“No, that’s very clear that you haven’t!” She threw down her napkin and shoved back her chair, quickly getting to her feet. “I have to use the restroom.”
“But, dear—” Angela got only those two words out before Paulie stormed off.
I thought of going after her to apologize, but realized I couldn’t stand outside the ladies’ room and beg for her forgiveness.
“Igor,” Rostakova said, his gaze never wavering from my face, “you have the knife I wanted? The one to make stallions not stallions?”
Igor smirked.
“Dear,” Angela said, putting her hand on her husband’s, her voice filled with amused exasperation. “It’s not polite to threaten people with a gelding knife over dinner.”
“Gelding knife,” Rostakova said, rolling the words lovingly over his tongue. “Very much gelding knife. Yes.”
“Are you looking forward to driving the antique car?” Angela asked me, clearly feeling a change of subject was due.
I greeted it with much pleasure, for many reasons. “Very much so, yes. The De Dion is a lovely car. It ran in both the 1907 and 1908 races, you know, although it didn’t finish well.”
“I didn’t realize there was another race,” Angela said, smiling up at Paulie when she returned.
I half rose, but Paulie was seated before I could do more than cast an anxious glance her way.
“It ran from Peking to Paris and was the inspiration for the race we are duplicating. The De Dion company was one of the largest car manufacturers of the time, although primarily European in make. They were the first to have a V-8 engine.”
“I assume that’s good?” Angela asked.
“It was at the time, yes. Made for a very powerful car.”
“Not as powerful as the Thomas Flyer,” Paulie said quickly. “The car that actually won the New York to Paris race.”
“Very true,” I said, and when Angela turned her attention to her husband, I leaned closer to Paulie and said,“I’m truly sorry for my little show. I’m afraid it was in reaction to your father’s less-than-subtle threats.”
She turned her eyes, a beautiful rich brown, to me. “Oh! So you weren’t overcome by my charms into expressing your admiration.”
There was a twinkle in her eyes that caused me to smile in response. “No, although I will say your charms are very... erm... charming.”
She laughed aloud, garnering a huge scowl from her father, and relaxed back into her chair. We spent an enjoyable half hour talking about the original race and how much Paulie was looking forward to traveling across the country.
“You’ve never done so?” I asked quietly when Rostakova was on the phone with someone and Angela was at another table talking to an acquaintance. “Without sounding crass, it would appear you come from a family that has the means to travel when you desire.”
“Oh, Dad’s a bajillionaire—floors in California can be very lucrative, especially when you use your illicit background to get expensive hardwoods at a very cheap price—but he’s also the king of paranoia. He’s convinced that if I were to do anything on my own, I would immediately be kidnapped and held for ransom.”
“Good lord. That seems a rather insular view.”
“Oh, it’s beyond insular and smack-dab in the land of batshit crazy, but there’s not a lot I can do about it. I don’t have any money of my own, and due to a lack of oomph, my college degree—history—has just sat around doing squat. I volunteer a lot at Angela’s charities, but this race is really the first time I’ll be able to do what I want to do.”
“And that is?”
“I want to be an adventuring journalist. I plan on emulating Nellie Bly, who was a Victorian reporter.”
“That’s right. You mentioned her earlier. I have a vague memory of her exploits. Didn’t she attempt to duplicate Jules Verne’s fictional around-the-world journey?”
“She didn’t just attempt it. She beat Phileas Fogg by more than a week. And a gold star to you for knowing about Nellie. Not a lot of folks do.” Her smile was warm, and it touched me.
Our food came at that moment, halting conversation until everyone had their meals before them and the servers had left.
“But surely...” I hesitated, trying to find words that wouldn’t offend. “You’ll pardon me if this sounds like an insult, because it isn’t intended as one, but you don’t look like you’re straight out of college.”
She bristled up for a moment, then gave a short laugh—at herself, I suspected. “I’m not, much though I wish I looked like a dewy twenty-two. I’m twenty-nine, which, yes, means I’ve been living as an adult for a long time. I know what you’re going to say—why didn’t I just walk out and get a job and support myself like everyone else? The answer is the price I’d have to pay.”
