Love, Albert

by Simmons, Lynda

  “It was.” Passmore eased up on the gas and turned east on Mercer’s Road. “In a field.”

  The road might have been more aptly named Mercer’s Driveway, since it ended at the pumps in front of Mercer’s Garage. The station itself was nothing out of the ordinary, two bays, a small office, and a side lot dotted with cars and pickups. But it was a small sign on the window, the one reading, Foreign Repairs Our Specialty, that made all the fine hairs on Reid’s neck stand up.

  “Where in the field?” Vicky asked.

  “On the other side of the hole in the fence.” Passmore continued on past the pumps, ringing the bell as he went over the black cord and waving to the mechanic inside one of the bays. “Up against a tree.”

  “What are you saying?” Reid asked.

  The officer parked and turned to face them. “The dispatcher did tell you about the accident, didn’t she?”

  Reid shook his head, and the officer shook his, too. “She’s only been on the job a week. Hates to give bad news over the phone.” He rested his arm on the seat. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

  Reid took a gulp of coffee. “How bad is it?”

  Passmore stepped out of the car and opened Reid’s door. “Let’s just say you won’t be driving it home for a while”

  The compressor stopped, the impact gun fell silent, and three mechanics looked over when Vicky and Reid entered the repair bay with the fish, the picnic basket, and the dragon.

  “Your car’s out back,” one of them said. “You can leave your things here,” he continued, picking up a cloth as he walked toward them. “I’m Mike Mercer. And I’ll tell you now, it’s going to be expensive.”

  Mike was tall and wiry with a firm handshake and a no-nonsense approach Reid appreciated. “There’s extensive damage to the undercarriage,” he said, leading them out the door and around to the back lot. “You’ll see what it needs in bodywork for yourself.” He glanced over at Passmore. “You told him what happened, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head and turned to Reid. “It looks as though the boys were going too fast, missed a curve, and flew right over the ditch into the fence. That slowed them down and turned them enough so they slid into the tree sideways.”

  Everyone stopped when they rounded the corner to the back lot, all eyes on the crumpled red ragtop in the corner. “Those boys were lucky to walk away from this,” Mike said. “Your car, however, didn’t fare as well.”

  Even at a distance, Reid could see that the entire passenger side of the car was pushed in, the frame twisted and bent. But it was the sight of the trunk partially open and tied down with a rope that almost made his heart stop.

  “I’m more interested in the box,” he said, already on his way across the lot with Vicky right beside him.

  “It’s intact,” Passmore called. “From all appearances, those boys ran without bothering to check what they were leaving behind.”

  Reid slipped the knot on the rope and lifted the trunk lid. It didn’t come up as smoothly as usual, but in stages, creaking and groaning all the way. And there in the bottom sat Uncle Albert, still wedged in beside the spare tire.

  “He looks good,” Vicky said softly.

  Reid had to smile. “He always did.”

  He lifted out the box, tucked Albert under his arm and turned his attention to the car. Walking slowly along the passenger side first. Giving the mirror a push, and watching it swing back and forth. Trying the door for fun and examining what was left of the top. Not even thinking about the undercarriage as he finally peered inside and was glad no one had been hurt.

  Vicky had her laptop balanced on the edge of the trunk, checking to see if it still worked no doubt, so Reid reached into the glove box and pulled out the separation agreement. Lifted Albert’s lid and stuffed the envelop inside as Mike and Officer Passmore approached.

  “I don’t know what you want to do with it,” Mike said. “I can send you an estimate if you like, but it’s never going to be the same.”

  Reid nodded, his heart squeezing as he went around to the driver’s side, running a hand along smooth metal and paint already warming in the sun. “I’ll have to call the insurance company,” he said, but he knew the answer as surely as he knew that the muffler was dragging on the ground. His classic MGB was a write-off.

  “Everything seems to be here,” Vicky said, swinging her purse up onto her shoulder. “Including this.” She held up Albert’s silver key and smiled at Reid. “We’re back in business.”

  “Then all you have to do is sign for your belongings and I’ll take you into town,” Mike said. “You can call the airport in Little River, see if you can get an air-taxi out today.”

  Vicky pocketed the key. “Why would we do that?”

  The officer looked from one to the other. “Aren’t you going home?”

  “You might as well,” Reid said to Vicky. “I know you have work to do.”

  “And you don’t?” She turned back to Passmore. “Is there anywhere we can rent a car?”

  “Might get one at the airport, but without a reservation I wouldn’t count on it. If you wanted to wait a day or so—”

  “We’re already behind schedule.” Vicky paused, tapping the phone against her leg. When she smiled at Reid, he felt an honest-to-goodness chill run down his spine. “Mike,” she said, and turned to face him. “You don’t happen to have anything you’d like to trade, do you?”

  Reid held up a hand. “Wait a minute.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes too wide, too innocent. “What’s wrong? You said yourself the car is a write-off.”

  “I said probably. “

  “Let’s ask an expert. Mike, what do you think?”

  Mike cleared his throat and spread his hands, a man caught in the crossfire. “I’d have to say yes. It’s a write-off.”

  “All right, then.” She licked her lips and looked around, putting Reid in mind of a cat. “What do you have available?”

  “Only one.” Mike motioned them to follow him around to the side lot. There at the edge of the lot sat a faded green Rabbit, a rusting white Honda, and a yellow Austin mini with wheels the size of donuts.

  “Vicky,” Reid said tightly. “We should talk about this.”

  “You’re right.” She tipped her head to the side, studying him as that same cat might study a mouse. “Do you want to go to Seaport?” He nodded. “Do we have a way to get there?” He shook his head. “And don’t we both have to be back at work soon?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She came toward him, her strides as loose as her smile was cocky. “Then trading the MG is the only responsible course of action.” She stopped directly in front of him, lifted her chin. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Passmore bit his lip, Mike looked down at the ground, and all Reid could do was flap his arms, as though he’d been hung out to dry.

  She didn’t wait for a reply, simply turned to Mike. “Which one is available?”

  Mike winced and pointed. “The one in the middle.”

  Reid turned slowly, hoping it was the Rabbit or the Honda, knowing already it was the little yellow Austin with the donut wheels.

  Mike shuffled his feet. “I can give it to you on a straight trade.” He hesitated and finally met Reid’s eyes. “And maybe a bit extra.”

  Vicky smiled and slapped the phone against her palm. “Well, Reid, it’s up to you. After all, the MG is your car.”

  He saw it all in a flash. The gearshift worn smooth and shiny by his fingers. The gas pedal that understood his moods. A car with personality, courage, and guts, some of which were hanging out the bottom at the moment, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.

  Given enough time and money, that car could run again. In fact, he could have it towed home right now, set himself up in a garage, and tinker on it until he retired. Or he could admit the time had come to cut his losses.

  He rubbed a hand over his face and looked back at the mini. The roof didn’t come as high as his waist, and he co
uld probably span the steering wheel with one hand. It was a car meant for narrow British lanes, not sweeping American highways.

  “It’s just been tuned,” Mike said, more of an apology than a sales pitch. “And the tires still have a lot of miles left on them. We can call your insurance company …”

  But Reid wasn’t listening as he wandered closer to the Austin. Thinking of Fred in his van sitting way up high with plenty of leg room and a coffee holder while Reid would be chewing his knees and dragging his knuckles on the ground if he put an arm too far out the window.

  He bent low and peered inside. It was a car for clowns, he realized, picturing ten guys with red noses and colored wigs all jammed in there with horns and whistles. And if he listened closely, he could almost hear Uncle Albert laughing.

  Reid straightened, hoisted the box a little higher and walked back to where Vicky stood. He put his other arm around her, liking the way her smile dimmed and her eyes widened as he dragged her close. He should have kissed her. God knew he wanted to, and not gently or tenderly either. Just fast and deep, until her eyes closed and her knees went soft.

  He should have, but he didn’t. Because he saw a light in her eyes, the same light he’d seen the day they met. Curiosity. Wariness. She wasn’t sure what he would do, couldn’t read him, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  Reid held her hard against him and turned to Mike. “I have always wanted a mini,” he said, and tried not to smile when she groaned.

  TEN

  Reid smiled at Vicky and downshifted for the next curve. “Have you ever experienced a ride like this in your life?”

  Vicky didn’t have to shake her head. The mini did it for her.

  Tight did not describe the suspension. Every stone felt like a rock, every crack was a crater. She’d been on tractors that were smoother. Her knees knocked, her teeth rattled, and the surface of the water in the fishbowl trembled all the time. But like Reid, the fish was taking it all in stride.

  Vicky glanced over as they rounded the corner, still not sure what to make of him. That they were sitting in the mini was a surprise in itself. That he seemed to be enjoying it, even more so. She’d suggested the trade as a dare, a chance for him to chuck the Financial Post and the New Yorker and just be Reid again.

  Who did he think he was fooling anyway? Reid was who he was. He didn’t know stocks and didn’t care who was reading what or why. He preferred to form his own opinions about books, movies, theater, and music. He had a keen eye for pretension, but enjoyed the odd pompous ass, finding something intriguing in a person’s need to impress. He had no such need himself, and simply did as he pleased. Which was why she’d expected him to have the MG towed home.

  He’d been tinkering with that car for years. Silencing kingpins, changing float valves, and discussing wheel nuts at the garage with the same seriousness she now discussed window cranks with a client. She might have loved driving the MG, but he had simply loved owning it and caring for it, the same way her father cared for his garden.

  Even now she felt a twinge of guilt remembering the way he sighed when he handed Mike Mercer the keys. The whole thing had been over in minutes. Call the insurance company, sign the pink slip, shake hands. When they left his office, Reid hadn’t even looked back. Simply unlocked the mini, slid the seat back as far as it would go and loaded the box and the fish into the back, barricading them both with luggage. “Behave yourself,” he’d said to Albert, and got himself in behind the wheel.

  The issue was closed, the MG history. While he had to be finding the mini’s acceleration time humiliating there was no sign of dissatisfaction, no impatience with anything, including the unfamiliar gear shift. When the moment was right, he gripped the handle and slipped the car smoothly into third and then fourth. Even with the shifts complete, his fingers lingered on the ball, developing a feel for the movement, the play in the stick. Getting to know the mini and making Vicky wonder if he really had wanted one all along, or if he was still trying to prove that he could change, and give her what she wanted.

  Not that she wanted a mini. She wanted sliding doors and seven seats and a ride that didn’t make her jaw hurt. Would he say yes to a van when they got home, or was he still just courting?

  He pressed the gas all the way to the floor, and leaned forward, hollering, “Come on baby, do it for Papa,” as they started up a hill.

  He was courting, Vicky decided, and consciously resisted the urge to chant I think I can. I think I can while the mini labored up the hill.

  “Just so you know,” she said, reaching into the back for her purse. “When we’re finished in Seaport, I won’t be driving home with you.” Her fingertips brushed the strap and she arched a little farther over the seat to reach it. “There’s an airport near Fort Bragg and I don’t see a point in prolonging the trip.”

  “I don’t know, Vick.” He turned, his eyes sliding over her like a caress before returning to the road. “I can think of a few great reasons right now.”

  “You always did have the better imagination,” she said, ignoring the hum in her blood, the warmth in her face, as she dragged the purse over the headrest.

  She pulled out her cell phone, searched for Mr. Robinson’s home number and pressed CALL, determined to focus, to listen to Rita. Making a mental note to get some more details about that cousin of hers. A man who was steady and stable, and wouldn’t make her heart thump every time he looked at her.

  The line was answered on the third ring. The voice was male, familiar and a little breathy. “Robinson residence. Mat Berger here.”

  “Mat, this is Vicky,” she said, and relaxed a little. Mat was a top agent in her office, and she couldn’t believe her luck when he’d agreed to wait at the house for Zack. “I can’t thank you enough for going over there.”

  He gave her his trademark laugh. “Hey, no problem. I was in the area anyway. Hang on and I’ll get Zack.”

  “Zack’s at the house,” she told Reid.

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” This time there was no art to his smile, no teasing in his voice, and Vicky found herself smiling back, in spite of Rita.

  “Thanks,” she said, and sat up straighter, gripped the phone tighter when a new voice came on the line.

  “Vicky? This is Zack.” He sounded rushed, frustrated, with no time for social niceties. “I gotta’ tell you straight, those tiles are not coming down.”

  She slumped back in the seat, her mind already racing ahead, trying to figure out what she was going to tell Mr. Robinson, the Claytons, her broker.

  “Normally you can crack those suckers and pop them right off,” Zack continued. “But whoever did the job set them into some kind of cement.”

  “That was Mr. Robinson,” Vicky said. “He was afraid they’d fall down.”

  “Rest assured, those things will never fall down,” Zack continued. “I’d have to smash them first, then grind down the bits. I’d need safety glasses, a protective suit. The mess would be incredible.”

  “Glass everywhere,” Vicky said with a sigh. “I’ve been told.”

  “I’m sorry, Vicky,” Zack said, “but I don’t see how it can be done.”

  She ran a hand over her face. “Zack, I have twenty-four hours to pull this deal together.” She leaned forward as the car started up another hill. “If we can’t get the tiles down, what else can we do to fix it?”

  “Drywall,” Reid said.

  Vicky glanced over at him. “Drywall?”

  “That could work,” Zack said. “I’d have to do the whole ceiling, but it shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

  “A few days.” Vicky stared at the road ahead. Maybe Mr. Robinson would go for it. After all, a wallboard mess wouldn’t be half as bad, and Vicky would clean it up herself if necessary. “Give me a price,” she said.

  “I’ll call you back,” he said.

  She hit END and let the phone drop into her lap. “I don’t know why I keep doing this. I should just call my broker now, tell him it’s ov
er—”

  “It’s not over. There’s still a chance, a faint one sure, but it’s there. And that’s why you keep trying.”

  She gave her head a rueful shake. “Just another stubborn Ferguson.”

  His smile was small and tender. “We are what we are.”

  “And sometimes we have to know when to quit.”

  “Maybe,” he said softly and pointed ahead. “We’re coming into Fort Bragg. How much farther to Seaport?”

  “Five miles. If we pass Foley Park, we’ve gone too far.”

  There was no need to check Albert’s map. She’d looked at it so many times, she knew every line, every detail.

  Picking up the phone again, she punched in her mother’s number and waited. They were almost there, almost finished. All she had to do was keep her eyes open and not be distracted by anything.

  “Hi, this is Jane. We’re not here right now.”

  She listened to the rest of her mother’s message as they drove through town, passing the ice-cream parlor, the kite store, the antique shops where they’d browsed for hours on their honeymoon. Remembering the bowling alley with the karaoke bar, a small white house and a psychic named Pearl, and smiling when she saw that both were still there.

  Vicky held the phone tighter when she heard the beep. “Where are you guys?”

  “Let me say hi,” Reid said.

  Vicky held the phone to his ear. “Kira and Jason, I am your father,” he said in his Darth Vader voice.

  They stopped at a light and he took the phone. Vicky turned slightly in her seat while he left his message for the kids, looking back at Pearl’s storefront, wondering if she was in there now, flipping over cards and humming to herself.

  “A long and happy life together,” Pearl had told them, her tone certain, her expression serene and Vicky had found no reason to doubt her. Then again, she’d also told them they would live on a boat and have four children, and since then Vicky had thrown away her card. Believing in fortune tellers, she’d discovered, was a little like believing in penny wishes and full moons, and just as likely to break your heart.

  “We miss you,” Reid said when the light turned green and Vicky took the phone back.