November Sky (3 page)

I jerked my head over toward his wrecked vehicle. A fire-engine-red Corvette didn’t look so spectacular lying on its roof, although I held my tongue about that. My surprise-attack strategy seemed to achieve the desired effect and I breathed a sigh of relief when the angry furrows on his forehead gave way to an incredulous but more composed expression. He was still mad but appeared to have gotten hold of himself enough for the threat of violence to disappear, although that didn’t keep him from getting very loud.

“Only my car’s damaged? Do you have any idea what kind of a car that is? I’d never have wound up in the ditch without your ‘assistance’! It was
you
and your crappy four-banger blocking the road that made me swerve. Why the hell were you standing around in the woods in the middle of the night anyway? Were you waiting for somebody to run into your clunker so you could collect the insurance? Or maybe you were waiting for customers?”

For a young man, his voice was astonishingly deep and booming. But I didn’t like the sarcastic tone or his insolent implication that I had dishonorable intentions. Now I was enraged. Was he really trying to pin the blame for his spectacular somersault on me? I interrupted him using my loudest voice.

“My car is not a clunker but an almost-new Mini Cooper! And I was on the road because I had to brake hard to miss a deer a few seconds before. Not because I’m looking for johns, or whatever it is you’re insinuating! You were going way too fast and couldn’t control your piece of crap, and that’s the only reason the thing’s lying upside down in the mud over there!”

Infuriated by his lack of guilt, I completely forgot that a few minutes ago I’d felt responsible for his accident. I continued:

“I don’t know who you are, but politeness as a virtue seems foreign to you. You’d have been better off spending your money on a few lessons in etiquette instead of a Stingray.”

Amazingly, he seemed to have calmed down. The angry spark in his eyes was gone. During my tirade he’d looked at me in disbelief and then with astonishment—and now he regarded me with interest.

He studied me the same way my father looked over a cow he was buying at the livestock fair: from my head right down to my shoeless feet. I involuntarily stretched myself up to my full five feet and five and three-quarter inches, and was glad I was wearing my elegant turquoise silk dress. I was sorry I’d left the matching high heels in my car. I slipped them off to drive, but right now I would have appreciated the extra inches. I stared him in the face defiantly.

“Are you finished checking me out? Can we figure out how to proceed so I can finally get home to bed?”

As soon as the words left my lips, I cursed myself. Why did I mention my bed in the presence of a guy who was looking me up and down like that? But he didn’t seem to notice.

“You know something?” he said, ignoring my diatribe. “You’re the first attractive woman I’ve met who can tell a Corvette from a Ferrari or a Porsche even when it’s lying on its roof.”

His expression was like a little boy’s: thrilled, enthusiastic, and happy to find an adult who understood his passion for his favorite toy. It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, but then I had to laugh. My uneasiness toward him vanished. Admittedly, I was flattered by the word
attractive
. I would call myself that only on the rarest of days; when I looked in a mirror, it was the negative things that struck me first. But mainly it was that once the Corvette fan was no longer snarling at me, I realized how good-looking he was. He had attractive laugh lines around his eyes; a straight, almost aristocratic nose; a casual three-day beard; and nicely curved lips. He ran his hand through his short, neatly cut dark-blond hair. He looked embarrassed.

“I’ve got to call a tow truck or something. I’ll never get out of this ditch on my own. And you’re right—I definitely was going too fast. I didn’t think anybody would be out here in the sticks. I’m heading home to Munich from a party at the Prien Yacht Club. I’m dog-tired and just wanted to get home quick. I missed the sign for the autobahn and wound up in this godforsaken place, and I wanted to escape as fast as possible. That’s why I gave my car the gun. It was really dumb of me. I never even thought about a deer crossing.” He cleared his throat. “You may have saved me from having a worse accident.”

As he spoke, my unconscious mind stuck on hearing him say “yacht club.” This, along with the thought of his sports car, immediately created a picture in my brain: rich snot-nose. Still, maybe he was a nice snot-nose. I explained he would have trouble finding somebody to get his car to a garage tonight. I suggested taking him to Munich so he could recover his car the next day in daylight.

“Provided, of course, that it’s not beneath your dignity to be chauffeured in my pathetic four-banger,” I said.

“My apologies for that, too.” He put out his hand and actually had the decency to look contrite. “By the way, I’m Nick and I normally behave considerably better—pretty much anytime my car isn’t on its back.”

“Laura,” I said, noting that he’d taken us straight to a first-name basis. I reciprocated his firm handshake and accepted his apology.

After he crawled back into the Corvette to turn off the headlights and remove the ignition key, we were finally on the way home. He suggested I just drop him off where I lived, in Haar near Munich. He’d take a taxi the rest of the way into the Inner City. He didn’t tell me where he lived, and I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to appear curious. It was none of my business anyway.

He was interested in where I got my profound knowledge of sports cars, so I told him about my school buddy Moritz, whose father had a large auto-repair business between Chieming and Grabenstatt, where he repaired and restored antique and high-end American cars. His business was known only to insiders and his clientele from all around Munich, and it ran like clockwork. Moritz and I often used to bike there after school. The shop fascinated me. I loved the smell of oil and rubber, and I enjoyed looking at the wheels and other parts around the shop. Moritz taught me all the makes and their features. Nowadays, Moritz ran the shop with his father and made a mint.

Although I didn’t provide my passenger with this part of the story, the full truth was that Moritz had wanted to marry me after we left school. In hindsight, I suppose it was mainly because of my weakness for the shop. After graduating, however, my enthusiasm for exotic cars slacked off, and Moritz, with his thickset figure, coarse face, and stubbly reddish-blond hair, did not match my ideal image of a future husband, despite his nice, uncomplicated manner.

That’s why I gently refused his beery proposal at the graduation dance (“Laura, think you ’n’ me, the two of us, make good team, wanna marry me? Ya can drive one o’ them Ami-wheels now ’n’ then.”) Fortunately, Moritz kept his heartache over my rejection in check. At the class reunion the year before, I’d heard he was still a bachelor and changed girlfriends constantly.

I gave Nick the name and address of Moritz’s shop and assured him in all good conscience that his Corvette would be in great hands there. He seemed enthusiastic about the tip, and the longer he sat beside me, the more agreeable I found him. For a guy, he was a surprisingly good listener. I had the sense he was actually interested in what I had to say. His earlier anger had yielded to an irresistible charm. He had the sort of presence that few people possess. I imagined that when he entered a room, everyone’s eyes went to him. From the passenger seat, he looked at me steadily, smiling and laughing a lot. At the same time, he didn’t monopolize the conversation, but asked me countless questions and seemed to inhale my answers. Before I could catch myself, he knew nearly everything about my childhood on the farm, my parents and siblings, and my brother’s wedding. He’d spontaneously switched to the personal form of address, and since we seemed to be only a few years apart in age, it seemed the natural thing to do.

“I envy you your large family, Laura. I’ve no brothers or sisters, and I’ve always been very sad about it. When you’re an only child, your parents are constantly watching you. I always had the feeling I couldn’t disappoint them. I suppose that’s why I’m so ambitious. I always want to be the best at everything.”

“And the fastest, judging by your car and driving style.” I couldn’t resist the dig, which produced another slightly embarrassed smile.

“I’ve only had the car for six months. A childhood dream, ever since Dad gave me a red Matchbox Corvette for my fifth birthday. Now I’ve bought myself the real thing.”

I was just able to suppress a smug grin.
Bought
—I’m sure! I would bet money the adult version of the little-boy’s toy was also sponsored by Daddy. Nick didn’t give the impression he was a member of the working populace. It would have been the perfect time to quiz him, to find out more about him, but before I had the chance we’d reached the roadside sign for Haar, where the taxi Nick had ordered on his cell was waiting. I pulled over and Nick got out.

He leaned into the interior of the car and flashed an irresistible, dimpled smile.

“In spite of all the hassle about the accident, it was lovely to meet you, Laura. Thanks for the lift and the tip about the shop. Take care.”

I drove off, watching him in the rearview mirror get into the taxi. I realized that he hadn’t asked for my address, my cell phone number, or even my last name. For some reason, I felt a trace of regret, even annoyance. Hadn’t he said I was attractive and that it was lovely to make my acquaintance? I grumpily shook my head. What was I supposed to do with a man like him, anyway? He was much too charming, good-looking, and wealthy for me. His profession was probably being the son to rich parents. He clearly played in a different social league and presumably had a girlfriend—if not several girlfriends—in Munich. And besides, I was a committed single person.

Still, when I finally made it to my bed a short time later, it was Nick’s attractive, smiling face that appeared before my inner eye as I dozed off, and I remembered the warm feeling in my gut when he said my name in his deep, booming voice.

Chapter 3

During the following week, I thought little about Nick and our middle-of-the-night incident. I was busy enough at work. Chris, my colleague, and I had quit our jobs at a large bank and started up a flourishing independent financial-consulting business for individuals and small businesses. Our business partnership worked beautifully. Our clientele was mainly female, although we hadn’t planned it that way.

I did tell Chris about the accident on Monday as we got to work in our Munich office, and she thought the story was totally romantic. She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t at least asked for Nick’s cell number.

“That’s so typical of you!” she said. “You meet a charming dude under extraordinary circumstances, ferry him around for a whole hour in the middle of the night, and manage to let him waltz off without even knowing his last name. When will you get it into your thick skull that there are more important things in life than securities, taxes, and insurance? You’re a wonderful expert on the stock market and you rake in good money every month just from the dividends in your portfolio. But instead of having some fun and spreading that money around, you go home every night and hide in the world of your novels.” She shook her head. “Laura, real life is sliding right past you. Before you know it, you’ll be thirty and an old maid. The competition doesn’t sleep!”

I had to laugh at her scolding tone. As far as men were concerned, Chris was my exact opposite. She saw potential marriage material in nearly every male creature that matched her dating criteria. Somehow she never noticed that her possessive behavior quickly drove those men off. Personally, I thought it was counterproductive to tell a man after your first night together how you imagined your wedding and that you had to be married before your thirtieth birthday no matter what it took. Although she looked younger, Chris was twenty-nine and made no bones about it. She insisted on being honest and authentic, and to her that meant being up front with men right at the beginning. If a lover flew the coop in response to her marriage wishes, she shrugged and took consolation in the idea that he just wasn’t right for her. With her looks—blonde, hourglass-figure, and green eyes whose shortsightedness was masked by contacts—she never had difficulty finding an immediate replacement. She was one of those women who could never be alone; she always needed a man by her side.

And just as enthusiastically as she untiringly plunged from one relationship into the next, she tried time and again to hook me up with someone. I struggled in vain to make her see that Nick and I would never be capable of having a relationship—even if I had gotten his number.

“Chris, I can tell just by the way the guy looks and talks that he moves in different circles from me. Models, actresses, or daughters of rich entrepreneurs would be more his cup of tea than a boring ex–bank manager’s assistant who brings home the bacon by recommending pension plans, insurance consulting, and investment tips. Just imagine me in the passenger seat of a Corvette. That would be like Schiller’s bourgeois Luisa Miller playing the princess.”

Chris whirled her chair away from her computer screen and looked me in the eye while wagging a finger at me. In her usual serious office outfit—pants and a sharp jacket, her unruly blonde curls demurely tied in a tight knot—she looked authoritarian and, as always, was unflinchingly direct.

“Will you stop dreaming up lame excuses why you don’t need a boyfriend? Just because you got dumped once, you won’t let a man get closer than ten feet from you! You need to stop hiding your light under a bushel. It’s almost pathological. You should consider therapy so you can finally get it into your head that you’re an attractive, intelligent woman. Your ex is a total moron if he didn’t see that. Then you wouldn’t waste a unique opportunity like last Saturday night ever again.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when her phone rang and Chris was forced to drop the subject of “Laura and her man phobia” to answer a client’s tax questions.

There was a grain of truth in her charges. I was once bitten, twice shy—as far as love and sex went. To explain my avoidance of new emotional involvements, I’d only given Chris a vague story about being very disappointed by a man years ago. I let her believe the guy had deceived me, but the truth was significantly more agonizing. The traumatic memory had led to my boring and predictable life in which grand, passionate feelings were found only between the covers of the books I read. It was a life in which I felt safe and secure. I had a terrible fear of trusting and allowing men into my heart, so I acted ambivalently toward those who were interested in me or in whom I might be interested. I nipped any intimation of a love relationship in the bud. The event that caused what Chris called my “odd behavior” with men had happened over six years earlier, during our class trip right after my high school graduation.

The whole class had gone to a beach resort on the Croatian coast that was notorious for its “party mile.” We traveled by bus, and I remember being so excited, though I would never have admitted it to my classmates. In my nineteen years, I’d never been farther away than Salzburg, and I’d never been to the sea. My parents had no time for a holiday. It was impossible to leave the farm and all those animals alone longer that a few hours at the very most, so the radius for our rare family outings was relatively short. I’d had the opportunity to take a language study tour to Paris through an advanced class, but I had to skip it due to acute strep throat. And then there hadn’t been any more opportunities for sojourns abroad. Everything I knew about other countries was from books or TV. Many of my school friends had traveled widely, so I kept it a secret during my school years so I wouldn’t look like a dumb hick.

In any case, when we arrived at our hotel after many traffic jams and a ten-hour bus ride, we were so stunned by the very different landscape and vegetation, the seemingly infinite blue-green sea, the long sand beaches, and the overwhelming heat that I barely took notice of the squalid four-bed hotel room, the totally filthy bathrooms and toilets, or the lousy food. The grad party consisted of an endless succession of sunbaths, splashing in the salt water, nightly disco parties, and drinking binges on the beach—although I never took part in the latter because of my mother’s stringent warnings. My abstinence eventually attracted the attention of a few popular students, the stars of the school handball team. Tim, their ringleader, was the school heartthrob, thanks to his athletic build, raven hair, and blue eyes. I wasn’t immune to his looks and thought he was hot, but I’d rather have bitten my tongue off than admit that. Unfortunately, his sensationally fine appearance concealed his rotten character.

As it turned out, Tim bet his pals that he could hit on me, get me drunk, and then “shag” me. It happened the way it had to happen: I was taken in by his protestations of love and the compliments he showered upon me. Three days later, in a drunken state and with my defenses down, I let him take my virginity on the beach that night. Though the sea was surging and the full moon and the stars shone in the heavens above us, it was—sad to say—not a romantic experience, but a brief and painful one. Nevertheless, I was in seventh heaven. For the first time in my life I had a proper boyfriend, one who truly loved me.

The rude awakening came the next morning when Tim’s buddies greeted me raucously at the breakfast table. They revealed that they’d hidden behind a beach cabin and watched us have sex. In response to my distraught look seeking his help, Tim just sat there, responding only to tell his friends that although the little farm klutz had a fat ass and thick thighs, she seemed pretty horny. He acted as if I wasn’t even there.

His words shattered my safe world and fairly intact self-image into a thousand little pieces. Before my horrified eyes, Tim was paid fifty euros for winning his bet. The rest of the students heard about it quickly enough, and although the majority of them reacted with outrage, the damage was done. I holed up in my hotel room, racked with shame, for the last two days of our trip. I wanted more than anything to drown myself in the sea.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t even shelve the whole affair once I was home because Tim had given me an STD, which led to a very painful uterine infection. I confessed everything to our family doctor, who treated me with strong antibiotics and explained to my parents that I was probably suffering the effects of an untreated bladder infection. I was too ashamed to confess the truth to anyone, let alone my family. The only good thing about the whole event was that I was spared a pregnancy and never saw Tim again.

The incident utterly destroyed my self-esteem, robbed me of any pleasure from looking in the mirror, and ensured that I would keep as far away as possible from the opposite sex and intimate relations. I wasn’t afraid of men and was relatively unself-conscious in dealing with them, but only as long as they didn’t show romantic interest in me.

The problem was, I really did want to have a family someday. I knew I’d eventually need some kind of therapy to resolve my ambivalence, but for now, my pain wasn’t bad enough. I’d arranged for a steady, hardworking existence and comfy after-work evenings in my cozily furnished apartment. In my midtwenties, so I consoled myself, I was far too young to worry about a ticking biological clock or being left on the shelf.

I often went to my parents’ house on the weekends. In the winter, I’d ski with friends or by myself, and in the summer I’d bike or hang out in my apartment. I convinced myself that Mr. Right would cross my path at some point, and I would immediately recognize him as the father of my future children. He’d probably just breeze into my office someday. And then I’d have the usual fairy-tale ending.

It was a Thursday afternoon one beautiful, sunshiny spring day, and Chris and I had just decided to get pizza at the Italian restaurant around the corner. When the office phone rang, Chris looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“You expecting a call?”

I shook my head. I had nothing on my calendar for the afternoon, so I was just catching up on long-overdue administrative tasks. Paperwork—a bore, but a necessary evil when you run a business. Chris picked up and put the call on speakerphone.

In response to her businesslike greeting—“Lassberg and Heucker Financial Consulting, Christin Heucker speaking. What can I do for you?”—came a deep male voice. My ears perked right up.

“May I speak to Laura, please?”

Ignoring my vigorous headshake, Chris grinned at me maliciously and said in her friendliest tone, “Yes, Laura is right here. Who’s calling, please?”

I’d of course recognized Nick’s unmistakable voice, so I grabbed the receiver out of my smirking colleague’s hand and took the call off speakerphone. How did he find me, and what did he want? Damages for his wrecked heap? In my boundless naïveté, I’d have never guessed that his unexpected call might be for a more pleasant reason.

“This is Laura. What is it?”

Chris rolled her eyes to high heaven and made an emphatic gesture that I was nuts to behave so rudely. But Nick didn’t let my gruff reaction faze him.

“Hello, Laura. I’m so glad to hear your voice. Just take a look out the window.”

I did as I was asked, and my heart skipped a beat. Chris peeked through the curtains, too, and muffled a shriek of surprise. Nick was standing by his fire-engine-red Corvette directly in front of our office entrance in a clearly marked no-parking zone. He was leaning carelessly against the passenger door, wearing sunglasses. He had on jeans and a long black shirt and held his cell to his ear. I couldn’t resist giving my colleague a wicked grin as she seemed to literally begin to drool. I struck a more engaging tone.

“How nice—you’ve got your toy back. And it looks like its time in the ditch didn’t hurt.”

He flashed his charming smile and Chris looked back and forth between me and him, flabbergasted. I thought she might be hyperventilating and wondered whether I should have her breathe into a paper bag so she wouldn’t faint. I was certainly aware that Nick had an irresistibly easygoing and attractive appeal, which was particularly obvious as he stood there in the radiant sunshine. He also appeared to be in a thoroughly good mood, in contrast to our first encounter. Nevertheless, I found Chris’s reaction a bit overdone.

“I’m to send greetings from Moritz, your near-spouse,” Nick said in his warm, dark voice. “He was very happy to get the towing and repair jobs. Come on out and see his good work for yourself. My car is even the right-side up. If you’ve got time, I’ll take you on a spin to the foothills of the Alps.”

Now I knew where Nick had gotten my business address. And clearly, my gabby ex-classmate had also told him the tale of his rejected marriage proposal.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a meter maid who’d been patrolling the other side of the street spy Nick as her next victim. She was just crossing the street behind his back, heading firmly toward him with her hand already in her pouch, undoubtedly ready to start writing a ticket.

“Ahem, Nick—you’d better find a good excuse real quick for parking here. The long arm of the law is approaching from behind!”