She rolls her eyes. She knows it’s expensive, but by mutual agreement, we’re not going to discuss the cost.
“How do I get in this thing?” she says after several moments of silent contemplation.
I press down on the LED buttons on the side, and the flush-mounted door handle swings out.
“Very fancy,” she says, picking up the items left on the seat and climbing in. “I feel very…Thelma and Louise.”
“A convertible, hat, and sunglasses make you feel like an outlaw on the run ready to run off a cliff and die?” I ask incredulously. Slipping on my own Aviators, I slide into the driver’s seat, hit a button, and watch the garage door roll up.
“Not the dying part but maybe a little outlaw.” She plops the hat on and wrinkles her nose. “How is this going to stay on?”
“I think that’s what the scarf is for.”
With a push of a button, the engine revs to life and we roar into the street, the over five-hundred horsepower engine rumbling loudly on the pavement. She shoots me an elated grin. Yeah, she likes the car. I smile back at her before switching my attention to the street. Out of my periphery I can see her arranging and rearranging her hat and scarf. The low speed of the city traffic makes it possible for us to talk.
“How come you aren’t making Steve drive me around in Connecticut?” she asks, fiddling with the various buttons and controls on the dash.
“Because I figured you’d like to be in charge of your transportation outside the city. I know I do.”
“Why don’t you drive yourself here if you like it so much?”
“It’s easier to get things done if you have a driver. No waiting around. No trying to find a place to park. If I’m stuck in crosstown traffic for an hour, I can read three analysts’ reports. It’s not a waste. Outside the city, though, it’s nice to be in charge.”
She nods and sits back, a hand trailing outside the door. Tiny’s had so much of her life torn away. Her mother died. She’s had to move. I think she feels a little lost, and if giving her the ability to drive, the ability to move about on her own, can restore a little control in her life it can only be a good thing.
As we merge onto the Connecticut Turnpike headed north toward the sound, the traffic thins. It’s Saturday morning. Tiny’s getting quieter, and conversation grinds to a halt as she stares out the window. The windshield is helping to reduce drag, but her hair is whipping about like crazy. She looks gorgeous, but a little somber.
“Thinking about your mother?”
She gives me a rueful smile. “Yes, sorry.”
“Don’t be. I miss her too.”
She sighs. “I was just thinking about how much she would like to have gone with us. Not to see the place but the trip. Getting out of the city. When she was sick, sometimes she couldn’t leave the apartment because of the risk of infection. Even some random cough on the street could affect her low immune system. Then when she got better, we made this pact to go places…” She pauses and rubs a finger over the hand-stitched infinity rings in the leather. “But we were limited by our funds. We didn’t have much.”
My heart aches. When Tiny and I met, her fifth-floor walkup had been dingy and small and impossible for her mother to navigate. It was desperate circumstances that allowed me to walk into her life and redirect the course of events. There was only one event I couldn’t change: Sophie Corielli’s death. All the money in the world can’t stop a person from suffering loss. Tiny thinks that the gulf between her having no money and me having so much of it is sometimes too large of a gap for us to maneuver, but money is nothing.
“I sometimes wonder if things would be different if Mom were still alive.”
“Because of us?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t be down here with you at the warehouse or driving in this two-seater.” She turns and looks at the non-existent rear space covered by a wind blocker. It’s only large enough for a bag or two. No, her mother wouldn’t have been in this car with us.
“If your mother were here, we’d renovate the warehouse. Maybe turn the garage into an apartment. I could have stored the vehicles in the building next door. I own the block. Or there’s a property I’m renovating on the West side. It’s a double-wide townhome I bought that was foreclosed on. And Aston Martin has four-door sedans, or we’d drive the Maybach because I know she liked the footrests.”
“You’re saying we’d still be together?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Maybe you felt sorry for me. Like, here’s Tiny all alone. I want to make her stop crying.”
“I’m not going to tie myself to you for the rest of my life because I feel sorry for you. I f**king love you.” I try not to break the steering wheel.
“Marriages can be dissolved.”
“Not ours.” I’m growing angry. I can’t believe she thinks my proposal was fake and that if her mother were still alive, I’d have dropped her by now.
“You only got involved with me because of Richard Howe, and now you won’t even let me help you with that.”
If we weren’t on the interstate going 85 miles-per-hour, I would’ve slammed on the brakes and pulled over. “Don’t say his name,” I spit out through gritted teeth.
She lapses into silence, and we make the rest of the drive without uttering another word to each other. I drive well over the speed limit and am lucky not to get a ticket. When we arrive at the gate to the property, she finally opens her mouth.
“Is this where we drive off the cliff? Because I’m sick enough over our argument to jump into a ravine.” She touches my hand lightly, and my fury instantly drains away.
“We can jump in the sound, but I’m guessing it’s pretty cold,” I joke. We drive down the paved driveway and around the house to the garage bay. Tiny calls the whole place a monstrosity because we could fit fifteen or more city apartments inside it. But it’s the perfect place for a family.
“I’m sorry I bought up the Howe issue,” she says, making no moves to exit the car. Instead, she’s got an elbow propped on the door and is staring out toward the water. “It’s just that I feel like it’s the one thing I can do for you. I feel so useless right now. When Mom was alive, everything fit. I had a job I was good at. We lived in a shitty apartment, but it was our shitty apartment. I didn’t feel like I was stupid or had nothing to offer but now…now I feel real f**king inadequate.” She furiously wipes tears away from her face. I fight back the urge to draw her over the console and into my lap. Somehow I know that’s not the response she wants. She doesn’t want me to feel sorry for her or to comfort her, and even though I’m dying to hold her, I resist.