Driving in Neutral (17 page)

“Don’t I get some special instructions like you gave everyone else?” Emerson joined Olivia, falling into step as she went down the stairs. “Don’t pick your nose. Make sure you shave. Don’t plaster condoms all over the bridal car.” He walked beside her along the garden path toward the gazebo.

She glanced at him. “How about, don’t say anything stupid when you make your toast at the reception.”

“Are you mad? Is this about the ice cream this afternoon?”

“No, it’s about you making a phone call in the middle of the wedding rehearsal an—”

“Do you think your rigid nature is why Martin called you a bossy bitch?” One hand went to clasp her elbow, but he missed.

“Usually, I have a very flexible nature, but I’m not fond of having someone swallow my ice cream like a snake or being called names.”

“I seem to recall you didn’t mind
wet little rodent
.”

“There’s a big difference between rat and bitch.”

“Sure there is. One is small and insignificant; the other’s a dog who bites.”

“Oh, so now I’m a
dog
?”

“That’s not what I meant. How do you do that? How do you twist things around? Where did you learn this…skill?”

He stopped walking, reached out and grabbed her elbow.

She looked down at his hand at her elbow and back up to his face, smirking. “Drives you crazy doesn’t it?”

“Is that why you do it?”

“Well, make up your mind. Am I a
rat
or a
bitch
?” She stopped at the end of the path, right in the middle of the rose garden at the base of the gazebo.

And all eyes were on them.

After the ceremony rehearsal, once everyone had changed for dinner, Olivia slid behind the wheel of the minivan she’d organized as transport to Donnie’s Joint, a restaurant just over the Wisconsin border.

The wedding party began to board. Justine’s smile was syrupy as she squeezed by Pete. Her overpowering fragrance billowed out like tear gas as he settled in the front passenger seat, waving his hand. “That’s a…heady…bouquet,” he muttered. “So, how the hell are you, Liv?” He adjusted the seat belt and gave her a crooked smile as the nylon strap tried to strangle him.

Maxwell poked his head inside the van and made a face, twisting his mouth, wrinkling his nose. “I guess this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he mumbled and climbed inside. He stood, hunched over behind Pete’s seat and shook his head. “You know, you in that seat is not happening.”

Pete said, “It’s just a van, man. It has lots of windows.”

Maxwell hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s dark out. Come on. Get in back to marinate with the rest of the over-perfumed cattle.”

“Why does Pete have to move? He was here first.” Olivia glanced at Maxwell looming above her headrest.

“It’s easier this way.” Pete shook his head and unfastened the seatbelt. “Unless you
want
to relive your time in the elevator, Olivia.” He paused for a moment, giving her time to mull over the idea before he rose. “Didn’t think so.” Maxwell made room for him to pass then shifted into the front seat.

Olivia put the key in the ignition and started the engine. The roar drowned out Pete’s chuckle.

A few minutes later, the van, loaded with passengers, drove off the Hutton property toward Waukegan. The nylon edge of the seatbelt chafed at the base of Emerson’s throat and he adjusted the strap. Conversations, laughter and Tex’s distinctive
yee-ha
floated from behind. He heard bits and pieces, made a few comments, but he was more interested in watching Olivia’s eyes flick between the road and mirrors as she drove. The reflected headlights of passing cars shot a rectangular shaft of soft white light across her eyes. It brought to mind old black and white movies and women like Merle Oberon, Myrna Loy, and Olivia De Havilland.

The little scar near her mouth was more visible in shadowy light than in full sunshine, and all he could think about was how it would feel beneath his lips. Jesus, he needed to distract himself, needed to redirect his attention to something that wasn’t related to kissing or sex. “So,” he said, clawing out some small talk, “why did you quit test driving and racing?”

Olivia didn’t look at him. He figured driving a van full of passengers was different to speeding around a track and required a different sort of concentration. She said, “I thought it was the right time to get out.”

“Did you have an accident you barely survived or something?”

She snorted. “Not like you think.”

The seatbelt tightened and scratched his neck as Emerson shifted, trying to see her expression by the light of the dashboard. “What happened? Why did you stop? From what I read about you, yo—”

“You read about me?”

“Since I neglected to look at your CV before we met, I thought I should play a little catch up and be a good boss, so I read some of your old stats. It seems like you did okay when you were in the sport.”

Another snort came from the driver’s seat. “I had to do everything two times better to be thought of as half as good in a sport dominated by men—like Ginger Rogers dancing all those steps backward in a fluffy dress and heels while Fred Astaire got all the real glory. I did
better
than okay.”

“You mean the other drivers made it hard because you’re a woman?”

“No. This isn’t one of those
I was beaten into submission by a bunch of good ol’ boys
things. Of course somebody always made remarks about the chick on the track, but I didn’t care. I was racing, wasn’t I? And I was good. I loved it. I had fun, and if I had continued, I probably would have made more of a name for myself, but I discovered it was even more fun to test-drive new designs. Then eventually I decided I was ready for a different life.”

Nylon dug into his carotid artery and Emerson pulled hard to release the tension reel. “What kind of life was that?”

In the dimness, Olivia glanced at him once. “One with a family.”

“
You wanted children
?” His disbelief came out sharper and louder, much, much louder, than he expected.

The van suddenly went quiet as conversations ceased, and Emerson knew all focus had shifted toward the front of the van. He actually felt twelve sets of eyes boring into his back. Without the benefit of passing south-bound traffic headlights to illuminate her face, Emerson couldn’t see Olivia’s expression, but he heard the rhythm of her cool, steady breathing.

In the silence, headlights from the car behind the van reflected in the rear view mirror, the light a brilliant swathe across her narrowed eyes, and Pete muttered, “Maybe you ought to let that seatbelt strangle you.”

Situated in a converted warehouse, Donnie’s Joint had booths made out of the back ends of old fin-tailed cars. Vinyl bench seats taken from old Pontiacs and big Buicks were lined up alongside chrome-edged Formica tables. The wait staff wore fashions straight out of 1956 with poodle skirts and greased back hair the most popular look. Signs advertised real chocolate or vanilla coke for five cents. A giant jukebox played three songs for ten cents.

Emerson had been here before. He knew if someone dropped a dime in the jukebox and played Chubby Checker, the wait staff would stop whatever they were doing. They would put down trays of food, leave dirty dishes on tables, quit taking dinner orders and run out to the two-tone linoleum dance floor in the middle of the joint and do the Twist.

Occasionally, they would drag an unsuspecting guest out with them to dance. Chubby started inviting everybody to come on and do his dance just as members of the Thomas-Fulton wedding party made their way to their table. Since he was at the tail end of the group, there was no way to escape. A short but buxom waitress outfitted in pedal pushers and a coiling, dark ponytail snagged Emerson, clutching his hand and dragging him to the floor as the others found seats.

The beauty of the Twist was that everyone looked stupid doing it. Emerson knew he looked just as goofy as the other restaurant patrons on the floor, but he stayed out there, not even trying to look cool because publicly looking like a fool might put some kind of patch on the last twisting slip of his tongue to Olivia. Dorky dancing was his penance.

Unfortunately, she missed the spectacle of his dancing. She was busy doing something near the entrance, a short box under her arm.

Olivia handed a box of party favors to the hostess decked out in a frilly, mint-toned baby doll pajama set and aqua plastic curlers. “Dimes for the jukebox,” the hostess said. “That’s clever. I’ll have your waitperson hand them out with the drinks.” The ruffles on her nylon pajamas swished as she headed off. Olivia watched the fabric move and her mind swished over strange thoughts of Maxwell and that stupid seatbelt in the minivan.

Every time he’d fiddled with the strap, she had been intensely aware of him, or rather her body had been aware of him, of how fresh he smelled, even above Justine’s wall of perfume. She breathed in his scent. Her heart kicked up a notch and filled her ears with a steady beat that sounded like man-
man
, man-
man
, man
-man
. Instead of his hands fiddling with the seatbelt, she had flashes of his hands fiddling with her, checking all her gauges and pressure. Then she’d imagined him wearing nothing but a five-point racing harness.

Her body’s very natural response was ridiculous. It had been a long time since she’d felt an undercurrent of attraction to a man so intense her panties became damp just by looking at him, and she wondered why it had to be this particular man her body instantly responded to.

Obviously a good dose of sex was a perfect solution, but having someone ring her bell for the sake of satiating horniness seemed cheap.

Why did she have to be so rigid? Couldn’t she just sleep with a man for sheer pleasure? So what if it hadn’t been a year since the divorce, did lovemaking have to be all wrapped up in some kind of emotional connection and not just be about sex? Had Karl spoiled that for her for good?

Olivia liked to think she’d been discriminating in the men she chose to go to bed with, but then look how far fine discrimination got her, look how both of those prudent relationships wound up not so prudent after all. So why on earth did she hold out for a lover who actually
loved
her?

When she’d caught Maxwell’s profile lit up by the blue glow of the van’s dashboard, her heart flickering like the shorting red tail lights of the old bucket of rust in front of the van, she wondered if it was possible Maxwell could be a
love her
, not a lover.

Of course, he opened his big fat mouth, and she knew it was completely a chemical response.

So why was she still trying so hard to hold on to the lingering cardamom and autumn leaves fragrance of his? Why was she still imagining him naked under that five-point harness?

She breathed in and out in a series of slow controlled breaths and went to find a seat with the bridal party.

Finally free of the Twist, Emerson watched Olivia move across the front of the restaurant and dance floor with quick steps. She was in time with the music playing as she approached the table. A waiter with a serious James Dean squint passed out tiny organza bags and glasses of water as soon as she took a seat beside Craig’s dad, across from Pete. She’d maneuvered into a position to shut him out. If he wanted to talk to her, Emerson realized he’d have to lean back and stretch sideways.

Dinner unfolded in a leisurely manner. The party favor coin bags were a novelty and selections of ’50s and ’60s classics spun on the jukebox as they ate. As Olivia had hoped, Ella relaxed in the slightly kitschy atmosphere, going as far as telling her father to go outside and smoke a cigar. The setting was glitzy and tacky and utterly fun. The food was great. The music added an extra kick to the experience. People sang along and tapped their toes throughout the evening.

The opening bars of Ritchie Valens
La Bamba
played. With a whooping
yee-ha
, Tex and Mimi made their way out to the dance floor. They did a stomping two-step, with Tex making the most of his cowboy boots. He let out another
yee-ha
and that seemed to be all the enticement the others at the table needed. Ella scooted out with Craig. Justine grabbed Jason, and Martin pulled Addie along. Suzanne danced with rhythmless husband Al.

Olivia knew he was there before he said a word. “Would you like to dance, Olivia?” Maxwell held out his hand.

“I’m about to catch up with Pete. It’s been all work and wedding crap since I got back to town, and we really haven’t had a chance to talk about anything else. I’m waiting for him to get back from the bathroom.”

Maxwell cut his eyes to the dance floor. “Pete’s out there with his wife.”

“Oh.”

“You afraid I’ll step on your feet?”

“I saw you out there doing the Twist earlier, so yes, I’m terrified you’ll tread on my toes.”

“I just might surprise you.”

“I thought you had a bum knee.”

“It’s all better now, but thanks for caring.” Emerson offered his hand again and was a little surprised when she sighed and took it. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for this afternoon’s ice cream effrontery?” He cocked his head as she rose.

“I understand the overwhelming power of ice cream, but you still have a long way to go to make up for that
you wanted children
comment. It was like I told you I was Luke Skywalker’s father, or that the planet in
Planet of the Apes
is actually Earth.”

“I see you speak Movie Geek as well as German. Impressive.”

“Do you want to dance or talk movies?”

“How about both?”

“Great. Come on, let’s get it over with,” she said, jerking him toward the dance floor.

Emerson let himself be led. Summertime always allowed women the opportunity to show off more of their figures. It was a seasonal event he had enjoyed since he was twelve and noticed that Amelia Capra, the neighborhood tomboy, looked better in a bikini than a parka. Yet, there needed to be something else to make a man really take notice of a female. And Olivia had it.

Confidence. She radiated confidence. She oozed confidence in whatever she did, sure of herself, certain about everything, and it was a huge turn-on. Confidence was sexy as hell and he thought self-assured Olivia looked as sexy in a rather boxy red fire-proof racing jumpsuit as she did in two-inch heels and a deeper red, form-fitting, knee-length dress held up by dainty straps that showed off the porcelain-fine curve of her shoulders, shoulders he noticed now, were dotted with a few freckles.