Pages of a Day Ch. 01

“Walk me to my car. That’s what I want to have happen,” said Sandra emphatically, putting her hand on Marshall’s arm.

“And I want to get your phone number. That’s what I want,” said Marshall, draping his arm around Sandra’s wide shoulders for a short squeeze.

“That sounds like an agenda we can handle,” said Sandra. “OK, I’ve got a question. Were you really so scared that you couldn’t hold on to the keys? I know we just met, but you don’t strike me as the shaky type.”

He smiled. “I got the sense you had something in mind when you winked at me. I figured I would give you a few extra seconds. Maybe dropping the keys would rattle him. Nice move there, by the way.”

“Thanks. I take karate. In my line of work I need my defenses. But say I didn’t disarm him. Would you have given up your car? I can tell it means a lot to you.”

“Sandra, it’s a car, for God’s sake. Let him have it. Your safety, that was my priority. I wasn’t going to pull any macho act, unless I had a reasonably good chance at success. He had the gun. I didn’t. Not at that moment anyway. The car has a safety lock on it. He would have driven 100 feet and it would have stalled. Only an expert would notice and be able to disarm it. But, you’ve got to believe me on this, even if he took the car, I want you to be safe. I’ve learned my priorities.”

Soon they reached Sandra’s car, the anonymous Subaru wagon. Marshall admired the paint job, but suggested she check the tire pressure. They sat on the hood, reluctant to part.

“Marshall, I’m going crazy trying to figure out your accent. I’m good at those things – I deal with lots of people from all over the world, car people. I just can’t place you.”

“You want to know where I’m from?”

“Yes, I want to know that.” She blushed. “For beginners.”

“OK. Rumania. Born there after the war. Parents survived, Boruch Ha-shem. You know what that means?”

“’Bless the Lord.’ Great – we’ve done the secret handshake. We’re both Jewish.”

“It’s a subtle way to figure these things out without hurting people’s feelings. If it didn’t mean anything, the conversation would go in one direction. Since it meant something, we’ll go in a different direction. We don’t have to explain so much to each other, right?

“Right.”

“So I was born there, outside Bucharest. The Communists took away what the Nazis and their local toadies didn’t destroy. Businesses, houses, family heirlooms – we lost everything. So now, I lose something, I don’t care. I have family and friends, that’s all that matters. So I lose a car to robbery? It’s an aggravation, I like the car, but, believe me, my family lost much, much more than a car and we survived. Life, that’s what matters.”

“But your accent, it’s not quite Eastern European.”

“That’s because it’s not. When I was 10, early 1973, we managed to make aliya and moved to Israel. So I spent a long time in Israel. You’re getting a good dose of Middle Eastern accent. Israel’s where I learned to fix things.”

Sandra eased toward him as they sat on the hood. She did feel low – she’d check the tire pressure the next day. Their hands met, and their fingers intertwined. “I can see it now,” said Sandra, feeling utterly at ease with her fingers in his. “You started with alarm clocks, moved on to radios, then bicycles, then things with wheels and motors.”

“That’s the general pattern. You missed the main part of the story. Things with treads, then things with wings. I was a tank mechanic, then I worked on fighter jets. I did tanks in the Lebanon War in 1982, then jets in time for the Gulf War. I liked the work, did it for 20 years, then decided to try my hand on smaller vehicles in a different place. And that, my dear, led to this.”

Marshall reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a business card. It read, “If you want the best, go to BuchaRestorations, top-rated auto restorer. Marshall Broitman, proprietor & master mechanic. European craftsmanship at reasonable prices.” He jotted down his home and cell phone numbers.

“There. Everything you need to know.”

She handed him her own business card, Sandra Forgotston, senior fraud investigator. “BuchaRestorations. That’s very clever. Do people get the reference to Bucharest?”

“They do. I give credit to my sister. She’s an advertising copywriter in New York. I would have never thought up something. But it works.”

A low-slung Ferrari, red of course, thumped up the street. Although it rolled slowly, the car’s shape and sound gave it the appearance of blurred speed. Marshall and Sandra both swiveled their heads to watch its approach and departure.

“I did the steering wheel on that one,” said Marshall. “Very particular owner. Wanted the lacquer to be just so with wood that matched a picnic hamper I made.”

“Can you tell two identical cars apart? Even if they look alike? After the plates and Vehicle Identification Number are gone, sometimes I get fooled.”

“Cars, snowflakes, identical twins – pay attention and you can find the variations. Maybe the sound, maybe the smell. Not always outward appearance. Look at you. One outward Sandra, but many different Sandras. I’ve seen a couple. Let’s count the number in the last two hours. Heartbroken Sandra, nearsighted Sandra who couldn’t find her lenses, asskicking Sandra, pardon the expression, and now, well, which one am I seeing?”

“Sandra Sandra.”

“I like all of them. Different facets of the same diamond. My cousin in the jewelry business likes to say that. Good perspective. Look at something from a new angle, see a new sparkle.”

Sandra slid off the hood to her feet. The short dress stuck to the metal for a few seconds and rode up her legs, so, before Sandra smoothed her skirt, Marshall glimpsed her pink panties, just a flash, surely not meant for him. Or maybe . . .? Marshall imagined his hands caressing the pink material, pulling the panties tight, pulling them aside. He gulped and stood up. He felt a hard-on stirring.

They stood facing each other. The moment seemed right. Her arms circled his thick neck. “Marshall, I had a fabulous time. It didn’t start that way, God knows, but look how it turned out. I can’t even remember that other guy’s name. This has been special. Let’s do it again.”

His hands rested easily on her waist. In his happiness he felt he could lift her in the air and place her on his shoulders, so she could see from high the world around them, their world of cars, coffee, women and men, summer oaks dripping with new rain. But, he simply left his hands on the satiny material, feeling the curve of her hips directly beneath his fingers. The bump of panty line was like a knife’s edge on his palms.

“Do what again? Get jilted? Once is enough for now.”

She reached up to kiss his lips. He tasted clean and masculine, a man who took care of himself. Jessica was an idiot, she thought. She remembered that name.

“No silly, you know what I mean. Us. I won’t leave you crying in your coffee.”

“Great, I’ll call you. And when I say I will, I will. That’s not just polite chit-chat.”

“Enough with the chit-chat.” The embraced and kissed. For a big man Marshall kissed with tenderness and delicacy, not a hard mash but a light yet passionate touch, just like his hands against her hips. Sandra liked the feel of his warm hands there and pressed her full body against his. Marshall felt her full breasts against him, nipples hardening against his chest. She opened her thighs and draped them around his leg. That dress rode up again, just enough so Marshall sensed the front of her panties pressed against his leg. Sandra in turn felt his cock rustling in the front of his khaki pants. Sandra's body flowed against him like liquid heat, whispering of the passion they could share, on another day, another page.

“Drive safely,” Marshall said. “Have a good meeting tomorrow.”

“Next time can I get a ride in the Thunderbird?”

“I’ll even let you choose the radio station and play with the electric windows.”

“Goodie!”