The Convertible

Many, many thanks to my editor, CoyGirl00.

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My name is Joel Leopold. I'm a mechanic at a luxury car reseller, Silicon Valley Exotics (SVE), Sunnyvale, California. The owner and my boss is Steve Carter. I'm 31, been working on and restoring collectible cars like Triumph, Kaiser, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Jaguar, Ferrari, Aston Martin, and Bentley since I was 16. Unlike my Penn State-educated twin brother Jacob, I was never college material; I started working at SVE in high school doing detailing and oil changes and such. When I graduated, Mr. Carter sent me to all kinds of mechanic's training all over Europe in exchange for my promise that I'd work for him for 10 years. I thought that was a fair deal, and I never did leave; Mr. Carter's been my boss going on 16 years now. I'm hoping to buy into the business as a partner soon, then take total ownership after he retires.

Arianna Bradford is my ex-wife. Tall, slim, raven-haired and gorgeous with 32D breasts, at 26 she was working as a stockbroker in San Francisco when I met her. She'd brought her Jaguar in for service, a 2001 X-Type. This was one of the worst Jaguar models ever made, an all-wheel drive sports sedan that looked like a 2,000 lb. booger; along with being ugly, it was so unreliable it was almost always in need of some repair or other. I was seeing Arianna every few weeks when she brought it in for repair, one day I finally got up the courage to ask her to dinner. We seemed like total opposites but continued to date steadily for 10 months or so when, impulsively, I asked her to marry me. Nobody was more surprised than me when she said yes. We flew to Vegas for a quick wedding, nothing fancy but what the hell, we were in love. Or at least I was.

Of course, as her boyfriend/fiancé/husband I did her car repair work on my days off, so she only had to pay for parts. I should have known better. After we'd been married 6 months or so, she traded in that old and busted Jag for a brand new Land Rover Defender, so my maintenance duties diminished considerably; at this point she also started becoming emotionally distant, so my husbandly duties also diminished considerably.

It was around this time Arianna began travelling more frequently to her firm's New York HQ for work. When we were first married it was quarterly and only for a few days; now it was monthly, and she was often there for a week at a time. I sensed all wasn't right, and when she came home one weekend I said as much. Without a lot of discussion or explanation she apologized for the travel, admitting she wasn't being a very good wife and was sorry for being so unfair to me but it was her livelihood so it wasn't going to change.

Long story short, we got a quick and amicable divorce, sold the condo we shared, splitting the profits 50/50. We'd always maintained separate bank accounts so there were few other assets to divide; a month later I got a note from her informing me she was moving, with a forwarding address in New York. Looking at an old Christmas card address list on my laptop I saw the new address matched her boss's. I was sad, but not surprised. She was my first real love, so, in spite of everything I still missed her.

The one thing I didn't miss from when we were married were her parents, who lived not far from our condo in Los Altos Hills, California. Robert Bradford was a big man, at least 6'4", which is where Arianna got her height. He was not a warm person but seemed tolerant of me (at least to my face), never looking down on me for being a tradesman instead of having a college education.

Of course, it helped tremendously that I managed to get his classic 1961 Austin-Healey 3000 Mk1 tuned up and running strong not long after he'd paid $2500 for a local garage to do it and they ended up doing a half-assed job. He thanked me profusely, of course, but that was the extent of his generosity, the cheap bastard. He could have at least bought me a 6-pack to thank me.

Arianna's mother Charlotte was another story. Rob may have lacked warmth, but he was a huggy bear compared to his wife, who was a complete ice queen. Far from warm and welcoming but incredibly beautiful, she was 46 and petite, around 5'3", slim and stunning. Her pale skin, long jet-black hair and jade green eyes took my breath away the first time I saw her. Arianna's pretty face was clearly Charlotte's DNA, except she had her father Rob's blue eyes, not her mother's green ones. Charlotte was cordial if somewhat cool most of the time, but I was always on edge with her.

This edginess dated back to when Arianna and I got married -- Charlotte made no effort to disguise her disapproval, offering no congratulations when we walked in that first time we visited after tying the knot. Later on that day, she managed to get me alone in the library for a moment. (Yes, the house was big enough to have its own library, like a fucking board game; I worried Mrs. Bradford would try to kill me with a candlestick or something.)

"Joel, dear boy, you're a mechanic," she reminded me, "I have no idea what Arianna was thinking when she agreed to marry you, but I know my daughter. She'll get bored with you and move on in a year or two, mark my words." She was right, of course, overestimating by about 6 months, but no newlywed wants to hear such a hurtful thing right after getting married.

To ease the tension, I tried to change the subject and compliment her. "Well, I'm certainly glad to meet you, Charlotte. I hope Arianna looks as good as you when she gets older," I blurted out.

She raised an eyebrow and gave me what felt like a death-stare. "So you're saying I'm old, then?" My cheeks began to burn. "I'm only 46. Or is that ancient to you?"

"I only meant...," I stammered. I'd really put my foot in my mouth, not sure what to say next.

Turns out I didn't need to say anything; Charlotte did it for me. She smirked, probably enjoying my discomfort. "I'll see you in the dining room, dear boy. Dinner will be ready shortly." At that, she turned and walked out.

Given all that history, four months after the divorce was final my cell phone rang and it was my now ex-wife. When I said hello, it was pure Arianna. No small talk, no 'how are you holding up', just straight to the point. "Joel, darling, I'm in a bit of a spot and I need your help next Saturday. I promised my mother I'd fly into the San Jose airport, rent a car, and drive her up to St. Helena in the wine country for a girl's weekend."

Not sure where this was going, I neutrally replied, "OK, so, what do you need from me exactly?" With Arianna, there was always an angle.

"Well, I'm attending a business conference in Chicago and, silly me, it looks like I mixed up my dates. The conference isn't over until Sunday, so I won't be able to pick up my mother in time. Daddy's on some hunting trip or something in Minnesota, and I don't want some fucking rideshare rapist driving her up there. You're the only person I can trust to drive her. Will you help me? Pleeeeeeeease?"

I struggled with this for a minute. As it happened, that Saturday I was taking my pride and joy up to the Sonoma Raceway to participate in a classic sports car rally. It was a British racing green 1955 Triumph TR2 convertible I had bought from a junkyard when I was 18, and over the years fully restored it. Next to Arianna it was the thing I loved most while I was married. St. Helena was only about 30 miles from the racetrack; If we left early enough, I could drop Charlotte off and be at the track in time for my qualifying laps. On the other hand, I'd be stuck in a little two-seater for two and a half hours with my hot but bitchy former mother-in-law. With the top down and the stereo cranked, though, at least we wouldn't have to talk, I could just enjoy the view.

I sighed and surrendered. She'd broken my heart, but I still cared for her. "All right, Arianna, I'll do it. I was going to take the Triumph up to Sonoma Raceway for the day anyway, so I can drop her off in St. Helena. Do me a favor, though, tell her to pack lightly; one small suitcase is all I have room for. I'll pick her up at 6am sharp, OK?"

"Oh, Jo-Jo (I HATED when she called me that), thank you SO much!", she squealed. "I just love - er, really, really appreciate you!"

I inwardly winced and thought to myself, 'Well, THAT stung'.

8am Saturday morning I rang the bell at the driveway gate of the Bradford home. A sleepy woman's voice came over the security speaker: "Who is it?"

"Charlotte, it's Joel. It's 6am and I'm here to pick you up, didn't Arianna tell you?"

"Oh, that girl! Sorry, Joel, she told me you'd be here mid-morning. I'm not quite awake yet." Figures. My ex-wife was never one to pay attention to details unless she was at work getting paid for it.

"We need to go soon; I'll be going straight to the racetrack after I drop you off." Immaturely, I gunned the motor a couple of times for emphasis.

"All right, all right," she said, sounding annoyed. The monitor buzzed and the gate rolled back, allowing me to enter.

Charlotte greeted me at the front door barefoot, wearing a red silk robe. Surprisingly, she stood up on tiptoe and gave me a hello kiss on the cheek. Even with no makeup and her hair a disheveled mess, she looked and smelled fantastic. "I'm so sorry, Joel, I'll need a few minutes to shower and pack. You can go into the kitchen and make yourself some coffee while you wait."

I went into the kitchen and fired up their top-of-the-line automatic espresso machine; in a few minutes I had latte in a regular mug for me while I waited, and a latte in a travel mug for Charlotte. At 6:20 I was just finishing up my coffee when Charlotte came down, trailing a small rollaboard behind her. She was wearing light pink shorts with a white silk blouse under a stylish double-breasted pink blazer, spotless white tennis shoes on her feet and her long black hair tied back in a ponytail; a sheer aquamarine scarf completed her ensemble. She looked 22, not 47.

As usual, I found myself struggling to find the right thing to say to her.

"Wow, Charlotte, I, uh, you look, wow..." To salvage my verbal clumsiness, I awkwardly handed her the travel mug. "Made you a latte to bring with," I blurted.

She giggled, took the mug from me and gave me another chaste kiss on the cheek. "Such a gentleman," she chuckled. "Be a love and load my bag into the car."

As I loaded her bag into the trunk, my emotions were reeling. Charlotte had kissed me on the cheek more times in one morning than the entire time I was married to her daughter. I wondered what the hell was happening, thinking I must be dreaming.

She came out and I held the passenger door open for her. She seated herself in one easy motion; I couldn't help but admire the flash of her thighs as she did so. "Damn, Rob, you are one lucky fucker," I thought to myself.

I got in on the driver's side and started it up. "Buckle up, Charlotte. This is no Ford Taurus, the TR2 is a bonafide sports car. A modified TR2 took 14th place in the 24 hours of LeMans in 1955, in fact. She may be old, but she can still out-perform a lot of younger models."

Charlotte laughed, put her sunglasses on and said, "I hope that's what people say about me, too!" Internally I cringed, wondering if what I said had insulted her.

Rather than risk responding with something stupid, I kept my mouth shut, grinned and hit the onramp to northbound Highway 280. It's four lanes wide, passing through rolling hills in posh suburbs like Menlo Park, Portola Valley, and Palo Alto, the perfect stretch of road to open the TR2 up. Charlotte and I were both grinning ear to ear as we sped along in the third lane, speedometer reading 90mph; the 4-cylinder 1900cc motor sounded in fine form today.

Suddenly a dark shape filled my rearview mirror. Some guy in a jet-black McLaren 720 had raced up behind us, then next to us in the number four lane on the passenger side, keeping pace as he checked us out. I shouted at Charlotte over the road noise, "That's a McLaren 720 supercar - driver's probably some high-tech millionaire - you're looking at about $400,000 worth of rolling iron there. He could outrun us like my Triumph's a school bus!" She laughed. The guy in the McLaren gave us a thumbs-up, then accelerated away like there was a rocket in his rear.

To save time, I stopped at a station in Hillsborough for gas before we went through crowded San Francisco and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. I could see the fog rolling in; this meant it was going to be cool and wet, so I put the top up and snapped on the side curtains.

As I got back in the Triumph I asked her, "Are you having fun yet?"

"Oh, my, yes," she answered. "I love this little car, it's so much fun to ride in!"

"I'm glad you like it; Arianna absolutely hated it. It gets a lot of attention, as you saw. I do wonder, though, if the guy in the McLaren was checking my car out or checking you out." I grinned, then it hit me: Holy shit, did I just say something stupid again?

Charlotte gave me a quizzical look, as if she wasn't sure if I was joking. Then she leaned back in her seat and smiled. "Maybe it was both. Unless we can catch up to McLaren guy, I guess it'll remain an unsolved mystery!" We ended up grinning at each other like a couple of high school kids sharing a joke. This trip was starting to be...fun!

Fog obscured the view as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, but as we aproached the top of the Waldo grade it began to clear, and Charlotte got the full view of the bay, sailboats and all. I decided to risk conversation with my lovely passenger again.

"So, Arianna tells me Rob is on a hunting trip in Canada?" The smile disappeared from Charlotte's face immediately, and I was fearful I'd just fucked up and said the wrong thing again. She answered, her voice lower now.

"Oh, yes, he's up in some cabin in the wilderness outside Ely Minnesota, hunting beaver; based on what I've heard, I believe the beaver belongs to a 20-something flight attendant he met on his last business trip to Minneapolis."

"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaimed, truly shocked. "YOU? He's cheating on YOU?" I hoped Charlotte was joking, trying to yank my chain. Turns out, she wasn't.

She turned sideways in her seat, look directly at me. "Why is that so hard to believe? I'm just his middle-aged flat-chested wife. Why wouldn't he want some young ass?"

"Because, I mean, Charlotte, look in a goddam mirror, you're gorgeous! I've seen you two out together; Rob's the envy of every straight male with a pulse. He's fucking nuts if he's cheating on you."

Charlotte turned her head and looked out the passenger's side curtain window. When she turned back, her eyes were wet as if she was holding back from crying. "That actually sounded sincere, Joel. I'm flattered. Thank you." She took my hand off the stick shift and kissed the back of it before putting it back. "I just wish my husband felt the same."

"How long has this been happening? Are you sure?" I was still in a state of shock.

"Am I sure? Oh, yes. We have a small circle of wealthy friends, dear; no secret is safe with them, I assure you. They absolutely relish gossip, especially when the topic is 'Poor Charlotte, isn't it a shame about Rob?'. It's been going on for years. The first time Robert dipped his wick in another woman's candelabra, it took all of half a day for me to hear about it from our well-meaning friends." A tinge of bitterness crept into her voice now.

"It started not long after I gave birth to Arianna. When we brought her home from the hospital, his attitude towards me changed. It was as if giving birth to his child automatically demoted me from lover to nanny. From that point on unless it was New Years, my birthday, or he happened to be drunk and horny, he seldom touched me. The few times I suggested we should try for another baby, his reaction made it clear it was a lost cause. He had no interest, was perfectly content with Arianna; in fact he doted on her, spoiled her, denied her nothing and she ended up inheriting all his bad traits. She loves me because I'm her mother I suppose, but it's clear where her loyalties lie; she's daddy's girl through and through."

Curious now, I had to ask, "So, what keeps you from leaving him?"

"Lack of motivation, mostly. Where would I go, and who would I go with? Other than emotionally, he treats me well. I have plenty of freedom to buy what I want and a lovely home to live in. My charity work keeps me , and he encourages me to be active in supporting the arts. It beats living in a trailer park." I thought to myself she had a point, but what a lonely existence it must be for her.

"Joel," she said softly, "when you said, 'every straight male with a pulse', did that include you as well? Even when you were married to my daughter?"

At that moment, I felt like anything less than the truth would be disingenuous. "Yes, Charlotte, even me. There's never been anything wrong with my eyesight, you are breathtaking."

"Good," was all she said; having done so, she turned her head to look out the side curtain window and went back to enjoying the scenery.

Due to our early start we were both getting hungry, so after we crossed the Golden Gate and made it up the Waldo grade and through the Robin Williams tunnel, I took the Sausalito exit in search of lunch. Cruising down Bridgeway Avenue, we ended up parking and went into the high-end Spinnaker restaurant on the waterfront. A posh linen-napkin kind of place not typical of where I'd go for lunch, but I wanted to make it a nice meal for Charlotte. It had just opened, and the place wasn't crowded with tourists yet so we got seated next to a floor-to-ceiling glass window; it gave us a wonderful view of the San Francisco skyline across the Bay.

When the server came to give us menus, Charlotte declined, remarking to me, "I like a man to order for me Joel. Get me whatever you think is best." For some reason, this remark produced what I can only describe as a testosterone rush in me. This was clearly not the disdainful Charlotte I'd first met; this one made me feel, for lack of a better term, manly.

Smiling at the server, I said "No need for menus, we're ready to order. The lady and I will be sharing 6 Kumamoto oysters as our appetizer, then she'll be having the salmon piccata with mixed vegetables over brown rice. I'll be having the seafood salad. For drinks, she'll have a glass of the 2001 Tablas Creek Grenache Blanc. I'm driving, so I won't be having any wine today. We'll share a 1-liter bottle of sparking water with the meal. We'll also share the mascarpone cream torte for dessert, one plate, two forks. Does that sound good?"

The server looked impressed. "Very good sir," he remarked, then turned and left.

Charlotte leaned back in her chair and stroked her chin, as if studying me. "Joel, that was quite impressive," she remarked, "I'm really looking forward to it. How exactly did you become such a food connoisseur?"

"When I graduated from high school Mr. Carter sent me to Europe, mainly Germany and Italy, for my mechanic's training. My time there gave me a genuine appreciation for food. I can't stand fast food now; life isn't worth living if you don't eat well."

"I agree completely." Then she leaned forward as if on an Inquisition. "But how, pray tell, did you know what my favorite wine was?"

"Oh, that was simple. This morning while I was waiting in your kitchen making coffee, I peeked at the wine rack in your pantry."

Charlotte reached across the table with her right hand and took and gently took my left. (I was now utterly convinced I was in a Twilight Zone episode. Who WAS this woman?!?!) "You are indeed a man of many undiscovered talents, Joel. My daughter was a fool to let you slip away." Our server showed up with her glass of wine; she let go of my hand, picked up the glass and took a sip. "Ohhh, yes, marvelous. Joel, just the thing." We didn't talk much the rest of the meal, we were too busy eating, and savoring every bite. A quick round of coffee and we were on our way.