The Cinderella Pact (19 page)

“But, I'm not. I'm an editor at a tabloid. I can't afford . . . a Mercedes.”

“Sure you can. I've got it all worked out.” He holds out his hand and his expression is as eager as a little boy's. There's no way I can say no to that.

Together we walk into the showroom, where a tiny, ancient man in a dark, somber suit—looking more like an estate lawyer than the car salesman I'm more accustomed to—is waiting clearly just for us. “Good evening. So glad you could make it,” he says, nodding to Chip. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Ditto.” Chip throws his arm around me. “Maurice, this is the woman I was telling you about. Nola Devlin. Nola, this is Maurice. Maurice will set you up just fine.”

Maurice extends a tiny, wrinkled hand that I shake in my stupor. “Hi,” I say weakly.

“I understand you are interested in an SLK65 in Capri blue?”

“Was I?” I say, flushing. “I don't know about
interested
. Fantasizing, maybe.”

“Of course.” Maurice bows his head with the grace of a kung-fu master. “An SLK65 is a beautiful automobile, though very expensive.”

“One hundred eighty-five thousand dollars,” I blurt.

Maurice turns to Chip, who is grinning like an idiot. “Your friend has done her research.”

“I told you she was smart,” Chip says. “And you should see her dead lift.”

I give him a playful punch.

“Fortunately, Miss Devlin, I may have another model in stock that might fulfill your wishes, at least for now.”

My heart misses a beat as we follow Maurice out the door to the parking lot. How am I going to get out of this? I can't afford a Mercedes. What will my dad say? Or my mom, for that matter? They'll demand to see my checkbook and bank statements. They'll think I've gone on a spending spree, that I'm in desperate need of lithium or a stern lecture. And what about the insurance? That's got to be deadly.

“Right this way.” Maurice is taking us around the corner, his suit coat flapping in the warm summer breeze.

“Isn't this a gas?” Chip says, giving my hand a squeeze.

As soon as we turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks. There it is. My dream car. Not an SLK65, but damn close. It is a Mercedes Roadster, model SLK230. In black with beige leather. The top is down and it is polished and sparkling and begging to be driven.

“Couldn't find you a blue one,” Chip says. “Believe me, Maurice and I tried.”

“They're very popular,” agrees Maurice, opening the driver-side door. “But this one is in top condition.” He motions for me to get in.

“I can't . . .”

“You
have
to.” Suddenly, Chip throws himself over the door into the passenger side. “I love doing that.”

“Yes,” says Maurice.

“Come on, Nola. Maurice wants to go home. Let's take it for a spin.”

There is Maurice, dangling the keys in front of me.

“It's used?” I ask. “I'll feel better about it if it's used.”

“Pre-owned. Nine thousand miles, roughly. It was a lease.”

Nine thousand miles is not going to put this car into my budget, that's for sure. I thank Maurice, take the keys anyway, get in, and sit for a few minutes, admiring the chestnut trim, the feel of the German-engineered stick shift, the smooth buttery leather. “They used to come only in automatic until 1999,” I say.

“So you know this car.” Chip slides an arm along the back of my seat.

My posture instinctively straightens as I feel the hard muscles of his forearm behind my neck. “They call it the, the Kom—Kompressor,” I stutter. “Reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Tentatively, I insert the key in the ignition, step on the clutch, and shift to neutral. Men always leave a car in gear. It's like a law. Then I close my eyes and turn the key. It starts up smoothly.

“Boy. Do you take this much time with everything? Leaving the apartment. Getting out of the car . . . Put on your safety belt, sweetheart, and put your foot to the accelerator.”

A few minutes later, we are on Route 1, which is a pain because there are lots of lights and it's mostly stop and go. “Hook a right there.” Chip points to a side road. “I know this road. It goes forever.”

We take the turn and I'm in bliss. The wind is blowing my hair and Chip's, too. He's leaning back and smiling in the sun as I push it to seventy, hugging the corners of the two-lane country road. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stealing glances at me.

“You know, this is the first time since I've met you that I've seen you so happy,” he shouts.

“Are you kidding? I'm in heaven.” I downshift as we climb a hill, appreciating the power, the tightness of the wheels to the curves.

“Take this left coming up.”

“Where are we going?”

“A park I picked out.”

A serial-killer park? No. No. Stop that, Nola. Besides, Maurice could nail him, easy. Unless Chip went back and did him in too. There's always that.

The park is on the right and down a slight embankment. There's a babbling brook, willow trees, green grass, and one bench. I stop the car and raise the top, which snaps shut with a satisfied click. For a minute, Chip and I sit in the darkness as my body tries to absorb the rush of adrenaline.

“You like it, don't you, even though it's not exactly what you wanted?”

“I love it.” I run my hand over the dashboard. “It's as close to my dream as I've ever come.”

“Is this your only dream, a Mercedes?”

“No. I happen to have lots of dreams.”

Chip is staring at me again. Thoughtful. “OK, let's have a nosh.” He rolls out of the car as I raise the windows and lock it. Only after I've stood there admiring its sleek black body for a while does the question pop into my mind.

Nosh?

Ahead of me, Chip is running down the embankment toward the river with a basket in his hand. Where it came from, I have no idea. Somehow he slipped it into the Mercedes from his Toyota. Or maybe he planned it all along.

Hmm.

“Don't tell me Maurice offers a picnic with every test drive,” I say as Chip shakes out a red-and-white cloth under a willow tree.

“No, I do. Took the chance that you liked sushi. Lucky choice that I erred on the side of California rolls.” He opens the basket to reveal four black plastic containers and a bottle of white wine. A French Bordeaux. Producing a corkscrew, he puts the bottle between his legs and uncorks it. “Sorry. I only have plastic cups.”

“I can't drink. I'm driving.” Besides. A glass of white wine, 4 oz., is 2 points. Unless it's white wine vinegar. That's 0.

“You don't have to guzzle the whole bottle.” He pours out a glass and hands it to me. Then he lifts his to make a toast. “To your new car.”

“Chip, listen . . .” I sit down, put aside the wine, and he sits next to me, very close. So close I can feel the warmth rising from those great thighs. This is no way to tempt a future nun—with a man like Chip and a Mercedes convertible.

“That car . . .”

“Had a sticker price of twenty-nine thousand. I found a ding in the rear and talked Maurice down to twenty-three. Maurice is a savvy businessman; he knows better than to screw up the relationship he has with me and my family.” Chip hands me a container of California rolls. His are much more exotic—eel, roe, yellowtail, and, yup, uni.

“With monthly payments that's about two hundred thirty-eight bucks. Insurance is another two hundred a month, but you'd pay that anyway, seeing that you're living in Jersey and insurance here is out of control. It may be a few more bucks than you'd pay for a Honda, but there comes a time in a person's life when you have to stop pushing aside your dreams and start living them.”

He pops the entire yellowtail into his mouth. Chews. Savors. Swallows. “And, Nola, you have reached that time.”

“Who are you?” I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to ask.

“Me?” He winks, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Who do you think I am?”

“I don't know.” I mix wasabi into soy sauce (0 points both) and dip in a California roll (1 point).

“Sure you don't want to give the uni another try?” He holds it out to me and I nearly turn green.

“No, thanks.”

“Your loss.” He bites into it and I am forced to look away.

“OK, I think that we've arrived at the stage, Chip, where we need to be honest with each other.”

“Yes. Honesty. Always good.” Though he says this half-heartedly and seems more interested in what to eat next.

“I know you don't work at
Sass!
”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I called down to Chip in Technical Assistance, the guy who was supposed to pick me up Friday, and totally embarrassed myself. He'd never heard of me.”

Fake Chip misses the point of this vignette. “How come you were calling the guy you thought was me?”

“To cancel the date.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm giving up men.”

“Really? Huh. How come?”

I chew the slightly tough California roll and, as my nose and eyes tear with the pain of intense horseradish, decide I could drink or eat anything made out of wasabi and soy sauce. “I've decided to become a nun.”

“That'll be interesting. I don't think of nuns driving Mercedes SLKs.” He points at me with his chopsticks. “Though, now that I think of it, maybe you could give the little orphan kids rides. There's a movie where Mary Tyler Moore's a nun and Elvis is a—”

“Chip! You're not paying attention. The point of the story is not
why
I wanted to cancel, but that you weren't Chip in Tech Ass.”

“Oh.” He frowns and sips some wine. “Go on.”

“And clearly your name is not really Chip. I noticed with my keen journalistic skills that Maurice was careful to not refer to you directly.”

“That's Maurice for you. Discreet. It's his middle name. Really. Maurice Discreet Smith. MDS. It's monogrammed on his briefcase. Swear to God. Check it out when we go back.”

Does he take anything seriously? Unlikely. But I am determined and so I press onward. “I gather you're rich. Maybe a trust-fund baby, probably loaded to the gills, which is why someone like Angie is all over you.”

“Not because of my baby blues?” He blinks.

“Well, maybe because of your baby blues, but more because of your stock portfolio. So my question is, who are you?”

“I'm Chip and I work at
Sass!
You can take it to the bank.”

This is so frustrating that I break down and slug back some wine, which turns out to be dry and excellent and worth each of the two points. What else would you expect from a guy who's on a first-name basis with the owner of a Mercedes dealership?

“You know, this is really cosmic.” He puts down his sushi—finally!—wipes his mouth, and faces me. “It must have been fate that you were waiting for a guy named Chip. I had no knowledge of that, by the way. I just saw you standing there and thought you looked forlorn and cute.”

Forlorn and cute? Me?

“So I gave you a ride. And you were pretty funny. Started talking about how much hot water you were in at work and, you know, my interest was piqued, especially when I ran into you in the gym and found you had bet the toughest guy there into a weightlifting contest.”

Yes, that would be me. Petite and delicate.

“Most women I meet come on to me. I'm not bragging, it's just a fact. Anyway, you're right. Their interest probably has more to do with my money than my baby blues, sadly.” He picks at some grass, thinking about this. “Then again, maybe you would have been more like them if you hadn't assumed I worked in computers.”

You know, he might be right. I am, admittedly, a geek snob, though I have nothing against computer geeks, personally. What they do with their spare time is their business.

Still, I must stay on track. “What I don't get,” I say, with such blatant hypocrisy it is shameful, “is why you don't just come out and tell me your full name, rank, and serial number.”

He leans back on his elbows, squinting into the setting sun. It is several minutes before he says, “No, I don't think I will.”

“What? Why?” I scream, eying his pocket and debating whether to make a go for his wallet to check his driver's license.

“Because I really enjoy you, Nola. I like your neat uppercut. I like how you keep setting things on fire and how you're apparently in big trouble at work. Very intriguing. I like the way you've formed a pact with your friends to lose weight. That's very cool. And I especially like your killer cat. If I come out and give you my name, rank, and serial number—as you put it—we might not have a chance. And I'd never see Otis again.”

I keep my face straight as I mull these words over.
We might not have a chance
.
We might not have a chance.
This is like music that is so rarely heard by my ears that I have trouble hearing it. Perhaps I am akin to one of those brain-damaged people who can still read, technically, though sentences have no meaning.

How is it, I want to ask him, that you are sitting next to me, sipping a superb Bordeaux on a glorious summer evening under a willow tree? Why would you, who women such as Angie apparently adore, want to be with me, a hulking jealous spinster? At least, according to Eileen.

But those questions are the kinds of questions fat girls ask themselves, and I catch myself. Changes in the body start with the mind, and I'm taking a new path, remember? So I deflect my wonder to the new Mercedes convertible SLK230 perched above us. “Thanks for finding my dream car. I can't tell you how much it means. Makes me feel a little bit like Cinderella.”