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He squeezes her knee, and, for a moment, he looks like he remembers something all over again, something he has to tell her. She doesn’t understand why: he has told her already, right? The financial stuff is already out there, the Champ name thing, even the high school nightmare-of-a-girlfriend thing. What else could he be worried about?
Before she can ask, she hears a screech of tires and turns to look out of the back windshield, just in time to see a large white van with two surfboards on the roof come barreling into the driveway, backward. The van is within an inch of them, of their car, before the driver slams on the brakes, but not quickly enough, the van lurching backward again, in two final jolts, and hitting the back of their wagon—hard.
Maggie jerks forward, her hand reaching for the dashboard, her head banging against her forearm, Nate bumping into her shoulder. Double impact.
“Jesus . . .” Nate says. “Are you okay?”
She feels around herself, feels her head. Nothing hurts, exactly, or not a lot. But it startles her, makes her lose her bearings for a second. She shakes out her head, opens and closes her eyes hard, tries to get them back. She saw the whole thing happen but couldn’t stop it, now she is seeing it again.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Are you fine?”
He nods. They get out of the car and head to the back to survey the damage, to see who it was that hit them. The other driver is flipping the van around so the front is facing them, and then she is out of her vehicle too. It is a woman, around their age—with red hair in low-flying braids, and a too-large chef’s jacket. She is staring at their bumper, and holding her hands to her head, her fingers running through the braids.
“Holy shit!” she says. “Holy. Holy. Holy. Holy. HOLY.”
Maggie follows the woman’s eye down to the indent she has made, the deep crack by the taillight. If it were a new car, as opposed to this old wagon, maybe the damage would look worse. But in the context of the rips and tears on the bumper alone, it is not that big of a deal. It isn’t a big deal unless you know to look for it, to make it one.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she says. “I was just trying to back in so I could turn around . . .” She points back toward the edge of the driveway, toward the direction she came from. “And I guess I wasn’t paying good attention, or I was paying attention to the wrong thing, because I flipped in here and I saw you in the rearview and I tried to stop but I should have just tapped the brake and I hit it too hard, and she bounced backward like she does and you know the rest . . .”
Maggie is staring at her face. Up close, she looks older than Maggie would have thought from a distance. Maggie is guessing she isn’t—is guessing that her first instinct is right and she is in her late twenties, probably younger than Maggie. Her body still young and wily, but her face weathered, creased, from too many days at the beach, in the ocean. Her face holding on to a little too much sadness.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t wreck your car, did I? It doesn’t look like I did much of anything, but it’s hard to know. We should probably bring it in somewhere.”
Nate shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a very old car. It’s seen worse hits than that. Probably today alone.”
“Really?” The woman looks totally relieved, motions behind herself. “Because I am catering this party next door tonight, and it’s a big deal. I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours getting ready.”
Maggie looks at the surfboards on top of the roof that are slightly wet and glossy, just used. Then she looks into the van, notices a guy sleeping in the passenger side.
“Or most of the last thirty-six hours,” she adds.
Maggie blushes, feeling caught. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“No, no . . . I mean, between us, I shouldn’t be catering this big of a party, but I didn’t know how to say no. Doing this gig tonight will pay my rent for a year. It will pay it for two years. Who could say no to that?”
Maggie shrugs. “No one.”
“But anyway, the housekeeper next door—at the Buckleys’?— is all confused, and told me to come over here. She says the party I’m catering is over here. That seems unlikely. I may be out of it, but I’m not that out of it.”
Maggie looks over at Nate, trying to ask him with her eyes: The Buckleys as in Murphy Buckley?
But he doesn’t respond, reaching out to shake the caterer’s hand. “You’re Eve?”
“How did you know?”
He points to the big Eve’s Kitchen, which is written in blue cursive lettering on the right side of the van. It has painted tomatoes all over it—in yellows, greens, and reds. Vines running between them, all along the front, down to the windshield.
Her face relaxes. “Yes, I’m Eve. And over here in the passenger side is Tyler.” She bangs on the window, and Tyler wakes up, albeit briefly, and gives them the peace sign.
Maggie gives him one back.
“I’m Nate. And this is Maggie. And that over there . . .” He points at Georgia, who is picking at a bush, still talking to Denis. “That is my sister. Apparently, she can’t be disturbed while on the phone, even for a car accident.”
Eve nods. “Got it. Do not disturb pregnant sister when she is on the phone.”
Nate smiles. “So, I’m a little behind. Are the Buckleys having a party too, or aren’t they?”
“No, the Lancasters.”
