn into my father.”
He shrugged. “It could be worse.”
Norah looke
d at him and thought, It already is.
chapter 11
THE CITY OF MUSKEGON OCCUPIED A STRETCH of Michigan coast where its namesake river met its state’s namesake lake. It had sent fur pelts across the ocean to Europe, tank engines to fight world wars, and wood to help rebuild Chicago after the great fire of 1871. It had lived a brief but successful life as an oil boom town. To Trip it was just a jumping-off place for what he hoped was the last leg on his race to lunacy.
Race, however, was a very loose term. Nobody was following them—and it would have been obvious since the rural, northern Michigan roads were pretty deserted—but Trip felt a sense of urgency to finish the op and get away from Norah. To get away from himself, he admitted, from the warm, comfortable way it felt to have her arms around his waist and her body pressed against his back, the way her voice in his ear made him smile one minute and want her the next. She was a means to an end, he reminded himself. She knew it, so why did he have trouble remembering the score?
The answer, of course, was obvious. She was pressed against his back, her hands firm on his belly, and her voice sounded in his ear, soft and relaxed. And he seemed to have a finite amount of resistance where she was concerned. It was a dangerous combination.
The solution was just as obvious, he thought, pouring on the gas. They made it to Ludington, seventy-five miles north of Muskegon, Trip fighting like hell to remember Norah angry and verbally abusive instead of oohing and aahing like her pleasure came from a whole different source than the beautiful fall scenery.
By the time they got to Petoskey, another two hundred and fifty miles, the parts of Trip that weren’t numb from the cold were on fire. Night had fallen hours before, it was pitch-black, and Trip had a mean case of blue balls. He wasn’t looking for a place to stay, though. Not yet. He figured they’d stop late and get up early. The less time they spent in a room with a bed the better.
According to the research Trip had done the night before after Norah had finally come clean about their destination, they had two choices from Petoskey. Mackinac City or one of the smaller towns dotted along Lake Michigan’s shore, Cross Village being the northernmost. They were going to need a boat come morning, and while Mackinac City was the center of tourism for that part of the state, with any number of charter companies, large and small, it would also be the logical destination for anyone on their trail. Hollie, for instance.