Notes From the Backseat (24 page)

H
ere we are, Marla, the final page. And here I am, tucked between two surfboards once again, cruising down Highway 1 under a perfect sky. I've got the Pacific on my right, my man riding shotgun and my blond nemesis-turned-tentative ally at the wheel. You know what they say; keep your friends close, but keep the blondes closer.

I suppose you might take it as a bad sign, me still stuck in the back, but this time I really did insist. I've decided this is the only way to travel. Back here, I can keep an eye on things. I can watch the arrhythmic swish of Coop's hair as the wind tosses it this way and that. I can study the gorgeous gleam of my engagement ring without anyone thinking I'm obsessed. Most importantly—not that I think this way anymore—if Dannika tries anything, I'll be the first one to notice.

And besides, the backseat's pretty fantastic. It's not just a storage zone for dogs and luggage and children. It's the queen's seat, the starlet's spot, the place you put people too regal for the windshield's glare. It's the helm of power. All you have to do is claim it, and it's yours.

Love always,
Gwen

 

I closed the last notebook and looked around. The café was nearly deserted. I spooned the final dregs of cappuccino foam from the bottom of the cup. My third. When I noticed the time on the brass clock above the bar, I couldn't believe it. I'd been sitting in that place for seven hours. Forget bodice-rippers, man. I'd no idea Gwen's life was so readable.

Then again, anyone who wears a blue fox stole while crushed between two surfboards should never be underestimated.

I ran my hand over the final notebook, the glossy one that said Mendocino Coast. Gwen was full of surprises. Who knew she was so riddled with self-doubt? I'd always thought of her as supremely self-assured. She wore her wacky ensembles with such pure, regal confidence, she made it seem like the rest of us were the freaks. There we were, bumbling through life in blue jeans and hoodies, getting caught in traffic, spilling our coffee as we shifted gears; meanwhile, she glided over the sidewalks of L.A., her kitten heels taking her wherever she needed to go. If someone had told me yesterday that Gwen was insecure, I would have laughed. Sure, there was her little problem with chronic psychotic jealousy, but I'd always assumed that was more a nervous aversion to commitment, not deep-seated self-doubt.

As I tucked all four notebooks back into my bag, I saw a pretty brunette walk in the door. She was wearing a bright blue trapeze coat I just knew Gwen would love. She sat down at a table near the window and ordered a glass of wine. She had dark, shining eyes and perfect burgundy lipstick. After a few minutes, a petite blonde in jeans joined her. They kissed on the cheek and the blonde ordered a coffee. Pretty soon their table exploded into bright, girlish giggles, and the old man sitting at the bar scowled over his spectacles.

I knew I should get back; no doubt Jean-Paul and his parents were wondering where I was by now. Still, I sat there and watched the two women, fascinated by the intimacy of their little world. The brunette bent her head toward the blonde in a conspiratorial way. The blonde widened her eyes, and I saw her feet under the table tapping against the marble floor in excitement. They were sharing secrets. Stealing glances at them, I missed Gwen so much I could feel my throat growing thick and I had to swallow.

How many of their secrets did they share? I wondered. Did they only reveal the gossipy bits, the tabloid fluff of their lives? Which parts did they leave out—which confessions were too dusty and dull for an afternoon rendezvous in September? I'd known Gwen twelve years. I thought I knew everything about her. Yet right there in my bag I had several hundred pages of scrawled evidence to the contrary. She was full of shadowy corners and locked closets. Even she was only beginning to investigate the quiet mystery of her own interior.

I stood, slipping the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Thanks to Gwen, I was wearing very stylishly cut slacks with a purse that matched the cherry-red suede of my ballet flats. As I made my way to the door, I mumbled
“merci”
to the waiter and he nodded, his face solemn. The girls near the window glanced at me. I smiled and they smiled back.
Take care of each other,
I told them silently.
Watch each other's backs.

Out on the street, the air was crisp and smelled faintly of singed garlic. I walked up Rue Mouffetard toward Jean-Paul's childhood home. A gray-haired man lit a cigarette as he pushed a stroller. A teenager flew past me on an electric blue moped, splashing my shoes a little as she tore through a puddle. I saw it all, but my mind was fastened on Gwen. I thought of her pillbox hats and her pearls, her sneaky smile and her leopard-print kitten heels. I couldn't wait to get home and see her engagement ring.

Just before I reached the house, a light rain started. I stepped under an awning and watched it fall. It had been hot that morning, and the sun-warmed pavement smelled delicious as it turned wet. I closed my eyes and thought,
I'm happy for you, Gwen. I really am.
Then I dashed the last ten yards to the house, knowing Gwen would scold me when she saw what I had done to the cherry-red shoes.

NOTES FROM THE BACKSEAT

A Red Dress Ink novel

ISBN: 978-1-4268-1086-2

© 2008 by Jody Gehrman.

All rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact Red Dress Ink, Editorial Office, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

® and TM are trademarks. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and/or other countries.

www.RedDressInk.com