Notes From the Backseat

by Jody Gehrman

  “Um, why don’t we go for a walk? See if we can find them?” Joni suggested. “There’s a little market right up the street. Maybe they went there.”

  “Yeah,” Ohm said. “I think I saw them headed that way.”

  Half an hour later we’d looked for them in every store, café and bar in Mendocino, including a knitting shop offering night classes and a Christian bookstore that was open late. They’d simply disappeared.

  As we stood on Main Street, squinting this way and that, Joni looked at her watch and said, “Well, it’s eight twenty….” She glanced at Dannika, then Ohm, avoiding my eyes. “Maybe they walked out to the bluffs.”

  “This is so weird,” I said. “Why would they just take off?”

  Dannika shrugged. “They probably had guy stuff to talk about.”

  “You think?” The whole situation was bizarre in my opinion, but since everyone else took it in stride, I didn’t want to be difficult. Together we made our way past a Chevron station into the parking lot of a quaint little church with a lovely blue door and a tall, pointed steeple. We stopped to look at it there in the gathering dusk, Ohm going on about the time he made out with the sheriff’s son in the pews, but I was restless and kept looking around for Coop. I’d started to worry that something bad had happened to him. I knew it was sort of silly, but I kept visualizing him bound in the trunk of a drug lord’s speeding Mercedes with duct tape over his mouth. What a drug lord would want with Coop, I had no idea, but I’d nearly convinced myself I was having a psychic moment, not a paranoid one.

  “Huh,” Joni said, looking at her watch again. “It’s eight-thirty.”

  “Where are they?” I whipped my head this way and that impatiently.

  “Let’s try the bluffs,” she repeated. “Come on, this way.”

  Joni led us down a path that connected the church parking lot with dramatic cliffs overlooking the sea. It was a small, somewhat rugged trail that meandered through pale, wheaty grasses and overgrown blackberry bushes. Once again, my kitten heels were being subjected to an inordinate amount of dirt.

  “They’re not out here.” I’d just gotten a splatter of mud on my wool gabardine slacks and I was feeling snappish. “This is ridiculous.”

  “No, really, I think they are,” Ohm said. “I think I saw them heading this way.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Um—before I saw you in the café,” he supplied.

  “I thought you said they were headed for the store.”

  “Well, yeah, but they said they were coming out here afterward.”

  “Come on,” Dannika called from farther down the trail. “There’s an amazing swell!”

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumbled, but they were all so insistent I trailed after them, stepping gingerly around the mud puddles.

  When we got to the edge of the bluffs, we had a panoramic view of the ocean and it was stunning, I’ll tell you. The sun had gone down and the sky was a deep, moody blue. The feathery clouds were stained flamingo-pink. The water reminded me of Coop’s eyes. It rose into huge, majestic waves that hurled against the rocks in foamy surges. Unfortunately, I was way too obsessed with the image of Coop in a drug lord’s trunk to really appreciate it. I kept fidgeting, looking back toward town, hoping to see my man somewhere, anywhere, alive and well.

  Then I noticed that everyone else was beaming down at the beach, looking positively misty-eyed. What the hell? I looked down, following their gaze, and saw a miniaturized Phil leaning over something white in the sand. What was he doing? About ten yards down the beach from him, also messing with something white, was Coop. Coop! He wasn’t in a drug lord’s trunk! I was so relieved, I started jumping up and down, waving, but Joni and Dannika both grabbed my arms, saying, “No, wait. Don’t move. Just watch.”

  All at once the beach caught fire. They were lighting something. As the flames took shape, I read the words spelled out in orange, glowing light: Marry Me Gwen.

  My hands flew to my mouth. I think I screamed. I saw Coop’s miniaturized form twist toward me, his face upturned. A huge wave crashed against the sand behind him, extinguishing some of the flames. Now it said lllarry llle, Gwen, but I didn’t care. My heart was doing somersaults inside me.

  “So, do you know your answer?” Joni asked, her eyes hopeful and maybe a little scared.

  “Yes!” I laughed. “Yes.”

  She hugged me hard and then there were other arms around me, until the four of us were tangled in a crazy swirl of elbows and laughter. When we pulled apart, Joni took my hands in hers and said, “Here’s the code: No is arms straight up, Yes is arms straight out. You got it?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

  I stood on the edge of the cliff, a hundred feet or so above the beach. Everyone held their breath. Coop was watching me; the little stick figure on the beach was motionless. The orange words flickered and danced in the dusk.

  “Wait a sec.” I looked over my shoulder at Joni. “Which is which again?”

  “Yes is out!”

  “Right,” I laughed.

  And then I flung my arms straight out and jumped up and down and screamed at the top of my lungs, so loudly that I swear he could hear me even over the crashing surf, “Yes, yes, yes, you crazy man!”

  I answered him just in time, too, because right then the cops showed up.

  Don’t worry, they didn’t get arrested. They got a written warning. Even the cop had to admit it was pretty damn romantic. Can you believe that? I’m so thrilled to finally have a story I can tell my grandchildren that isn’t X-rated or riddled with foul language.

  And the ring! My God, the ring. You’re going to die when you see it. Seriously—you’ll faint. Even a confirmed slob like you will appreciate the white-hot force of this rock.

  He gave it to me just after the cops let him go. We rushed down to the beach as soon as we could, giggling and tripping over ourselves as we ran down the long staircase that led from the bluffs to the beach. By the time we got there the officers had finished writing up their warning and were walking away.

  Coop turned to me with a bashful grin, hands shoved into his pockets like a naughty boy caught playing with matches. After a few slaps on the back from Joni and Ohm, a quick hug from Dannika, the four of them wandered off, obviously trying to give us privacy.

  He didn’t say a word. I, too, found my voice wouldn’t cooperate when I opened my mouth. Silently, he pulled one hand from his pocket and held it out before me in a fist. Slowly—Jesus, it seemed to take forever—he stretched out his fingers, and there, cradled in a miniature abalone shell in the center of his palm was the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen. At first glance I knew it was totally me: a late deco antique setting in platinum gold, just ornate enough to catch the eye yet still maintain an understated elegance. The European-cut diamond was flanked by two tapered baguettes on either side, and even in the twilight its sparkle took my breath away.

  “Coop! My God, it’s gorgeous,” I whispered.

  He slid it onto my finger and I saw that his hand shook slightly. “You really like it? It took me a month to find the right one. You’re no easy girl to shop for, you know that?”

  A month! That meant he’d been planning this almost half the time we’d been dating. “It’s perfect,” I said, looking from him to the ring and back again. “I’m going to wear it forever.”

  You know better than anyone, if I commit on the spot to any accessory with that kind of verve, it’s got to be pretty damn spectacular. Remember when we shopped for sunglasses last spring? It took me two weeks to find just the right cat-eye frames with the original green lenses and the gold Lurex inlay. Believe me, though, this is one piece I didn’t have to think twice about; it’s going to stay on my finger until they put me in the cold hard ground.

  EPILOGUE

  Here 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 bl
ond 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.

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  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.

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