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“No, I do,” she says quickly. “It’s just…”
The silence stretches. There’s something bothering her, and I feel that she’s moments from letting it burst out. As curious as I am, a part of me hopes she doesn’t. Things are going so well. Why ruin them? Can’t we just see how long we can make this happiness last?
Liz must come to this conclusion as well because finally she just takes a big sip of her wine and shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Stressful.”
I reach across the table and take her hands. “Then why don’t I help you unwind?” I ask.
Liz glances up, eyes hooded, sultry in a way that makes me instantly stiff. “And what do you have in mind, Mr. Rhett Westing?” she asks.
“A couple things,” I respond. “None of which we will be describing in detail to Janice. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” she responds. “Besides, this time tomorrow we’ll be on foreign soil, and I don’t think Janice has jurisdiction there.”
I frown. “I don’t know where you’re getting that.”
“Uh, the Alencars’ island is in the Bahamas?”
“Yeah but we’re driving there. I estimate we’ll be a bit south of Memphis by tomorrow night.”
Liz’s mouth drops. “Do not tell me…”
“I can’t leave the van up here. And even though I have the utmost faith in you, I’m not getting rid of her until Marie Alencar’s name is on the line.”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“I sure do.” I lean across the table and kiss her.
Our last night in Chicago plays out in that gorgeous snow globe, migrates to a limo heading uptown, and ends in that perfect king-sized bed in our suite. I fuck Liz, taste every inch of her, feel her lips all over me. And once we’re spent, we talk about our histories, about old holidays and grade school best friends, boarding schools and college roommates, childhood pets and family vacations, favorite songs and first kisses. But we don’t talk about the future again, even though I can tell that it’s never far from either of our minds.
Whatever it is that Liz is hiding from me stays inside her, yearning to come out, neither of us wanting it to.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RHETT
Compared to our drive from New York to Chicago, the trip south is easier and happier in just about every conceivable way.
Liz rides with her feet on the dash as the old van grunts and belches its way toward New Orleans. The battered radio plays rap and heavy metal wherever we can find it, which thankfully for my ears, is few and far between as we head across the heartland. Liz puts up with my country with only mild grumbles, and we settle on pop as a compromise for most of the trip.
But this time music isn’t needed to fill the awkward silence. It’s merely background noise to endless conversation as we compared notes on sports (Liz: college football, some basketball; Me: all football, hockey, and, of course, motorsports of every ilk), pets (Liz: all animals with the exception of snakes; Me: large dogs, a cordial relationship to cats), and children (both of us: absolutely).
We take our time. The Alencars and their various friends flew down to the island late on Sunday, but they made it clear we were welcome at any point over the week. So we dawdle in roadside cafes, take excursions off the highway to visit antique shows and old bookstores, and check in early at charmingly quaint motels for evenings of takeout and relaxation, whiling away the hours that inevitably find us wrapped up in each others arms, falling asleep to the chirp of crickets and the cry of distant trains.
By the time we reach New Orleans the weather has improved and neither one of us really want to leave, drawn to the piano bars and jazz cafés of the French Quarter. But Liz, the consummate professional, convinces me that the quicker we check in with Marie, the quicker we can leave.
“Besides,” she says, “there’s no reason we have to head straight home, right?”
So Wednesday afternoon finds us on the tarmac of a private airstrip just north of the city. The plane is a tiny island hopper, owned by the Alencars and prepped for our arrival. Meanwhile, my van is parked on-sight, ready to be picked up and, hopefully, immediately discarded by the time we get back.
“I will be so happy to get into my swimsuit,” Liz says. New Orleans is actually surprisingly drizzly in January and what little warmth we’ve enjoyed south of the Mason-Dixon is completely swept away on the blustery airstrip.
“And I’ll be happy to get you out of it,” I whisper into her ear.
She pushes me away lightly on the chest, giggling. I catch her hand in mine and pull her against me so that we’re practically walking as one toward the plane.
“Just a little bit longer and we’re going to break in what I’m assuming is a magnificent guest room in an island palace.”
“I’ve never been to a private island. I hope it looks like a super villain lair,” Liz says. “Like from The Incredibles.”
