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They were departing for Seattle the day before Christmas; I planned to leave the gifts in the living room that morning and hightail it out of the house before they could find me and make a scene.
Shopping done, I stood on the street corner. “River.”
“What was that, sir?” James asked, the leather golf club bag strung over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” I said and spied an independent bookstore across the street. “I’m going to have a peek in there. Why don’t you put the bag in the trunk and meet me in twenty?”
“Yes, sir.”
I crossed into the bookstore that was brightly lit, tables spaced out over hardwood floors and huge floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls. The place had that clean, fresh paper-and-ink smell that a bookstore should.
My eye was drawn to a section of reference books with colorful photos. One with a 1965 red Ford Falcon Sprint on the cover jumped off the table at me. The book was a glossy collector’s style manual of car restoration. Not a how-to, but a before and after, showing old junkers on their last legs and then the same car, gleaming and healthy.
I shut the book and took it to the register.
“Gift wrap?” the clerk inquired.
I hadn’t worked out how to give River the book except that it had to be done in person. But him tearing open the wrapping paper while I waited would be excruciating.
“No,” I said. “It’s not a gift. It’s just…a thing. Nothing, really.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “That will be eighty-five dollars for nothing, please.”
A smartass. I’d have to remember to come back to this store more often.
James met me on time, back on the sidewalk. “Where to next?”
“I have to drop this off,” I said, hefting the bookstore bag. “Won’t take but a second.”
“Whatever you need, sir.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not a big deal. A quick errand and then we’re done.”
James frowned. “Is it unprofessional of me to say that you seem nervous?”
“Yes. Highly unprofessional. How dare you.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Have you ever been in love, James?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s it like?”
“The sweetest agony. A torture from which you never want to escape.”
“Sounds terrible.”
His eyebrows rose questioningly.
“God, no,” I said, waving my hands. “I’m not capable. I just want to know the warning signs. For…science.”
“The warning signs are part of the thrill, sir,” James said as he opened the car door for me. “It’s like skiing down a mountain. You’re scared shitless, dodging moguls, the wind whipping through your hair, and adrenaline coursing through your veins. Before you realize it, you’re at the bottom and you don’t remember the fear. Only the exhilaration.”
I gaped. “Good grief, James… You’re a romantic.”
“I’ve been told, sir.”
“A question: what happens if, while you’re racing down the slope, you hit an ice patch, go veering off course and slam into a tree?”
“In that case, you hope the ride was worth it.”
