" 'But she is in her grave, And oh, the difference to me.' "
Even after seven years, thoughts of Lucy and what their relationship had meant to Mirelle brought a lump in her throat.
There must be someone else in this god-forsaken town that speaks and understands the same things I do. There must be. There must be some other company wife who can't tee off on the Greens and bid slams daily at the Clubs because such activities revolt her. They can't all want to be ticky-tacky. There must be someone else who doesn't fit in. Somewhere for me to belong.
She kicked Boots into a hard gallop on the flat stretch ahead, furious with such rampant self-pity. Boots was cool enough when she finally brought him back into the stableyard but Mac's eye didn't miss the sweat line of roughened hair. He ran a hand under the girth.
"Yes, we motored on a bit. He was fresh," Mirelle said.
"You're not the kind that misuses a horse, Mrs. Martin," Mac replied as he took her money. "If you did, you wouldn't ride here, let me tell you."
"I had a grand ride, Mac."
"Come back soon."
She caught herself gunning the Sprite excessively when she started it. She couldn't spend the entire day venting herself on everything she used. She down-shifted at the stop street that fed into the highway and the Sprite stalled. When she turned the ignition key, nothing happened.
The bloody generator brushes must be jamming. She yanked on the brake and jerked the door open. She propped up the hood and stood looking in at the engine, completely disgusted.
"Anything I can do, lady?" asked an amused voice and Mirelle stared up in amazement at her Knight of the Road.
"You remember me? You had that sprained ankle?" Embarrassed by her lack of response, he added, "You'd been thrown and then you had a flat tire…"
"Oh, I remember. Very clearly and gratefully," she said, shaking her head at her gaucherie. "I still have that red handkerchief, all neatly pressed. I put it in my husband's drawer and…" She broke off, appalled at what she had been about to admit.
"Tsk! Tsk! You really must keep better track of lovers' mementoes. Complicates relations," he began and then stopped as he looked at her face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, no longer amused. "I didn't mean that. My tongue runs away with me. But it was such a coincidence to see you in much the same spot again."
"I didn't get tossed today," she said, smiling in hope of retrieving his engaging smile, "but this beast won't start. The generator brushes have a tendency to jam."
"Try starting her again."
"Nothing'll happen," and her gloomy prediction came true.
They stood side by side, staring at the sportscar's engine.
"As you do not apply to the nearest AAA when in trouble, would a lift to the service station at the crossroads be of any assistance?"
"It certainly would." But, as they started toward his car, she stopped. "Is that out of your way? I can walk up to the stable and call from there."
"It's not out of my way and, if I'm going to make a practice of halting here to rescue you, let me finish what I start," he said, opening the door of the Thunderbird with a flourish. "Votre chevalier a votre service!"
As they drove off, Mirelle suddenly remembered with chagrin that she had brought only a dollar above the cost of the ride.
"Would you be an absolute angel and finish at the Flying A station? There's one a little further on and I have a credit card. I was only going riding and didn't bring much money with me."
He flashed her a grin. "I'm rarely an absolute angel but in your case I'll make an exception."
"That is such a stupid phrase. Be an absolute angel… what's absolute anyhow?"
"What's an angel for that matter?"
"I think perfection would be utterly dull."
"Perfect hair with Brylcream…"
"Perfect teeth with Gardol…"
"Oh, no, I've switched to Crest." He grinned in a toothy parody of commercial grins.
They laughed together easily. Mirelle found herself contrasting the incident with the summer's moments of easy laughter between herself and Steve. They had almost revived the sweetness of their early months of marriage. Soon, too soon, the strains and tensions of every day would dull that fragile fabric of summer respect and understanding.
"Here we are, ma'am," and the voice of her good Samaritan broke into her speculation. They had pulled into the Flying A station.
The attendant sauntered over, jutting his head down to hear the driver's request. Her Knight explained the situation, where the Sprite was located and asked how soon it could be attended to.
"Wal, now, it's lunchtime, y'see, and the boss ain't here, and I'm alone on the pumps, y'see, so I can't leave."
"How long before the boss is back?"
"He left about twelve and should be back 'nother half hour."
"I'll get some coffee at the diner," said Mirelle, starting to open the door.
Her Knight leaned over quickly and took her fingers from the handle.
"We'll be over at the diner," he told the attendant. "Can you pick up the Sprite the first thing after the boss gets back?"
"Sure. Guess that'll work out all right."
"Oh, now really," Mirelle said in protest as they, angled across the highway to the diner. "This is far beyond the call of duty, you know."
He pulled on the brake before he answered. "Let's say that I would be very pleased if my favorite lady in distress would help me kill a few hours which I'd despaired of murdering alone."
Mirelle temporized with a laugh. There was no reason not to accept, after all, and if it would repay his consideration…
"Misery loves company," she said as they left the car. She noticed his quick glance. As he carefully locked the car up, she berated her thoughtless tongue. If he wanted to kill an hour with her, she could at least act graciously.
"I'm scarcely a soignee companion," she said, indicating her jodhpurs as he guided her towards the steps of the diner.
"I think it is too shocking of you not to have brought along a change."
"I'll see to the horses," she said, holding up her hands and heading toward the ladies' room at the side of the diner.
"Do," he advised and she heard the rippling undercurrent of amusement in the one word.
As she stepped into the restroom, she realized the double entendre of the euphemism and grinned into a mirror that reflected back her blush. He was quick, that man. She washed hands and face, combed her hair and fussed with her lipstick.
"The trouble with diners," he said, rising from the booth as she approached, "is that they lack a bar. Such catastrophes as visit a traveler are often eased by a jolt or two. Or do you drink?"
"Invariably, after catastrophes."
"Your ankle, I trust, is fully recovered."
"Except on rainy days."
"Did your ride stimulate your appetite?"
"Not half as much as it relieved my inner tensions." Instantly Mirelle damned her tongue and wondered what on earth was possessing her to blurt out what was at the top of her mind to this complete stranger.
"You're lucky then," he said with sudden gravity. They looked at each other then, trapped. Neither made an effort to break the gaze or distract the other from the mutual, searching appraisal. His was a very interesting face, lined and tired, but alive: his gaze was direct and uncritical.
"I… like to sculpt," she said, speaking softly and earnestly, "and I've been working on a bust recently. It's daft, I know, but this morning when I passed the place where you helped me with that flat, I realized that I'd been trying to sculpt your face."
"Highly flattering to think that flat-changing can lead to immortal clay," and though his face remained serious, his eyes danced with laughter. Not laughter at her: with her. Mirelle had been right: he also appreciated the humor. "My name is James Howell," he said, rather formally extending his hand across the table to her.