Page 87 of At the Crossroads

We roll forward slightly, and I squeak. This has happened every time. I grunt in disgust.

“Press gently on the accelerator.”

I move my foot from where it hovers over the brake and start pressing gently.

“Keep slowly letting up on the clutch until it catches.”

And that’s the sticking point. I never feel it catch. Frowning, I push on the accelerator and let up on the clutch, but again I stall the engine.

“I’m not meant to be a driver.” I put the car back into neutral, push open the door, and scramble out. Max sits on the passenger side and smiles at me.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he tells me as he gets out to stretch. Then he walks around the car and slides his arms around me. I know he’s using the flurry of kisses to distract me. But I don’t care. This is my idea of a glorious morning. Maybe I can persuade him to stop the lesson now. We can pull out the blanket he has in the trunk and make out for a while, although the scent of gorse…

I press my cheek against his chest, the feeling the smooth wax from his Barbour jacket slick against my skin. He smells like black cedarwood and juniper from the Jo Malone cologne combination his sisters decided was his signature scent. It’s cold and windy, whipping my hair around and chapping my lips.

My heart plummets, but I know how much it means to Max that I learn to drive. And here we are, the eager teacher and the reluctant, incompetent pupil.

With a quick brush against my lips, Max releases me from his arms and gets back in the car. “Let’s try again.” He waves toward the driver’s seat invitingly. Scowling, I slide in and refasten the belt. “Right. Put your left foot on the clutch.”

I purse my lips as he repeats the now familiar instructions. And—I stall out again. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Turning on him and trying to keep my voice level, I ask, “Why am I doing this, anyway? I’ve gotten through forty-six years without driving.”

“You never know when the need may arise.“ He smiles. “Be prepared, I always say.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?“

“No, but I know the motto.”

I rub the back of my neck to ease the tension. “Can we stop now? I think we’ve established I have no aptitude for driving.”

“Let’s give it another go.” His hand snakes under mine, strong thumb kneading and releasing the knot. “If you can’t do it in the next half hour, we can stop.”

I pretend to bang my head against the steering wheel, whining softly.

Max peers deeply into my eyes. “You’re hungry and thirsty. Let’s eat the sandwiches my Mum made. They’re in the back.” He opens the tailgate and fishes out a basket with sandwiches and a thermos.

Instead of sitting out in the wind, we stay in the car. He hands me one in plastic wrap, which I have been told is called cling film. I eye it skeptically as I unwrap it. Thin white bread filled with something green and something yellow. “What is this?” I wave the partially unwrapped sandwich in his face.

He glances at his own sandwich. “Egg and cress on buttered bread.” He wheezes with laughter. “Cress. I wonder if my dad egged her on?” He puts his sandwich on the dash as he doubles over.

I groan. Jokes on top of hardboiled eggs. I stick out my tongue. “Back to the driving,” I grumble, rewrapping the sandwich and throwing into the back.

Max’s eyes widen. “You don’t like your namesake?”

“I don’t like hard-boiled eggs. Not your mother’s fault. There’s no way she would have known.”

He crams the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. “Do you want me to pick the egg off for you?”

I give an amused snort. “The egg contaminates the cress.”

Max reaches for the thermos. “Lemon squash. Okay?” I nod and take the cup from him. After a few sips, I give it back, and he empties it. “Right. Let’s try a few more times.”

Ten is the charm. On the eighth try, I shift into first, but stall out when shifting to second. On the tenth try, I get into third. By that time, I’m determined to manage all the shifts. Soon I’ve learned to downshift and I can reverse.

“I’m proud of you, la mia stellina,” Max says.

I give him a wan smile. “Can we go back now?”

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