“You obviously changed your mind. I remember you wanting a Phantom.”
“Yep. First time I rode in the back of a truck up a steep hill. A few years before I met you, when a friend took me out into the desert in his rattletrap Model A to learn to drive, I was a convert.”
That easy comment opened up another cascade of questions, about what he had been doing since their parting. First to mind, how many women he’d been with?
She shut that down hard. Even if he had a harem fit for an emperor, it was none of her business.
She was only aware of the pause having become a silence when he leaned down slightly and flicked the very modern sound console fitted into the beautiful wood of the dashboard. “Want some music?” he asked. “What do you listen to these days? I remember there was only that one radio back in the diner, and the owner only played it when there were big band or mariachi shows.”
“I don’t really like big band or mariachi,” she said. “Reminds me of scrubbing down beer-sticky tables with greasy cloths. And that was on the good days. Anything else is fine. Folk, classic rock, bluegrass, jazz, and for when I’m typing a big blowout at the end of a book, nothing works like Russian opera, the more bombast the better.”
“I love your mysteries,” he said. “Alejo and I discovered them just this year.”
“Okay,” she said, not sure how she felt about that.
“Your wisecracking detective is my favorite. Somehow I heard your voice reading them. Especially the funny parts,” he went on. “Alejo said the same
. Two chapters into the first one I gave him, he said, ‘this P.I. kind of reminds me of Mom.’”
“I sound pretty different now than I did all those years ago,” she muttered, pleased and uncomfortable at the same time. “Like a cockatoo. Too many years of hollering orders over the counter to the cooks. I didn’t know you read mysteries.” Then she grimaced at how inane that sounded.
He paused to change lanes, and effortlessly transitioned to the northbound freeway. He really was a steady, unflashy driver. Exactly the type she preferred.
“Well, I wasn’t much of a reader when I was young. I had so little schooling, and then books seldom came my way. Wasn’t until later, when I was laid up with a fractured leg from a bad fall, and there was no radio much less a TV, that I discovered the library. Raymond Chandler was my gateway drug. That led through Dashiell Hammett up to Dick Francis to spy stories as well as mysteries.”
Her lips parted, then she gave herself a mental shake. It was way, way too early to burble, Me, too! She wasn’t even certain why she held that back, especially as he’d read her mysteries, but he bridged the awkward moment by going on to ask if she’d ready any Raymond Chandler, and if so, which one did she like best?
Talk about mysteries, what they liked and what they hated, ate up the miles. When the lights of Las Vegas glowed on the horizon in the blue of twilight, Rigo said, “We’ve an empty tank, and I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Do you want to stop now, or try to make it into the city?”
“Stop now,” she said. “I worked in Las Vegas for a while, to fund the rest of my trip west. I’ve seen it, and the traffic is probably ten times worse now.”
He chose the next exit that showed the gas/food/motel signs and they drove into a small, dusty town, heat waves still rising from the pavement though the sun was setting behind them.
Once they got the car gassed up (and Godiva had to laugh at the awe in the faces of the workers there when they saw the car) Rigo rolled out onto the main street. She couldn’t help but notice that Rigo’s eyes passed the chains in favor of seeking local hole-in-the-wall eateries that had tons of cars in the lot, meaning the locals knew it was good.
“How about that one?” Rigo asked, then added hastily, “Of course we can choose whatever you like.”
Godiva’s mouth was already watering. “May as well get authentic Southwestern while we’re actually in the southwest.”
She stepped out of the car into the stunning heat. It felt good for a few seconds, after the steady air conditioning in the car, but she was ready for air conditioning again as they walked into a diner whose décor hadn’t changed much since the forties. But the place was clean, with nearly every booth and table filled, and the smells were enticing.
Over fresh-picked squash calabacitas and blue-corn cheese enchiladas drenched in chile sauce, he kept up the conversation about his favorite mysteries. No personal questions.
The talk ran out as the plates emptied. Godiva had already calculated her share, and plunked down enough to cover her food and her half of the tip.
Rigo looked up at her, with a half-smile. “I think I’m able to cover my part of the tip.”
“Then add it,” Godiva answered. “I always tip well—I was a waitress. I know how hard they work. I figure my overage covers some cheap-ass who doesn’t bother, or who leaves a gigantic mess and fifty cents.”
Rigo’s brows rose. “I never thought of that.” And he matched the amount she’d laid down. No argument, no mansplaining.
It made her feel good . . . until she climbed into the car, noted the darkness, and wondered if he was about to suggest they get a motel now. That meant a long evening stretching ahead. Would he expect her company or would they sit alone in rooms side by side as the hours ticked by before falling asleep?
He started up the car, then said, “How about this? The tank is full, and so are we. I figure we’re good for another hundred miles or so. If you want to get in some of the scenic route, we can take the 93 to Kingman, then follow the 40, and maybe even some of Route 66 east to the Grand Canyon.”
“Kingman Arizona,” Godiva said reminiscently. “I remember that city. When I was there, it was like the town that time forgot.”
“I was told it’s the thunderstorm capital of the United States, though when I blew through on my drive west, the sky was clear as a bell. Wouldn’t mind stopping there again, if you’d maybe like to cruise the rim of the Grand Canyon tomorrow?”