What Was I Thinking? (4 page)

At last it was over, and we dispersed. I
whispered a hasty “thank you” in Pete’s ear and slid out the side door,
avoiding as many people as possible, and not making eye contact with the ones I
did pass.

It wasn’t quite time to meet Bert, but I was
going. I had my car keys and my driver’s license in the leather portfolio that
I took to all meetings, so I just went straight to the parking lot without a
detour to the desk. I needed to be
away.

The directions were easy, so I drove on
autopilot, reliving the meeting. So of course, I didn’t notice the pothole
until too late. I saw it just in time to realize it was too late to avoid it.
It was wide, and I couldn’t tell how deep it was, which
was a
bad sign in itself
. I set my teeth, hit the brakes as much as I dared,
considering the traffic behind me, and tried to swerve. It probably would have
been better to hit it straight on. As it was, my attempt to swerve didn’t
altogether avoid the pothole itself, but it
did
force my right front tire into the crumbling curb with its metal
reinforcement bars exposed.

I came to an abrupt stop, without benefit of
brakes. The tire had blown. I sat shuddering and gripping the wheel, waiting to
be hit from behind. Brakes screeched all around, but the red SUV directly
behind me managed to miss me by an inch or so, giving me the finger as he
whipped around. “Yeah, thanks buddy. I did this on purpose, just to ruin your
day, you stinking tailgater,” I muttered as I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed
the button for the blinkers.

Another woman might wait to be rescued, or take
a look, hoping it wasn’t all that bad, but I knew the tire would have to be
changed, and there was nothing to be gained by delay or denial. I wriggled over
the console to get out on the passenger side, onto the sidewalk, and walked
around to pull the spare tire out of the trunk.

I was glad I hadn’t gotten out into the street.
Cars were pulling around way too close for comfort, and more than one almost
rear-ended my little blue Corolla before noticing that it was stationary.
Finally, a red light slowed the flow of oncoming traffic enough that I dared to
step into the street and open the trunk. The spare was under the mat, and I
hadn’t looked at it since the day I bought the car. I fiddled the latch up,
keeping an ear out for traffic, and flipped up the mat.

The tire was there, and, thank goodness, it was
full-size, not one of those miniatures. I pulled it out with an effort,
balanced it against the bumper, and leaned in to get the jack. No jack. Shit!

What next? I was really getting sick of making
the best of things and soldiering on.

Deep breath.
I wasn’t helpless, and I could
handle this. A loud horn, very close, made me jump. It was a little white
convertible, with a Mercedes emblem in front. It had pulled up right behind me
and stopped. Maybe he was going to offer to help.

Nope, he wasn’t. “What the hell are you doing
stopped in the middle of Lindell Boulevard?” he yelled, backing and veering
into the next lane, never putting down his iPhone.

Okay, that was really the last straw. I got
back in the car, where at least I’d have a little metal around me if I did get
slammed into, and picked up my phone. I would call Triple A, and then I would
call Bert and tell him I couldn’t make it.

No, wait. The time on my phone said I was now
late for lunch. I called Bert first. A woman answered, but didn’t seem
put
out when I asked for Bert. I told him I couldn’t make
it, and apologized.

“You’ve had an automobile accident?” he asked,
aghast.

“No, no…just a little tire problem. It’s just
that I can’t make it to lunch because the jack is missing. It will take a long
time to get Triple A out here with one.”

“Lunch is no matter. The important thing is
that you are stranded on the road. I will come and get you.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll call Triple A.
I just wanted to let you know…”

“I will be right there,” he said firmly. “Call
triple if you want to, but it’s not right for you to be alone with a damaged
car on a public thoroughfare. Tell me exactly where you are, and I’ll be there
directly.”

I told him, glad in spite of myself at the
promise of rescue.

He told me to stay put, and not open the door
for any strangers, and he would be right there. It was shockingly comforting. I
thanked him and hung up.

And slammed my head into the
dashboard.
Some idiot had rear-ended me, and, of course, I
wasn’t wearing a seatbelt because I was only using the front seat as a couch,
not driving. I burst into tears.

After a moment, I wondered why the other driver
wasn’t standing by the window, waiting to exchange information. Because he was
driving away, that’s why. An old sedan with a fresh streak of blue paint on its
battered front fender was passing me, and the driver was looking rigidly
forward.

“Bastard,” I thought, and moved to get out and
look at the damage. And let go of the door handle and just leaned back in the
seat. I just couldn’t face it. The tears started streaming down my face again,
and then came faster and faster.

All the awfulness of the past few days, on top
of the loneliness of life since Tad dumped me, on top of the daily worries and
stresses just piled on, and I sobbed as I hadn’t done in years. I don’t know
how long I had been there, shaking and crying with my face buried in my hands,
when a tap on my window made me jump.

It was Bert, standing on the sidewalk with a
jack in one hand and a toolbox in the other, and it was too late to cover the
evidence of my tears. I raised one finger to indicate that I’d be out in a
moment, rooted in my purse for tissues, and wiped away the tears and the snot
as well as I could.

Then I got out and said hello, trying not to
sniffle. He said hello kindly, and didn’t give a hint that he had noticed I’d
been crying. He really had beautiful manners.

“I thought you said you hadn’t had an
accident,” he said, frowning at the new dent in the back. “I don’t remember
that dent from Monday night.”

“I hadn’t,” I said, hating the sniffle I
couldn’t suppress. “Someone ran into me right after I called you.”

“Ran into you?” he asked, aghast.
“While you were sitting still, with the emergency signal clearly
showing?
Where is he? I’d like a word!”

“He-he didn’t stop,” I said, sniffing again.

“Ruddy blighter!” he said. “Oh, excuse me. I’m
so sorry. That’s no way to talk in front of a lady.”

I giggled through my sniffles. “I forgive you.”

“Let’s get you to safety.” He took my arm and
led me to his car, carefully parked in the drugstore lot across the street.
“Did you say you telephoned a mechanic? Triple-somebody?”

“Triple
A
, yes.” He
looked blank.

“AAA?”
I ventured. He still looked
blank.

Speaking of them reminded me of their strict
rule that you had to be right with the car or they wouldn’t stop. And here they
came. I pulled free, and headed back across the street, getting there just in
time, as the driver got out of the tow truck.

Bert was right behind me, and he read the logo
on the truck. “Oh!
The American Automobile Association!”
He sounded a little more surprised than made sense to me. I gave him a quick
look, and turned to talk to the truck driver.

We took care of the paperwork quickly, and then
my cute little Corolla was towed off, and Bert led me back to his car. He
handed me into the passenger seat, and then took some time putting his tools
back in the trunk.

He turned to me as he buckled his seatbelt.
“Will you join me for lunch after all? Mrs. Peacock’s lunches are always a sop
to a difficult morning. I’d be pleased to drive you home if you prefer, but I
would enjoy your company, and I have the feeling a jot of brandy might be just
the thing for you.”

Huh. Brandy in the middle of the day. I didn’t
drink much, and I wasn’t of the generation that had brandy or whiskey for
shock, but it did sound appealing. A little food might be a good idea, too.
And, as much as my instinct was to seek solitude when things went wrong, I’d
really had all the solitude I could take lately.

“Lunch would be lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

He smiled and started the car.

“Who’s Mrs. Peacock?” I asked, as much for
something to say as because I wanted to know.

“She’s my daily.
Fine woman.
She’s a widow of one of the history professors.
Came highly
recommended.
Takes excellent care of me and my
establishment.”

Uh huh.
“And what’s a daily, since
we’re on the subject?”

He raised a brow, but didn’t comment.
“Daily help.
The maid.
The…uh…cleaner, I think you would call her.”

Curiouser and curiouser.
I was starting to like this
guy, but I certainly didn’t understand him any better than I had in the first
five minutes of acquaintance.
Maybe even less.

It didn’t take long to get to his
“establishment,” and I had been right—it was in the row with
Stix
International House, the Catholic Student
Center, and Hillel. Like them, it was a sprawling turn-of-the-last-century
mansion, set well back from the street with a circle drive. “I thought we were
lunching at your lab?” I asked mildly, not particularly caring where we were
going instead. “We are. It’s on the third floor. Mrs. Peacock despairs of me, I
make such a mess. But I thought it would be so much less formal than the dining
on the first floor, and I am eager to show you my work.”

And then I looked up, and got a good look. I
gasped. “This is Roland House,” I said.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Shall we go in?”

“I thought it was—” I was having trouble
connecting words and thoughts. “I’ve been here a few times, for receptions, you
know, but I heard…it was closed or something. I suggested it for a meeting a
year or two ago, and it wasn’t available.”

“Yes. I live here now.”

“You have the whole place?” I was more than a
little stunned. I didn’t know how much a place like this cost, exactly, but I
knew it was well in the “if you have to ask you can’t afford it”
category.

“Yes.” The door opened was opened by a sturdy
looking woman in her forties, so any details he might have been willing to give
up were forestalled. “Mrs. Peacock, this is the young lady I spoke of, Miss
Hull. Miss Hull, my daily, Mrs. Peacock.”

I said hello, and offered my hand. Mrs. Peacock
shook my hand briefly, and as Bert looked away, winked quickly. “It’s nice to
meet you, Miss Hull.”

“Oh, please, call me Addie,” I said. I wasn’t
sure what the protocol was for introduction to a daily, but I certainly wasn’t
“
miss
” anything.

“Addie Hull,” she said, nodding slightly.

“Jane Addams-Hull, actually,” I said, though I
don’t know why. She wouldn’t care.

But she did. Her lips twitched just a little.
“Are your
parents
historians or activists?”

“A little of both, really.
But the joke gets old, and
there were two other
Janes
in my
kindergarten class, so I became Addie.”

“What joke?” Bert asked, looking from one to
the other of us.

“You know, Hull House, Jane Addams?” Mrs.
Peacock answered. He looked entirely blank. “Chicago? 1889?” The blank look
remained.

“He’s not so good on history of anything except
St. Louis right around the turn of the last century,” she said confidingly,
pretending he couldn’t hear. “In fact, it’s best if you don’t go much past 1901
when you talk to him.
Historians!”

He gave her one of those odd smiles, and
cleared his throat. “Miss Hull has had a difficult morning, Mrs. Peacock. I
think we’ll want lunch right away, in the anteroom of the laboratory.”

“Very good sir.”
She twinkled, keeping it just
this side of parody, and turned down the hall, presumably in pursuit of lunch.

Hull House…that got me thinking
about Roland House.
He was Bert Roland. Did he inherit it? If so, where
had he been for the last
umpty
years when
it was a university venue slash museum?

“After you,” Bert said, waving me toward the
stairs.

I preceded him up the polished wood staircase.
Mahogany?
Not the sort of thing I know, but lustrous, dark
wood in any case. There was a carpet runner decorated with faded cabbage roses
and at each landing there was a small stained glass window. It was surprising
interior decoration for a young, single man, even if he was a history
professor. He clearly hadn’t changed much when he moved in.

Which reminded me…I lost track
of my thought, because we had stopped in front of a locked glass door, at the
top landing.
It was clearly a late addition to the house. I don’t
know that I had ever seen a glass door inside a house before, and this reminded
me of an office entryway. It was a little like the doors to the real offices,
behind the receptionist’s desk, at
TAPI
.
Sure enough, I could see a hall with several ordinary-looking bedroom doors on
the other side.