Death at the Wheel (26 page)

He untied the robe and slid it off. "That's my girl," he said.

But later, during pillow talk, I asked him, "What about this Jon Bass business? Is it important?"

"Can we save all that stuff for tomorrow?"

I wiggled in under his arm and buried my face in his shoulder. There's nothing I love more than a bare, hairy chest. "Where is this relationship going?"

"To sleep."

"No fair. That was a serious question."

"You want a serious answer?"

"I don't know. I'm kind of sleepy."

"I want to live with you," he said abruptly. "Or I want you to live with me. I don't know if it will work—we're a pretty independent pair—but I'd like to try. I want to come to bed every night knowing I can have you beside me like this. Not just sometimes. All the time. I want to be able to throw a leg over you and feel your skin. I want to curl up like spoons when it's cold. It feels safe. It feels real. It feels good."

"So you want me in your bed. That's good. What about the rest of the time? What about in the morning when I'm the world's biggest grouch? And there's this habit I have of getting involved in other people's problems. You going to try and cure me of that?"

"I want to chase you around the breakfast table," he said. Then he got serious. "You know it bothers me. Worries me, this compulsion you have to fix things for people. But it's who you are. It's who we both are, in our own ways. I'm learning that... or trying to. I didn't say it would be easy. You know there's a part of me wants to lock you in a tower and keep you safe, but there's also a part that knows a locked-up, restrained, subdued Thea wouldn't be the woman I love. But when the kids come... then you've got to be more careful." His voice rumbled deliciously under my ear.

"Kids? We're already talking about kids?"

"Someday. Right now we're still practicing." There was a long silence. I snuggled against him and listened to him breathe. It was easy to put everything else out of my mind. "I confess," he said, "sometimes I have this powerful urge to make you pregnant."

"Against my will?"

"Not like that. It's not a rape fantasy, it's a procreation fantasy. You know how physically attracted to you I am... and sometimes that just spills over into this desire to make a child... our child. You'd be so gorgeous pregnant. A little girl, I think. A wild, wayward, stubborn, generous beautiful little girl...." His voice trailed off.

No other man had ever talked to me like this. It hit me at gut level. There was something profoundly erotic about being wanted not just for sex but for a merging of genes and the creation of a whole new generation. It stunned me. It left me breathless with desire.

In the back of my mind, I heard a small voice, Julie's voice, echoing what Andre had just said. I heard her voice asking if I'd ever had a man want to have children with me. It was a most amazing feeling. Get out of my head, Julie, I thought, slamming a mental door on her voice. This was my life. This was Andre. It was different.

"Let's practice," I said.

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

Ellen and George Bradley looked like they'd just stepped from the pages of a glossy fashion magazine, an image the Range Rover in the driveway did nothing to diminish. Even their sons, dressed in turtlenecks, cardigans, and khaki pants, were picture perfect. Assembled on the steps to greet us, they could have been waiting to be photographed by Bachrach, a perfect portrait to adorn the walls of their perfect house.

Even though I'd warned him not to judge them too soon, I could tell Andre was uncomfortable. Like a lot of Maine people, even intelligent and sophisticated ones, he gets uneasy as soon as he crosses the river in Kittery. Suzanne says they're all secret vampires and can't cross water or they'll die. So why does she want to go and live there? Maybe she doesn't. Maybe it's just a case of "whither thou goest." She did wait a long time for her happily ever after.

It didn't take long to break the ice. The Bradleys' gloss was just habit. It wasn't their fault they'd been raised in a country club world. Underneath, Ellen and George were really nice. I should know. Ellen was my roommate my freshman year, and we were not goody-two-shoes types. And I introduced her to George, who was an old friend from high school. In a way, the surprise is not that George is a country club type but that I am not.

"I hope you're ready for an adventure," George said, a twinkle in his eyes. "I've arranged for you to drive today."

"Drive?"

"On the track," George said.

"You'll love it," Ellen said. "It's more fan!"

I stared at her incredulously. "You've done it?" Ellen has chin-length precision-cut brown hair, pretty dark eyes, and an air of delicate reserve. Her hems never drag, her blouses never get stained, she never has a hair out of place, and her stockings wouldn't dare run. Looking at her, I find it hard to remember her inventing a sick aunt, an injured horse, and a dying dog to sneak out with George. But she did.

"Of course. No sense in living this close and not taking advantage of it. George thought I was crazy until he tried it himself."

"Hey!" he interrupted, "I was the one who had to convince you."

Ellen just smiled and looked down at the two restless boys. "After you shake hands with Ms. Kozak and Mr. Lemieux, you can go play until Claire comes." She looked at Andre, a little uncertain. State troopers aren't common in the circles she travels. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask. What should you be called? Officer?"

"Detective," he said, "but you can call me Andre." He looked awfully handsome today and I could tell that Ellen thought so, too.

She presented her boys, the oldest first. Seven and eight already. Ellen had jumped right into reproduction when she married George. "This is Owen." Owen was delicate and dark, like his mother. He stepped up to the task, made eye contact, and acquitted himself well. "And this is Seward." Seward looked like half the boys on the prep school campuses I visit—medium size, not quite beefy but giving an impression of bulk, ruddy-cheeked, and blond. He gave my hand a cursory shake and turned to Andre.

"My dad says you're a policeman."

"That's right."

"Do you carry a gun?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you have it today?" Andre shook his head. "Darn," the boy said. "I was hoping you'd show it to me."

Andre went down on one knee so he was at the boy's level. "I didn't know I was going to meet a gun fancier," he said. "Do you have a gun?"

Seward shook his head. "Not a real one. My dad does, though. Did you ever shoot anyone?" Andre nodded. "Did you kill them?"

"Don't believe what you see on television," Andre said. "Policemen try very hard never to use their guns. Guns are very dangerous things."

"Seward, dear," Ellen said, "you're making our guest uncomfortable. Run along and play now. Claire will be here soon and she's taking you to the new Disney movie. Did you remember that Dad and I are going out today?"

Seward's pose suggested an internal war between curiosity and manners. It was a credit to Ellen that manners won. He mumbled "nice to meet you" and raced away, pausing about ten feet away to call back, "I'll bet you did kill 'em," before disappearing around the corner of the house.

"You're lucky," George said. "Once he starts to give someone the third degree, he usually doesn't let up. I think we're going to have another lawyer in the family someday."

"Would you like some coffee or juice while we're waiting?" Ellen asked. "Thea?" I shook my head. "Andre?"

He shook his head. "Do I get to drive, too?"

"Of course. Of course," George said expansively. "I didn't know if you'd want to. I figured, being with the police, you'd already had your share of this kind of thing."

"I've taken driving courses. It's fun," Andre said. "I'm not sure Thea thinks so, though."

So he'd been reading my mind again. I suffer from a constant tension between wanting to be known and understood and wanting absolute privacy. But I couldn't argue. He was right. A flock of butterflies were beating their delicate wings against my chest and stomach.

"You don't have to go fast," he said.

"Where's the fun in that—" George began, but Ellen quelled him with a look. She was good at that. Her air of impeccable certainty discouraged people from arguing with her. She'd had it at eighteen and the first time I saw her use it on our dorm mother I was green with envy.

We were still standing on the steps when an ancient VW bug chugged into the driveway and rolled to a stop. It was Pepto-Bismol colored where it wasn't pocked with rust and sported a jumping frog on the hood. A smiling young woman with pinkish-red hair climbed out the passenger side and bounced over to us with the energy of someone who has eaten her Wheaties. "Sorry I'm late. Something funny in the engine. Jerry looked but he couldn't figure it out." She shrugged, an elaborate, full-body gesture. "Cars. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

She stuck out a small hand with purplish-black nails. "I'm Claire." After giving us a taste of an electrifying grip, she stepped back, craning her neck around the yard. "Where are the Munchkins?"

"They hate it when you call them that," Ellen said. "Out back, probably hovering by the new trampoline. I won't let them use it unsupervised." She rolled her eyes. "They think I'm such a dinosaur."

George dangled a set of keys. "No offense to the rust-mobile, but I'd feel safer if you took the Lexus."

Claire seized them and pocketed them in a flash. Andre raised an eyebrow and grinned at me. I wasn't sure whether he was thinking about her abilities as a shoplifter or whether he was envisioning someone like this caring for our offspring someday. Any way you looked at it, Claire was a piece of work. I couldn't imagine Ellen leaving her children with this woman.

This time it was Ellen who read my mind. While George drew out his wallet and piled money into Claire's hand for lunch, a movie, and snacks, Ellen said, "Claire's taking a semester off from Vassar while her mother recovers from surgery." In other words, intelligent, educated, caring, and responsible. Well done, Ellen, I thought, wondering how to put a lock on my mind. Or was my face transparent today? I'd have to ask Andre.

"Okay," George said, "let's take these detectives to the track. I sort of told the owner why you were coming... I hope you don't mind. He's going to be waiting for us." We all climbed into the Range Rover and rolled away.

The track owner, Tony Piretti, seemed to be on great terms with George, if friendship can be measured in back slaps and shoulder pats. He told his secretary that he'd be back, grabbed his coat, and gave us the grand tour. Half the time, it seemed like he was speaking a foreign language, but the place was interesting. I was still waiting for a pause in the eloquent narrative to ask my questions when he led us through a door to a man waiting beside a BMW parked on the track and announced it was time for us to drive.

"Relax," he said as I opened my mouth to object, "we can talk over lunch. Nick's only available this morning, and I couldn't send a friend of Ellen's out with anyone but Nick." I was becoming as predictable as a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. He introduced us to Nick and bustled away before I could speak.

Before I knew it, I was firesuited, helmeted, and belted into the driver's seat. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked over at my instructor for direction. "I've never done this before," I said.

"Most people haven't." He didn't exactly inspire confidence. Maybe he did in men. He had receding rusty hair, a florid face, a loose-lipped grin so confident it was almost demented, and bold blue eyes that looked at me like I was wearing nothing but the seat belt. Years of squinting into the sun had given him crows feet on top of crows feet. "It helps if you start the engine."

I shot him an angry look and turned the key. The engine roared to life. "I assume you know how to drive standard." I nodded. "Then ease her out onto the track and let's see what happens. The biggest thing people have to learn—the thing that surprises 'em most—is braking. That's what it's all about. Normally, you were here for the course, we'd give you some classroom time on braking theory. But you're not, so we'll just make do."

We made do. The first time around, I felt like a little old lady out for a Sunday drive. At least I did until Nick laughed and said, "Scared? I'll bet you go faster than this on the back roads at home." Under his abrasive needling, nudging, and coaching, I got around again at a more respectable pace, learning to work the accelerator and the brake together. The third time, he made me go faster than I felt I could control. Guess it wasn't like skiing, where you're trying to stay under control, because Nick had me right out at the limits of anything that felt safe. "Use your eyes. Use your eyes," he kept saying. "Think where you want to be, going into that turn. And now where?" I was just beginning to feel comfortable when he said, "Time to learn about skidding."

I said, "No way, Jose," but before I knew it, I was skidding toward the outside wall and visions of a crisply fried Cal Bass being joined by a crisply fried Thea Kozak danced in my mind even as I followed Nick's calm instructions and brought the car back under control. But somehow, in the process of steering through the skid, I discovered I was having fun. "Can we do that again?" I asked.