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“Yeah.” He picks up the paintings. “Let’s get out of here and enjoy the lack of flying bullets while we can.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” I pick up my purse and know that whatever brought this man into my life is a fair price to pay.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Yuri
I lean against the trunk of my car and ignore how the fading sun makes my wife appear more angelic than usual. “You won’t change my mind, Lina.”
“Are you sure?” She presses her hands together. “Maybe you would like to think about it a little more.”
I focus on the sound of the crashing waves and not my wife’s pleading eyes. “I will teach you to drive. But not in my car.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” She waves her hand around. “The parking lot is empty. I won’t hit anything.”
“I will buy you a Honda or a Toyota. Something with a small engine.”
“I’m not asking you to let me drive your precious baby on the open highway.”
“As if I’d ever let that happen.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I take her hand. “No one starts in a Mustang Shelby. You gotta work up to it.”
“So much for all the vows we made.”
I fill my lungs with salt air and tell myself not to give in. “Our vows said nothing about allowing my wife to drive my car.”
She slides her hand away. “It’s very sad that you value your precious muscle car more than your fake spouse.”
“You are my real wife.”
“That isn’t allowed to have the keys.”
I see her mouth twitch and know she’s more interested in the sport of bickering than learning to drive. “Have you ever been behind the wheel of a car?”
“Do bumper cars count?”
“No.” I take her hands. “I will teach you next weekend. In a small car. That doesn’t go fast.”
“Fine.”
I accept her answer and wonder if it’s really the end of the conversation. “Let’s take a walk before dinner.”
“Alright.”
We head toward the boardwalk, and I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “I haven’t been here in years.”
“It’s beautiful. And a lot different from Carson Beach, where I spent my summers as a child.”
“We spent several here with my mom. This was one of her favorite places.”
“We’re you two close?”
“My father ran the family with an iron fist. He wanted us to be worthy of the responsibilities we would eventually take on. So my mother played a background role for most of my life.”
Old anger forms a hot, sour ball in my stomach, and I push it down. Memories of how my father treated my mother try to take hold, and I flex my hand several times before the pictures recede.
