Duet in September (The Calendar Girls)

by Gina Ardito

  “He has an accident report for me. From this morning. I’m Nia. Nia Wainwright.”

  He sighed as if I’d dragged him away from a murder scene to talk about the weather. “I know who you are, Nia-Nia Wainwright. Hang on.” Rolling back from the desk, he stood, then adjusted his belt around his considerable midsection. He wore shorts with his uniform shirt, revealing hairy turkey legs, black socks, and clunky black oxford shoes.

  Oh, my God. His identity finally clicked into place for me. Ronnie Bailey, once the star of the varsity track team. Looked like he hadn’t run for anything but a beer in decades.

  He pointed to a scarred wooden bench with a spindled back against the dark-paneled wall. “Have a seat. I’ll see if Sam’s available.”

  No way did I intend to risk permanent stains and God-knew-what sticky stuff on my skirt or bare legs by settling my posterior on that ancient contraption. Repressing a shudder, I said, “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  My statement didn’t seem to faze Ronnie whose expression remained a complete blank. “Suit yourself.”

  As he rumbled away, I glanced around the area. Past Ronnie’s domain, there were at least a dozen desks, all in a similar state of disarray. The phone rang again, and Emily’s voice echoed off the walls. “Snug Harbor Police. How may I direct your call?” From her post behind a complicated array of computer equipment, she caught my eye and waved, but never hesitated in her spiel. “Hold on, please, I’ll connect you.”

  “Nia! Perfect timing.” Sam’s booming voice filled the open room a second before his larger-than-life presence appeared. “I was just about to call you.”

  I stiffened my shoulders, prepared for another unpleasant development. “You were? Why? What happened now?”

  A broad smile lit up his face. “Relax. Nothing horrible, I promise.” He jerked his head down the hall. “Come into my office. I’ll fill you in on this morning’s activities.”

  I followed him down the cream-colored hallway, each step heavier than that of a condemned man walking to the electric chair.

  He stopped at the second door. “Sam Dillon, Chief” was etched in a brass nameplate above his head. As he pushed open the door, he swept an arm past the jamb. “Have a seat.”

  In contrast to the chaos in the outer area, Sam’s office was an oasis of calm. The room was barely larger than a standard office cubicle, but no clutter or stale odors cloaked me as I sat in the clean, cushy chair across from his desk.

  Sam closed the door and took his own seat. Clasping his hands, he steepled his fingers over an open folder on top of the desk blotter. “The owner of the car that hit you called me about fifteen minutes ago. Seems he let his father’s fiancée borrow his Jeep for a few days. She, in turn, handed the keys over to her nineteen-year-old son from her first marriage…”

  Father’s fiancée? A tarantula of suspicion crept up my nape. No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  “The kid brought the Jeep back late this morning with front-end damage and a cockamamie story about getting rammed by a renegade shopping cart at the supermarket. Owner’s no dummy, though, and noticed the black paint smeared on the bumper. He called here to see if his vehicle might have been involved in an accident. I filled him in on your hit-and-run.” He glanced down at his notes. “His name’s Aidan—”

  “Coffield,” I murmured. The tarantula sank its fangs into my brain.

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Aidan Coffield. I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “We’ve met. Briefly.” I doubted Sam would care about my screwup with the vineyard heir and his stepmother. And I really didn’t feel like rehashing that episode, thankyouverymuch. “Did you tell him it was my car?” Oh, God, no. Please.

  The steepled fingers rose and bounced against his lips. “Well, now, here’s the thing. He wanted your contact info to see if you and he could work out the particulars between you.” Sam dropped his hands and leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I’m guessing he means without legal interference. I told him I’d talk to you, but ultimately, the decision was yours. If you want to press charges against the kid, I’ll back you up.” He grimaced. “Rich tourists think they can buy and sell us poor locals. What kind of lesson is the kid learning if he gets bailed out without any repercussions every time he causes trouble?”

  “So you think I should press charges?”

  Sam shook his head. “I dunno, Nia. Honestly, this is your call. I gripe, but you and I both know what’ll happen. The kid won’t even see the inside of this precinct. A high-priced lawyer, some quick cash changing hands, and the little bas—the kid gets a Humvee free and clear from Daddy’s unlimited coffers. Meanwhile, you’re still going through your insurance, inconvenienced without wheels while Brice does the repairs, and your rates go up. So who learns the lesson?”

  I thought back to Camille’s rant in my store. Do you know who my fiancé is? I sighed. “I know. These are definitely people used to getting what they want.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Sam folded his arms behind his head. “I hate telling anyone to circumvent the law. But if you can get your car fixed without hiking up your insurance rates and with as little inconvenience as possible…” He shrugged. “Who am I to tell you not to?” Straightening, he passed me a Post-It note. “Here’s the guy’s contact info. Call him. Talk to him. Make no promises until you’re sure you know what you want to do. If you decide you’d like to see the kid arrested for leaving the scene, I’ll do it. If not, I’ll file this under ‘handled privately.’”

  I took the bright yellow paper from him and stared at the name and phone number scrawled in red ink. The gods of mischief apparently had me in their sights today. Aidan Coffield. My personal demon.

  Chapter 4

  Nia

  The morning’s violent storm had blown out to sea, leaving gray skies and wet ground in its wake. The heat, however, had intensified so that I could actually see waves of moisture rising from the asphalt driveway outside Snug Harbor Auto Body.

  Based on size and facial hair alone, Brice Howell resembled a golden grizzly bear. But in reality, he was a sweetheart to the max who did his best to put me at ease when I brought my damaged car in for an estimate of repairs. He strode around my poor Passat, bouncing the fender on one side and peering beneath the carriage on the other. “You going through insurance on this or paying out of pocket?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” From somewhere inside the repair area, a loud tool whirred—a sanding machine or some kind of buffing equipment. I had to shout to hear myself speak. “The guy who owns the other car wants to talk before I file any paperwork.”

  “He’s not a local, I take it,” Brice replied with a caterpillar brow quirked over his narrowed hazel eyes.

  “No.” Naturally, the whirring stopped just when the word left my mouth. I winced at my shrill shout in the sudden quiet.

  Brice didn’t even flinch. Expression bland, he held up a hand sheathed in a heavy work glove. “Got it. Say no more.”

  I had to. “To be honest, Brice, I don’t know what to do. I’m in a lose-lose situation here. Sam Dillon says the choice is mine. I can press charges for the hit-and-run and report the accident to my insurance company. Or I can handle it privately. I’m not worried about my premiums going up since I’ve had a clean driving record for ten years. So, I’m leaning toward reporting the whole thing. Not because I want to teach the kid and his family a lesson like Sam wants. But because that’s just who I am: by-the-book Nia, do-gooder.”

  “So do good and report it.” He stroked his bushy blond beard. “Show the townies we’re not cowed by their money.”

  I shook my head. “But, what if, when I call him, he tries to talk me out of it or gets nasty about it?”

  “Who exactly is this guy?”

  “Aidan Coffield. Of the Coffield Bluffs Coffields.”

  Brice whistled through his teeth. “Well, if you’re gonna tick someone off, you may as well go big. How’d you manage to dive into that shark tank?”

  If I didn’
t explain the Coffield run-in this morning with Sam, no way did I intend to share that shame with Brice. I simply shrugged and related Sam’s phone conversation with Aidan about the delinquent stepbrother.

  Brice kicked an errant pebble on the asphalt with a steel-toed work boot. “I’ll tell you what. Give me fifteen minutes or so to provide you a complete estimate for the body work. Meanwhile, use the phone in my office to call Sam and your insurance rep. Then call Mr. Moneybags. This way, if he does try to coerce you, you can tell him it’s too late. Let him think you contacted all the major players before he ever got hold of Sam. Then you can say…” He deliberately pitched his voice higher while his index finger rotated around a thick curl of his shoulder-length hair. “‘Oh, golly, I wish I’d heard about your offer sooner. I guess your stepbrother will just have to face the consequences of his actions.’”

  Ordinarily, Brice’s impression of a girl would have had me giggling like an idiot. And boy howdy, I sure could have used a laugh by this time. Not today, though. Not on this topic. Instead, I frowned.

  I might have been irked that Aidan Coffield thought he could buy my silence. Still, I was also savvy enough to know that most people would have probably done the deal. But my father had raised Paige and me with a strict sense of right and wrong. And the idea that I’d lie to Mr. Coffield to show him how honest I was? That reeked of hypocrisy. Then again, I didn’t want to hurt Brice’s feelings either.

  “Well, that’s certainly something to consider,” I told him with the ghost of a smile. “But I don’t think I could pull off the sweet and innocent act as well as you.”

  His lips twisted in a mock sneer. “Har-har.”

  I finally managed to muster up a chuckle, but it was weak at best. Time to get down to business. “Is it okay if I call Mr. Coffield from your office while you’re writing up the estimate? I’d feel better knowing I have someone there to back me up if I need it.”

  “No sweat, Nia.” With my car keys dangling from his fist, he pointed at the dented steel door behind me marked Office. “Dial nine for an outside line. And come get me if you feel yourself wavering.” He opened my car door and slid into the driver’s seat, effectively halting all further conversation between us.

  I stepped inside his office, and the smell of paint thinners nearly knocked me to my knees. The room, with one lone window that opened onto the repair dock, received no natural light or ventilation. Here was a true man cave, the ultimate altar to all things automotive. Gray walls, gray steel desk, two gray metal folding chairs—separated by a pair of stacked milk crates piled high with magazines devoted to cars, trucks, and engines—clearly defined this masculine space. Adding to the bleakness, smears of grease and layers of gray dust coated every surface. Thick black cables tangled around engine pieces, reminding me of Hollywood’s image of a post-apocalyptic world. Here I was, Mad Maxine in the Temple of the Last Chrysler. Cheap plastic frames displayed stained certificates of courses completed in transmission and air conditioning repair, as well as the exorbitant hourly rate for labor in the garage. My personal favorite eye catcher was a white metal sign on the far wall that proclaimed in a bold, red, comic-style font: “I couldn’t fix your brakes so I made your horn louder.”

  Averting my gaze from the cluster of big-busted, bikini-clad pinups on the corkboard, I skirted around the desk to the ripped leather chair poised in front of an ancient computer monitor. I found a sheet of blank paper on a shelf above the battered printer and used it like a potholder—a barrier between my hand and the filthy phone receiver. I held the chunky, black earpiece an inch or two away from my skin and punched in the numbers with my fingernail. At least I carried anti-bacterial hand gel in my purse. Did I have enough to bathe in if I spent too long in this room? Probably not, but after this I’d go home and take a long, hot shower to wash away the day’s bad karma.

  On the other end of the receiver, the phone rang twice, then, “Hello?” That sultry voice weakened my knees with its sweet syrup undertones.

  “Mr. Coffield?” I sounded weird to my own ears. Like I’d sucked on helium. Breathy, high-pitched, and rushed. No doubt, the chemicals in the air took their toll on my throat. I wondered how Brice managed to work in this office for an extended period of time without becoming light-headed. I gulped and plowed on. “This is Nia Wainwright.”

  “Miss Wainwright? Wow. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” His self-assurance, so apparent in his smug tone, raised my hackles. “Does this mean you’ve reconsidered going to dinner with me?”

  Really? Had the man never heard the word no before today? I tightened my jaw, nearly grinding my teeth to dust. Before I spoke again, I took several deep breaths, relaxed my muscles from the neck down to my toes, and counted to ten. Who knew my yoga classes would come in handy in my daily life? “No,” I said, cool and elegant as a Siamese cat. “I’m afraid your car was involved in an accident with mine this morning.”

  Yes. Perfect poise. Let him try to get the best of me now. I drew out the silence, allowing him time to digest what I’d just revealed.

  “Oh.” That simple syllable told me I’d kicked the puppy love out of him. Mission accomplished. “There went all the goodwill between us, huh?”

  “It’s not about goodwill, Mr. Coffield.” Not that we had any goodwill between us anyway. “It’s a matter of someone using your car to drive recklessly, and then leaving the scene of an accident without concern for injuries or damage to other parties.”

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he? If that scrawny brat left so much as a scratch on you, I’ll make him sorry he ever took his first breath.”

  The passion in his voice took me aback. His reaction was so far flung from what I’d expected.

  “No,” I replied with hesitation. “The jolt wasn’t pleasant, mind you, but I’m more concerned about the damage to my car.”

  “As long as you’re unharmed, Miss Wainwright. I couldn’t bear to think that I was even indirectly responsible for anything grievous happening to you.”

  I stared at the door that led outside, waiting for someone to jump inside and yell, “Gotcha!” and a bunch of guys to laugh at the surprised look on my face.

  Aidan Coffield was putting me on. He had to be.

  “Chief Dillon gave me your contact info. He said you wanted to speak to me.” Doubts raced rampant through my brain, and my courage abandoned me. “If this is a bad time, I can call back later.”

  In contrast to my tentativeness, he became more self-assured. “No. That won’t be necessary. Give me a minute, though, to get my thoughts in order.”

  “Sure. I guess.” I winced at my own cowardice. Good God, if I kept up the shy maiden routine, I was doomed. I’d not only give in about reporting the accident, I’d probably wind up paying for the damage out of my own pocket.

  From the corkboard, a nearly naked nymph bending under the open hood of a 1960’s-era black Ford Mustang smirked at me. Oh, honey, her smile seemed to say. You’re gonna hafta do a whole lot better than that if you want to keep control of this conversation.

  Yeah, sure. Easy for her with her toned, tanned legs in sky high heels, her short shorts, and her Playboy centerfold looks. Unfortunately, some of us had to rely on our wits instead of beauty. And mine had suddenly fled the country, leaving no forwarding address.

  “I hope this means you’ve already reported the incident to the police and your insurance carrier.”

  “Wait. What?” If his voice intruding into my debate with Miss Classic Car of February didn’t jolt me, the words certainly did. “You do?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Well, yes,” I replied before I thought better of it. “I thought you wanted to talk to me about not reporting the accident.”

  “What happened, Miss Wainwright?” The change in his attitude plummeted the temperature in the office to sub-zero. “After we left the store, did you suddenly regret turning down Camille’s generous offer? The stringent morals you displayed in your shop today only lasted until yo
u found out who I was? Who my father was? I guess you were hoping for a large payout from this, huh? Sorry to disappoint you then. Because my father’s the one with the deep pockets. Not me. I was actually hoping you might help me teach Camille’s son a lesson.”

  As surprised as I was at the message in his diatribe, the condemnation with which he attacked me boiled my temper. How dare he accuse me of calling him for some kind of payout!

  “I called you out of courtesy, Mr. Coffield,” I said through gritted teeth. “From this point on, however, all communication between us will be conducted through Chief Dillon or Mr. Howell at Snug Harbor Auto Body. If you haven’t already done so, I suggest you contact your insurance carrier. I apologize for taking up your time.”

  With that, I dropped the receiver back on the cradle. Using the crinkled paper in my hand and a pen I found in an old filthy coffee cup, I scrawled a quick note to Brice. I told him my insurance agent would be in touch to arrange for the repairs and he could keep the car as long as necessary in the meantime. At least the rain had stopped. Because my mood at the moment could rival a hurricane’s fury. With my purse hitched on my shoulder, I shoved open the door and stalked toward home.

  ~~~~

  Paige

  For the rest of the day, my mind revisited the idea of Nia and Sam. The resulting nausea left me too sick to comprehend interest rates and write-offs. When the afternoon crawled past with no change in my condition, I decided to close shop a little early. One of the perks of being my own boss, no one made me punch a time card.

  After leaving the office, I dashed home for my car and then headed for the local supermarket. Thursday was food shopping night. Living in a resort community, I didn’t want to be caught in the mad crush on Friday night when the weekenders all showed up and stocked their pantries. Especially the Friday before a major holiday.

  I raced through the aisles, filling my cart with single girl fare. Once I’d accumulated a week’s worth of Lean Cuisines, Diet Pepsi, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for weak moments, I joined the end of the line at register number three.