Page 32 of Catch a Kiwi
Roman
At seven the next morning, on the kind of clear, warm summer day that made some people want to lie in a hammock, I climbed into the passenger side of the ute. Summer, of course, had been standing by the car ready to go since 6:57. How did you get the upper hand with a woman who never gave you the chance?
She said, “You’re kidding.” And laughed while she climbed into the driver’s seat.
“What?” It came out as more of a bark. She’d been resolutely cheerful since breakfast—which she’d prepared, as she’d been up before me. Nobody got up before me. Except Summer, cheerful and distant and possibly amused. Nobody was amused by me, either.
“Well, that’s polite,” she said, totally unfazed.
“Sorry.” I looked out the window, checking on the storm damage. She’d barely glanced at me today. Women normally at least looked at me, and then there was that first night, on my bed, when she’d been as warm and soft as that bourbon.
I’d put on a white shirt and charcoal wool trousers thismorning, and not because some woman had told me the white showed off my skin tone and the tailored shirt showed off my physique. Because I was going into the office, that was why. Good thing I wasn’t trying to show off, because Summer—the stranded woman staying in my house out of the goodness of my heart—was wearing a T-shirt and plain blue skirt, albeit one that only came halfway down her thighs, and her hair was pulled back into an elastic. She didn’t look plucked, she didn’t look waxed, she didn’t look perfect, and she didn’t look like she cared. About my appearanceorhers.
“Now I’m almost scared to talk to you,” she said. “All that staring and frowning. But I’m going to talk to you anyway, because I’m obstinate like that, and I don’t seem to care that you’re not a morning person and don’t want to hear it. I’d have sworn you’d never let yourself be driven by a woman.”
“It’s not my ute,” I said, “and what d’you mean, I’m not a morning person?”
“I guess this is just your normal sterling personality, then. Also, I don’t believe you. I’ve barely started paying you for this thing, and I have my doubts about the whole transaction. And I hate to tell you this, but the teensy little fact that they don’t own the car in question doesn’t stop a lot of men from thinking they should be driving.”
“Your husband, for example,” I said, for some reason.
A pause, and she said, no smile in her voice now, “You looked me up. Probably inevitable. If you’ve read anything at all, though, you know he’s not my husband anymore. He’s my ex. I don’t have any way to defend myself against the rest of what’s out there, so you can believe what you want. If you want Delilah and me to leave today because you can’t trust me, we will. If you think I’m going to sneak into your bedroom when youdocome home, though, and, what? Seduce you with my gold-digger sexual repertoire, then somehow take all your money? If that’s what I want, I’vebeen doing a lousy job of going after it, unless wealthy Kiwi men look for their next bride amongst the cleaning staff in cheap motels. Or, of course, in campgrounds. With no shower. According to Delilah, the lack of a shower is what really puts us beyond the pale. I’m not nearly polished enough these days to land anybody as fabulous as you and I know it, so no worries.” Back to cheerful again, and never mind that it was exactly what I’d been thinking. It still annoyed me.
“Can’t be what you expected when you married an ultra-rich bloke, though,” I went on despite my better judgment. “That you’d end up like this.”
“No,” she said, “but I’m glad I did. That’s how weird I am. Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you. Jean-Paul Sartre. See? I can quote, too. You could say I’m broke, or you could say I’m free. Or, of course, you could say both.”
I wasn’t sure I believed that. “Better than being on trial, I’m sure.”
“Better than all of it,” she said. “You don’t have to believe me, but why would I lie? That’s the whole point of my life now. That I’m not lying.”
“And you don’t like rich men.” How had she known what I was thinking? “Or flash houses, or vans that don’t go puckeroo in the midst of cyclones.”
“Or Miele appliances,” she said. “All right, I may be lying a teeny bit on the Miele appliances. No wonder you didn’t like me, though. You sensed my inner evil.”
I smiled. Couldn’t help it. “Is that what happened?”
“Seemed like it to me, when you were telling me to shut up in the hospital.”
“Because you were annoying.”
“Oh. Well, that’s perfectly understandable, then.”
I laughed. “Thought it was you who didn’t like me.”
“I didn’tnotlike you.” I shot her what was probably asardonic look, and she said, “Well, possibly I didn’t like you. You can come across a little …”
“Arrogant?” I suggested. “Overbearing? Impatient?” I could focus on this, because she was actually driving reasonably well on the narrow, curving road. Not nearly as fast as I would’ve done it, but she was competent.
“Sounds about right,” she said, and I decided not to mention my possibly patronizing opinion of her driving. “Also, I really don’t have much money, but if you gave me a break on this truck, and I’m almost positive you did, let me know so I can address that. I don’t need protecting, and whatever you think, I pay my debts.”
“Bankrupt, though,” I said, and she flinched. I told myself this was important if she was going to be in my house. I was probably lying, but I told myself anyway.
“Not because I wanted to get out of paying for things I’d bought,” she said. “That I’d wanted.”
“Sounds like a rationalization. Because of what, then?”
Did I rattle her? I did not. “Oh, now Itotallywant to tell you. Has it ever occurred to you that you’re not the boss of everybody, and you can’t just steamroll over them? There’s a more tactful way to get this information, you do realize.”
