“What’s the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there’s not much difference between the gears.”

“You got it. It’s for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.”

“There wouldn’t be any point having a car like this if you weren’t.”

“We’re on the same page there.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Altogether? About four years. I just finished restoring it a few months ago.”

“It must be a lot of work, restoring cars.”

He slanted a glance at her as his hand worked the gearshift. “I could point out the irony of you saying anything’s a lot of work. Plus it’s a driveable ad for the business. People notice a car like this, then they ask about it.Word gets around.Then maybe some trust fund baby who’s got his granddaddy’s Coupe de Ville garaged decides to have it restored, or some dude with a wad of cash wants to revisit his youth and hires me to find and restore a ’72 Porshe 911 wherein he lost his virginity, which takes some doing in a 911.”

“I’ll take your word.”

He grinned. “Where’d you lose yours?”

“In Cabo San Lucas.”

His laugh was quick. “Now, how many people can say that?”

“A number of Cabo San Lucans, I imagine. But to return to the car, it’s very smart.The idea of a driveable ad for your business.”

It did move, she thought. Hugging the curves of the road like a lizard hugged a rock. And like the bike, it spoke of power in subtle roars, smooth hums.

Not practical, of course, not in the least. Her sedan was practical. But . . .

“I’d love to drive it myself.”

“No.”

She angled her head, challenged by the absolute denial.“I have an excellent driving record.”

“Bet you do. Still no.What was your first car?”

“A little BMW convertible.”

“The 328i?”

“If you say so. It was silver. I loved it.What was yours?”

“An ’82 Camaro Z28, five speed, cross-fire fuel-injected V8. She moved, at least when I finished with her. She had seventy thousand hard miles on her when I got her off this guy in Stamford. Anyway.” He parked across from a popular chophouse. “I thought we’d eat.”

“All right.”

He took her hand as they crossed the street, which gave her, she told herself, a ridiculous little thrill.

“How old were you when you got the car?”

“Fifteen.”

“You weren’t even old enough to drive it.”

“Which is one of the many things my mother pointed out when she found out I’d blown a big chunk of the money I was supposed to be saving for college on a secondhand junker that looked ready for the crusher. She’d have kicked my ass and made me sell it again if Nappy hadn’t talked her out of it.”

“Nappy?”

He held up two fingers when they stood inside, got a nod and a wait-one-minute signal from the hostess. “He ran the garage back then, what’s mine now. I worked for him weekends and summers, and whenever I could skip out of school. He convinced her restoring the car would be educational, how I was learning a trade, and that it would keep me out of trouble, which I guess it did. Sometimes.”

As she walked with him in the hostess’s wake, she thought of her own teenage summers. She’d worked in the Brown Foundation, learning along with Del how to handle the responsibility, respect the legacy—but the bulk of her holidays had been spent in the Hamptons, by the pool of her own estate, with friends, with a week or two in Europe to top it off.

He ordered a beer, she a glass of red.

“I doubt your mother would’ve approved of the skipping school.”

“Not when she caught me, which was most of the time.”

“I ran into her yesterday.We had coffee.”

She saw what she’d seen rarely. Malcolm Kavanaugh completely taken by surprise. “You had . . . She didn’t mention it.”

“Oh, it was just one of those things.” Casually, Parker opened the menu. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner.”

“We’re having dinner.”

“Sunday dinner.” She smiled. “Now who’s scared?”

“Scared’s a strong word. Consider yourself asked, and we’ll figure out when it’ll work. Have you eaten here before?”

“Mmm.They have baked potatoes the size of footballs. I think I’ll have one.” She set her menu aside.“Did you know your mother worked for mine occasionally—extra help at parties?”

“Yeah, I knew that.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Do you think that’s a problem for me?”

“No. No, I don’t. I think it might be a problem for some people, but you’re not one of them. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me . . .”

“What?”

“That there’d been a connection there, back when we were kids.”

The waiter brought their drinks, took their order.

“I changed a tire for your mother once.”

She felt a little clutch in her heart. “Really?”

“The spring before I took off. I guess she was driving home from some deal at the country club or wherever.” Looking back, bringing it into his mind, he took a sip of his beer. “She had on this dress, the kind that floats and makes men hope winter never comes back. It had rosebuds, red rosebuds all over it.”

“I remember that dress,” Parker whispered. “I can see her in that dress.”

“She’d had the top down, and her hair was all windblown, and she wore these big sunglasses. I thought, Jesus, she looks like a movie star.Anyway, she didn’t have a blowout. She had a slow leak she didn’t notice until she did, and pulled over, called for service.

“I’d never seen anybody who looked like her. Anybody that beautiful. Until you. She talked to me the whole time.Where did I go to school, what did I like to do. And when she got that I was Kay Kavanaugh’s boy, she asked about her, how she was doing. She gave me ten dollars over the bill, and a pat on the cheek. And as I watched her drive away I thought, I remember thinking, that’s what beautiful is.What it really is.”

He lifted his beer again, caught the look on Parker’s face.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You didn’t.” Though her eyes stung. “You gave me a little piece of her I didn’t have before. Sometimes I miss them so much, so painfully, it’s comforting to have those pieces, those little pictures. Now I can see her in her spring rosebud dress, talking to the boy changing her tire, a boy who was marking time until he could go to California. And dazzling him.”

She reached out, laid a hand over his on the table. “Tell me about California, about what you did when you got there.”

“It took me six months to get there.”

“Tell me about that.”

She learned he’d lived in his car a good portion of the time, picking up odd jobs to pay for gas, for food, for the occasional motel.

He made it sound funny, adventurous, and as they ate, she thought it had been both. But she also imagined how hard, how scary it would have been all too often for a boy that age, away from home, living on his wits and whatever he could pocket from work on the road.

He’d pumped gas in Pittsburgh, picked up some maintenance work in West Virginia, moved on to Illinois where he’d worked as a mechanic outside of Peoria. And so had worked his way cross-country, seeing parts of it Parker knew she had never seen, and was unlikely ever to see.

“Did you ever consider coming back? Just turning around and heading home?”

“No. I had to get where I was going, do what I was going to do.When you’re eighteen you can live off stubborn and pride for a long time. And I liked being on my own, without somebody watching and waiting to say I knew you wouldn’t make it, knew you were no good.”

“Your mother would never—”

“No, not Ma.”

“Ah.” His uncle, she thought, and said nothing more.

“That’s a long, ugly story. Let’s take a walk instead.”

On the busy main street they ran into people she knew, or people he knew. On both sides there was enough puzzlement and curiosity to amuse him.

“People wonder what you’re doing with me,” he commented, “or what I’m doing with you.”

“People should spend more time on their own business than speculating on other people’s.”

“In Greenwich everybody’s going to speculate about the Browns.They’re just going to be careful when it’s you.”

“Me?” Honestly surprised, Parker frowned at him. “Why?”

“In your business you get to know a lot of secrets. In mine, too.”

“How’s that?”

“People want their car detailed, for instance, and don’t always make sure everything’s out of it they don’t want other people to see.”

“Such as?”

“That would be telling.”

She elbowed him. “Not if I don’t know who left the what.”

“We have a running contest at the garage. Whoever finds the most women’s underwear in a month gets a six-pack.”

“Oh. Hmmm.”

“You asked.”

She considered a moment.“I can beat that,” she determined.“I can beat that.”

“Okay.”

“I once found a Chantelle demi-cut bra—black lace, thirty-six-C, hanging on a branch of a willow by the pond and the matching panties floating in the water.”

“Chantelle who?”

“That’s the lingerie designer.You know cars. I know fashion.”

“Something about cars and weddings,” he said as he opened the passenger door for her, “must make women want to take off their underwear.” He grinned as she slid in. “So feel free.”

“That’s so sweet of you.”

When she settled back in the car again, she considered it a successful evening. She’d enjoyed it, enjoyed him, learned a little more—even if she’d had to nudge, poke, and pry the more out of him.