Calculated Risk (3 page)

He opened his trunk and gauged the space.

She stood beside him. “Kind of tight, huh?”

He'd have to stow his carry-on bag and one of her suitcases on the backseat.

“Do you want to take my car?”

“No.” He tossed his bag inside the car.

“You're angry.”

He walked around her and hefted one suitcase into his trunk. “No. Just amazed.”

“No one called to tell me whether Thanksgiving at your home was casual or dressy, so I had to pack for both.” Ice capped her words.

“I didn't know your cell took only incoming calls.” He deposited her other suitcase on the back seat and opened her door.

She climbed in. “Thank you. But gentlemen—”

He closed the door on her comment. It was going to be a long four hours, and an eternal four days. When he plugged in his seatbelt, she touched his coat sleeve.

“Sorry, Nick. I'm a little cranky after only three hours' sleep last night. Can we start over?”

In the glow of the complex's streetlights, her hazel eyes looked huge, beautiful, and sincere. The faint scent of her exotic perfume made her apology all the sweeter.

He started the engine. “Sure.”

She nestled into her seat. “Good. I hate conflict.” Strange, coming from a woman who seemed natural at creating disorder.

“Want to grab a quick burger before we get on the highway?”

“You mean, a fast-food place?”

“Yes, the key word being fast.”

She wasn't going to insist on an order-from-the-menu meal, was she? The family would be up past midnight waiting for them.

She shifted in her seat. “That would be fine. Do they serve salads?”

“Yes. I think most do.” He angled his head toward her. “You've never been in a fast-food franchise?”

“Not in a while. I avoid grease.” She emphasized the word grease. “And Jason always wanted steak.”

Near the interstate interchange, he pulled into a fast-food restaurant. “You can order a salad, and tell them to hold the grease.”

 

****

 

Once they were back on the road, Cisney studied Nick from the corner of her eye. He'd spoken less than seven words over his flip-it-and-serve-it meal, and four of them had been, “Let's hit the road.” Well, four and a half words counting the contraction. She'd had to carry the whole conversation. And if he was so hot to get on the road, why hadn't he ordered their meals to go? He could have draped napkins on his lap and stuck one in his collar to catch the glops of grease and catsup dripping from his messy hamburger. As soon as he'd entered the car, he switched on the radio and listened to doo-wop tunes from the seventies, or some such decade.

She could use some calming classical strains about now. Funny, last night, she'd gotten the heebie-jeebies over spending Thanksgiving with Nick. What started as a niggling feeling inflated to fear that he invited her to take advantage of her vulnerability over her breakup. It wouldn't be the first time a guy used unusual circumstances to lure a woman into his clutches. When he'd grabbed her hand as they left work, her inner alarm had vibrated like a rattlesnake until the crush of the crowd made hanging on necessary. But now, her alarm had shut down. The luggage incident proved he was no infatuated male on the make.

He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel in time to the music. So, actuaries could keep a beat. Did he dance with actuarially sound feet?

What would she and Jason talk about on a trip like this? Their jobs, of course. Or he'd give her a blow-by-blow description of one of his games. Jason always monopolized conversations. A hard thing for her, as much as she liked to express her thoughts; but unlike now, at least someone talked.

Why had Jason ditched her? What made her so undesirable? After Daddy learned of her failure to hold on to Jason, he'd gladly list her shortcomings. She wanted to know them, but not from Daddy. Talk about a knife in the heart.

Her back ached. No wonder. Since they'd left the restaurant, she'd worked her way down to a slouch. She pressed her hands against the seat cushion and straightened her posture. Thinking about Jason and Daddy had to stop. It depressed her.

If Nick would talk to her, she could rise above this glum moment. Should she ask him about work? That hadn't gone well over their meal. She could start a debate. What controversy would get Nick talking? Sports, most likely.
So, Nick, what's your position on salary caps for professional athletes?
After a few minutes of that discussion, thoughts of Jason and Daddy might be a welcome change.

She leaned against the headrest. Here beside her sat a man ranking in the lowest quadrant on the social ability scale. A perfect specimen for Angela's The Challenge Game.

The game, of course. Working on her challenge would lighten her mood. She'd always liked tests of her skills and creativity. Hadn't Daddy instilled in her a competitive spirit?

Nick could benefit from her skill in bringing out even the most unsocial people. Daddy had taught her a trick or two, but it was mostly a gift. God made Nick a man of few words, but wouldn't he be happier if over the long weekend she helped him feel freer to communicate?

While Nick had ordered their meal, and she'd wiped grease and condiments from a table, the Nick-challenge had taken root in her mind. But to make it an official challenge, she needed to share her idea with accountability partner Angela, who right now was in the air with all their friends flying to Colorado.

Cisney peered down at her tapestry handbag at her feet. The yellow sticky reminder to call Angela that she'd jotted in the restaurant was still plastered to the leather strap.

Hopefully, Nick would someday appreciate her efforts. He was the authority with numbers, but she was the expert with relationships—well, OK, her own romantic attachments were outliers.

Her task would be to hold a conversation with Nick that lasted fifteen minutes. Any pause in the dialog that stretched longer than a minute ended an interchange. And to up the stakes, she had to accomplish her goal before midnight Friday.

To hide her smile, she turned her face to the window. For the next couple of days, she'd create her own entertainment while the LeCrone actuaries got out their mortality tables and debated who was scheduled to die next.

She stifled a yawn. If she counted the green mile markers on the shoulder of the highway, maybe she could drift off for a while. It wasn't like she was by herself and could sing show tunes to pass the time.

 

****

 

Shock of all shocks. Cisney was quiet and seemed content to listen to the music. While she'd picked at her salad and told him about hiring another assistant, she hadn't been boring, but he didn't talk work on his time off.

Did she ever eat a full meal? Probably not, as slim as she was. She looked nice in the sweater with the big whatever-it-was-called rolled collar against her long neck. Her skirt, covering the top half of her ridiculous boots, showed off her great figure.

She lifted her hands like goal posts.

He startled. What did that gesture mean?

“OK,” she said. “I've planned torture methods to get you to talk. I've counted eighteen mile markers, and I've tried to sleep, but now certain thoughts about a certain person are making me sad. I refuse to be gloomy.”

He smiled. No, the woman wasn't boring. “You want to talk about it?” Had he really opened that door? Great. Let the Jason lamentations begin.

“OK. Sometimes the mile markers seem as if they're more than a mile apart, and sometimes they seem spaced less than a mile. Do you think Virginia saves money by not hiring civil engineers? Do road workers just take a stab at when the next mile has been reached?”

He laughed, and she giggled.

She pointed at him. “Made you laugh.”

“So, you weren't having morose thoughts about a certain someone?”

“Yes, I was. Thanks for bringing him back to mind.”

He'd just reopened the door for a sob story. What gave with him, anyway? He rarely spoke rashly, but twice in a row? He looked over at her. “Sorry. That was dumb.”

“I didn't think actuaries were ever dumb.”

“We aren't. I was trying to be tactful in my apology.”

She crossed her arms. “You want to hear the truth?”

“About what?”

“About actuaries.”

“I've heard it all, but go ahead.”

“People in Marketing, Accounting, IT, Provider Reimbursement, Claims, Underwriting, Human Resources—”

“I get it. The whole company.”

She held up her finger. “No, not in Maintenance. But anyway, I've heard many people say actuaries are arrogant, negative know-it-alls, and weird.”

He arched his eyebrow toward her. “And what do you think?”

“I think I'd better be tactful too, since your family populates half the actuarial profession. But I will admit you aren't as weird as some I've worked with.”

So, he was weird. Just less than most of his fellow actuaries. “How about a pit stop?”

“Did I go too far?”

“No, we have, and I need a pit stop.”

“Good.” The dash lights revealed her smile. “We can pick up where we left off after our break.”

Great. He'd choose actuary bashing over Elton John every time.

 

****

 

Cisney left Nick inside the gas station paying for his drink and sipped her tangy diet orange soda on the way back to the car. His keys dangled from her fingers.

She unlocked the car and slid inside, removed her handbag from her shoulder, and placed it on the floor. Her yellow sticky to call Angela was missing from its strap. The fugitive note probably littered her path somewhere between the slimy restroom and the car. She moved her pearl solitaire to her left ring finger. The gold band against her skin cried, “Alert. Foreign object.” That should remind her to call Angela.

As Nick pulled back onto the road, Cisney checked his GPS. Two hours and twenty minutes to go. Their conversation before stopping had lasted about two minutes. Far from earning a notch on her challenge belt, but two minutes without morose thoughts were still worth it. Hopefully, they could resume their bantering.

By now, Jason probably had arrived in Charlottesville with his new girlfriend. How were his parents receiving her? Would they privately ask Jason about his ex? In their six-month relationship, Cisney had grown fond of his dad. His dad came across a notch gentler than Jason and two notches milder than Daddy.

Her stomach tightened. Every hour brought her closer to a Thanksgiving call with Daddy. Why couldn't she enter the Witness Protection Program just for the holiday to avoid the phone call with Daddy? What was so great about Jason that Daddy latched on to him for her future spouse, anyway? Heaps. Daddy admired Jason's go-getting attitude. Relished their one-up-man-ships. Thirsted for their dog-eat-dog debates. How was she going to find another Jason?

Nick fiddled with the zoom feature on the GPS. He had no idea how much she needed him right now to talk to her. Maybe the stop had revitalized him, and she could push him into a dialog lasting longer than two minutes.

She took a cleansing breath and mentally recorded the time on the GPS. “Tell me something about yourself.”

He canceled the zoom and looked at her. “The torture begins.”

She smiled and nodded. She felt better already. “Yes.”

“My mother's name is Ellen, and my dad's is Roger.”

“Should I call them Mr. and Mrs. LeCrone?”

“Mom would be disappointed.”

“Then, Ellen and Roger it is.”

“Mom would be disappointed.”

“Why?” Wouldn't calling them Mom and Dad be a little presumptuous?

“Mom goes by Ellie.”

“Hey! Who's torturing who?”

He chuckled and shrugged. A dimple formed on his cheek when he laughed.

She liked that. Wanted to make it appear again. “Go on.”

“My sister's name is Nancy. She's an elementary school teacher.”

“Nick and Nancy. Cute. I'm glad to have the heads-up on these names. Any others?”

He updated her. “My dad, grandfather, and Aunt Sandy are also actuaries. That about sums it up.”

“Can you tell me something that none of your family or your actuarial colleagues knows?”

“Hmm.”

She glanced at the time and pressed her lips together. Just over one minute. Had he entered one of his long thinks? If his pondering lasted more than a minute, she'd have to restart the session.
Come on, Risk Man. You can do it.

“I keep my kitchen garbage can under my sink.”

“Ha! Smarty-pants, you—”

He chuckled, producing the dimple.

“What's so funny?”

“My mother calls me that all the time. Smarty-pants.”

“In the children's thesaurus, smarty-pants is a synonym for arrogant.”

He grinned. “Probably.”

“What I was about to say, is, you told me something personal about yourself. I know you don't have a relationship with anyone in your department. If you did, she'd know where you keep your kitchen trash can.”

He cocked his eyebrow at her. “Oh, you're good.” His words dripped sarcasm.

She'd hit a nerve. Dare she push it? “Are you dating someone, and she doesn't know the location of your kitchen trash can?”

“My love life is off limits.”

She'd pushed too hard. Yet, he didn't have to be so harsh. “But my love life's within limits?”

“I don't remember introducing that topic.”

Heat flared up her neck to her face. He was right. Why hadn't she excused herself from her office last week, instead of sobbing her woes to Nick after Jason crashed her world? If she had, she'd be with her fun friends now, instead of embarrassing herself with Mr. Smug.