Driving in Neutral (19 page)

She bit her lips together and then a rumbling, long snort burst from her nose. “Thanks for the cognac,” she said in between snorts, placing her empty glass into his open hand. “G-g-good night.”

Both tumblers gripped in his hands, Emerson stepped back onto the balcony and shut the screen door with his foot. He didn’t look back.

Olivia drew the sheer drape across the door, partially obscuring the man outside. She had cut it very fine, very fine. Maybe it had been a result of listening to Tex and Mimi’s wildlife cowboy lovemaking under the starry night sky. Maybe it had been because she had liked the feeling of his hands trailing across her skin when they had danced, and how his breath had been warmly sweetened by cognac. Or maybe it was how he looked in the half-light of the stars and moon. It could have been the liquor too. The list just kept getting longer. Whatever it was, she had come very, very close to mingling his cognac-scented breath with her own before the preposterousness of the idea made her nose erupt into a spasm of pig-like laughter.

She yanked back the covers on the bed, climbed in, and switched off the bedside lamp.

Two hours later, she was still awake. Her mind flat-out refused to shut down. Replayed moments in an elevator, a repeated memory of a kiss that didn’t happen and random ideas that involved kissing, or involved being naked while kissing flittered about her brain, popped into focus like a fireworks display and dissipated before firing again. She tried to relax, tried to go limp, but
ka-boom
. There it was, another memory or thought that lit up her mind like a sparkler.

Sparklers.

Sparklers seemed to ignite inside her whenever Maxwell got close. It was a funny, pleasant burning that didn’t burn, and damn, it happened again and again. A whole shower of sparks made up of Maxwell shot into her bloodstream. It made sense to just give in to the primal urge, to touch herself and fantasize until she had him out of her system. Simply imagining how it would be to have his hands on her was so intense her heart seemed to set some kind of speed record. Maxwell was like a boost of nitrous oxide rocketing through her nervous system, enhancing her performance before she even got started. If she simply lay there and thought about him and the things he could do to her she’d probably…

Wait. Oh, wait.
A boost of nitrous oxide? Performance enhancing?

Olivia balled her hands into fists. No. She wouldn’t fantasize anything. That would simply light more sparklers. No amount of slow relaxation or meditation was going to make her nod off. This amount of brain fidgeting called for a TV, an infomercial for the latest anti-balding product that was also a cordless vacuum, and a glass of vanilla-flavored hot milk.

She climbed out of bed, grabbed her robe, and crept down the back stairs to the kitchen, hoping she’d be able to locate some vanilla essence. A few minutes later, she’d heated some milk, dumped in a quarter bottle of the vanilla flavoring she’d found in the butler’s pantry, and made her way to the walnut-paneled study. A flickering glow came from the open door and it lit up the hallway outside the study. Apparently someone else was up late watching TV.

An old black and white movie played on a huge flat screen. She moved into the room, watching a giant, roaring octopus toss screaming sailors in the air. She paused, seeing a set of bare, masculine feet resting on an ottoman in front of the leather sofa. A low laugh came from the flickering dimness.

“What’s the movie?” she asked.

The bare feet came off the ottoman, and Maxwell sat up, a bag of potato chips in his hand. Olivia’s heart somersaulted.

“The Eight Hands of Death
,” he said, “and it’s pretty cheesy. You’re up late.”

“So are you.”

“I never sleep well in a strange place, no matter how comfortable the bed. How about you?”

Olivia came around the front of the sofa and deliberately took a seat in a plump chesterfield chair to his left. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“World hunger, the drought in Australia, the reason wind power isn’t used more…”
and why someone goofy like you makes my engine redline
,
how I want to rip off your clothes
,
and find out what you’d taste like in the morning
.

“Maybe we should have finished off that bottle of cognac. We could both be upstairs snoozing like a couple of sedated babies. Would you like a chip?” He held out the bag.

“No, thanks. It doesn’t really go with warm milk.”

“Warm milk? Oh, gross.”

“It helps me sleep. Ever tried it?”

“No. My grandmother and other ninety-seven-year-old people drink warm milk.” Emerson shifted and a zippy, bubbly noise came from beneath him.

The glass paused at her lips. “Seriously?”

“It was the sofa.” He moved again to prove it was the leather and when she was satisfied he wasn’t some crass, farting twelve-year-old boy, he pointed to the far wall and the darkness beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Tex and Mimi would have been right out there on the terrace, you know. Our rooms are right above this study.”

She sipped milk and glanced at the windows to her right.

Her skin looked opalescent in the light of the TV. Emerson wondered why she always made him think of actresses in old black and white movies. Here she was, dimly lit by a black and white film, dressed in her thin, blue-white robe like she’d just stepped out of the television. She had the full bottom lip of Jean Harlow, the kind, warm eyes of Olivia de Havilland, the spunk of Jean Arthur, and Emerson was staring when she turned around to watch the action on the TV.

“Okay, so fill me in. What have I missed?” she asked, licking off a milk moustache.

Emerson stuffed a few chips in his mouth. “This salvage crew,” he crunched, “is trying to recover a cursed pirate’s treasure. So far, a storm nearly capsized them, two guys were killed when their deep sea diving equipment failed, and the giant octopus attacked; hence the title.”

Olivia watched the movie for a moment and chuckled. “They’re deep sea diving in a swamp?”

“I think they’ve referred to it as a bayou.”

“So they’re in Louisiana?”

“I don’t know, but that squat guy with the Abe Lincoln beard sounds like he’s Cajun.”

“Is the octopus going to attack again?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s called
The Eight Hands of Death
for nothing.”

Curled up in the chair, Olivia drank milk and began to relax. She and Maxwell watched the phony, flimsy movie backdrops wobble, and they both chuckled at the poor acting, miserable dialogue, and a Cajun accent that sounded more Brooklyn than Louisiana.

When the movie paused for commercials, an ad for an adult phone chat line came on, the girlish, breathy voice of the woman pitching the service murmuring with airy seduction, “
Call anytime, boys. I’m hot and waiting to hear from you
.”

Olivia hooted. “Holy crap!”

“Yeah, it sounds just like Justine, doesn’t it?” he said. “It’s the third time that thing’s been on. Do you think she moonlights on phone sex lines when she’s not drawing up divorce settlements?”

“I wouldn’t be inclined to ask since she and I aren’t really very chummy.”

“She’s intimidated by you.”

“Justine? Intimidated?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, please.” She snorted.

“No really, she is.”

“Is that what she told you when she was grinding into you tonight?”

“What?”

“Tonight, when you were dancing with her at the restaurant, did she tell you I intimidate her?”

Emerson leaned over and rested his elbow on the arm of the leather sofa, ignoring the farting sound his movement created. “Are you…are you
jealous
?”

Olivia waved a dismissive hand and rolled her eyes. “I’m not in the same league with Justine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“That’s how it was meant. I won’t lie, she’s quite attractive, but looks aren’t everything—and before you think that was some kind of crack in reference to you, and twist it all around, let me just say desperation is not attractive. Justine is one of those desperate types and that’s why she’s intimidated by you. Sheesh, she was coming on to me all night. I mean
all
night.”

“I’m sure you loved it.”

“No, I did not. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not one of those dudes who appreciates being groped by a woman I barely know, drunk, sober or stuck in an el—” He sat up suddenly. “Shhh, no talking, it’s back on! It’s back on! They keep interrupting the best parts of this movie with Justine’s dumb ads.”

“Are you really enjoying this movie?” She licked milk from her top lip. “My brother always likes this junk too. He’s always been into those
Godzilla
and
Mothra
monster movies.”

He munched another potato chip. “Clearly, he has fine cinematic taste.”

“Just like you,” she said over his crunching and the watery bellow of the attacking giant octopus on TV.

He had a chip poised at his open mouth. “I think you’re enjoying this cruddy old movie. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not denying it. This crap is so much more fun than a lot of the computer generated crap that’s out there now. No offense to you and your animation, but I think green screen stuff bites. I love monster movies where the monster is some guy in a rubber suit. There’s a splendid sort of enchantment to crappy movies when the acting is as wooden as the scenery.” She had a swallow of milk.

“So do you want to watch this splendid crap or would you prefer to watch,” he made his voice girly and whispery soft, “
Hi, I’m Justine, and I’m waiting to listen to you play with yourself for six-ninety-nine a minute, because you know there’s a channel running nothing but those ads and I’ll be happy to change to that for you
.” He pushed the chip into his mouth and smiled with half of it sticking out between his teeth.

Olivia gurgled and dribbled milk back into her glass.

Chipping out of a bunker was not his strongest skill on the golf course, even with a sand wedge. On top of that, Pete and Craig’s incessant chattering was throwing Emerson’s concentration. Up to this point he’d been four over par, but the seventh hole was proving to be his downfall.

As sand flew in an arc, and his ball fell back into the exact same position it had been before he tried to hit it, he heard Pete say, “How did we manage to swing this game?”

Craig adjusted the fit of his golf glove. Emerson knew this because he heard the rasp of Velcro as the wristband pulled apart and it blended with Craig’s voice. “Ella has all these plans and such for the wedding, a bunch of fairytale stuff. Remember? If I had to put up with all her stipulations for perfection, the least she could do is let me have a game of golf.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“He begged,” Emerson muttered.

“Yes I did.” Craig pulled at the Velcro on his glove again. “No shame in that. What’s shameful is how you keep trying to hit that ball.”

“Yes, persistent bugger, isn’t he?” Pete lowered his sunglasses and looked over the rim. “Just look at him. Emerson, why don’t you just give up?”

The ball was in place and Emerson swung the club with a little less force than before. The slight movement of the dimpled white ball made a short line in the sand before it rolled backward.

“I said, Emerson, why don’t you give up?” Pete chuckled heartily. “You want to make it a little more interesting, Craig?”

“If Jason and Martin had dragged their asses out of bed on time they’d probably take you up on that, but there’s no challenge. It’s easy money. Just hand over a twenty.”

Emerson glanced over his shoulder. They were looking at him, mocking amusement plain on their faces. “Guys, I’m trying to concentrate. Do you mind?”

“Our being quiet isn’t going to improve your odds of getting out of there.”

“Well maybe if you shut up and turn down the volume on those plus-fours you’re wearing the odds will change.” Craig had on what looked like a baggy pair of old-fashioned, bright yellow and black knickerbockers. “Where did you get those hideous things?” Emerson asked as he lined up, swung and knocked the ball into the grassy lip of the bunker.

“My uncle, your
dad
, gave them to me as a wedding present.”

“You should send them back.”

Pete held his club like a cane. “How many swings is that now? Six?”

“Three.” Emerson grimaced and spit sandy grit from his mouth.

Craig scratched the end of his nose and chuckled. “Ella chips better than you.”

“So?”

“I bet Olivia would probably beat us all.” Pete glanced at Craig, who nodded with a shrug. “What is it with you and her anyway? You can’t seem to talk to her without turning into a douchewit, can you?”

“What did you say to her last night, something about getting pregnant or having children?”

“Yeah, like I said, Em’s turned into a douchewit. Hey Craig, do you know he met Olivia in an elevator?”

“You met her in an elevator?” Craig dropped his club. “How the hell did
that
happen?”

Pete rubbed his chin. “You know, it’s really a pretty funny story—”

Emerson kept his head down, straightened his elbow, swung back and hit the sand, spraying his friend and cousin with a fine shower of grit. “Aw, sorry guys! My bad. I guess I’ll have to take a penalty stroke.”

Olivia secured a scoop of birdseed into a small circle of white tulle. The seed was a substitute for the rice that was no longer considered nature-friendly to toss when the newlyweds left the house. Filling little net bags was time consuming, and the repetitive nature didn’t involve a great deal of thought, but it gave her the opportunity to sit and relax with that all-important cup of morning coffee. She compared the size of the small netting ball in her hand to the glossy magazine photo inside the wedding scrapbook. Satisfied, she dropped it into a wicker basket in the center of the breakfast nook table.

This tulle-stuffing event was supposed to be a cooperative bridesmaid effort, but over half the wedding party was still in bed or off the property. Even wedding activity-focused Ella hadn’t stumbled into the kitchen yet, and it was nearly eight.