“If that’s what you want,” Ralph says, disgruntled. He probably had part two of his pitch all set to go.
“I’m going to take Route Nine, let it open up,” John says. He seems to be listening to the innards of the car as he drives out of the city. “Radio work?” he asks.
“It certainly does,” says the salesman, inching forward in his seat so that his face is just behind his customer’s ear.
“The heater?”
“You can turn it on with that button there. Honey, why don’t you just press that green button and then turn the dial?”
The doctor chooses that moment to press down hard on the gas pedal, slamming Ralph back. Grace wants to smile, but knows that wouldn’t help the negotiations. Once out of the city, John steadily increases the speed until they are going fifty-five miles per hour along Route 9. The dial reads sixty. He takes it to sixty-five.
“I must remind you about the speed limit!” Ralph squawks from the back.
“Yes, of course,” says John, bringing it down to thirty. The car feels as though it’s barely moving. Even so, according to signs, they are still five miles over the limit. Wisely, the salesman keeps his warnings to himself.
When they pull into the lot and exit the car, the doctor asks the price.
“I can’t let this beauty go for less than eleven hundred.”
Inside, he and Ralph retreat into an inner office, while Grace, tempted by the coffee but remembering that she has promised to buy Dr. Lighthart one after the sale is complete, sits and waits.
It isn’t long before he emerges from the office. He sits next to Grace and speaks in a low tone. “I got him down to nine. He’ll take the seven today, and you can pay the balance in installments of twenty dollars a month for ten months. He agreed to waive the interest.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
“He’s got his eye on my Packard. Worth his while to keep me happy. The Buick begins to shimmy at sixty-five, so I wouldn’t take it over sixty.”
Grace laughs. “I’ll be amazed if I ever go over thirty-five.”
“After I made the deal, I got him to agree to fill the oil and the radiator and gas her up. As soon as we do the paperwork, we can go get that cup of coffee.”
“I’m buying you lunch,” she says.
They both order meals that will take them twenty minutes to eat. “I told him we’d be back in half an hour.”
Grace nods. Now, alone with the doctor in the luncheonette, an awkwardness settles over her. Her mouth is dry. She isn’t at all certain she can call him John. He sits back in the booth and lights a cigarette and asks her if she wants one. She says yes, mainly to quell her nerves. If they were in the office right now, there wouldn’t be any nerves. It’s the change of venue and possibly the excitement of buying her own car that’s causing her anxiety.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“I was thinking about Rosie. I told you about her. She almost always makes me smile.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s a little zany, and she wants to have fun. If she were still living next door, and I drove up with the new Buick, she’d shriek with happiness. She’d want to put all our kids in the backseat and go for a ride and let our hair blow in the wind and smoke cigarettes.”
“You must miss her.”
“I do.”
He puts money on the table.
“No, it’s my treat,” she says.
“Okay,” he says, withdrawing the cash.
Grace fetches seventy-five cents from her purse.
He stands. “Let’s go take your new car for a spin. I’ll leave mine here. You’re driving.”
Having adjusted the seat so that it suits her, she maneuvers out of the city. The doctor leans back.
“Where shall I go?” she asks.
“Get us out of the city, and then take Route Nine again,” he says. “We’ll head toward Kennebunkport.”
She follows his directions.
“Now bring it up to thirty-five,” he instructs.
“I don’t want to get a ticket my first time out.”
“You won’t.”
Grace brings it up to speed and lets the Buick go. She’s too nervous to turn on the radio or the heater. Her hands feel as though they’re cemented onto the steering wheel.
“Take it to forty.”
“Speeding tickets are expensive.”
“I know. Trust me. How does it feel?”
“Good.”
He laughs. “You’re supposed to be thrilled.”
“I’m too nervous to be thrilled.”
“I can see that. Here.” He holds out a lit cigarette. Grace reluctantly lets go of the wheel to take it, and then again when she wants a puff. “Now hit fifty-five,” he says, “and roll down your window.”
She holds the steering wheel with her right hand, which has a cigarette in it, and rolls her window down. The cold air blasts into the car and lifts her hair.
“Relax,” he says. “Smoke your cigarette, let your hair blow around, and think of Rosie.”
When they reach the town limits of Kennebunkport, Grace reverses direction and heads back to Biddeford.
“Wait a sec,” John says, reaching into his coat pocket. “I wrote down two addresses from this morning’s paper for apartments that sounded promising. How about you come with me? I could use your opinion.”
Grace imagines telling her mother that it takes a very long time to buy a car.
The first place was clearly once a boardinghouse with its bare door and at least six vehicles parked in the driveway. The building is painted sky blue, the shutters pink, and there are rusted farm implements and children’s toys in the front yard.
“What do you think?” Grace asks. “Worth a try?”
John raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think I could stand coming home to a pink and blue house, and to judge from all the stuff in the yard, I’m guessing the interior isn’t up to much either.”
“If it were me,” Grace says, “I wouldn’t go inside.”
“That’s it then,” he says and gives her directions to the second place.
Grace pulls to a stop at the head of a driveway. It’s hard to tell if it’s a working farm or not. The buildings are well kept.
They are presented with three doors to choose from.
“Pretty barn,” Grace murmurs.
John heads for the main house. “This must be the kitchen door. With farm folk, that usually means the front door because the real front door is never opened.”
“How do you know so much about farms?”
“When I was in medical school, a doctor let me go with him on house calls.” John knocks, and a middle-aged woman, with her hair in a bun, and her face red (heat from the oven, Grace decides), opens the door.
“Hello, we’re here to see about the apartment to rent,” John explains.
“Yep,” the woman says, stepping aside.
Grace would like to rent the kitchen. The scent of sweet spices floods the room. She breathes deeply.
“It’s this way,” the farm woman says, opening another door. Grace has a sense that they’re now in the ell attached to the kitchen. “This used to be a sheep farm. Last October, when the sheep were out to the far pasture, fire come roaring down the hill like a dragon and burnt nearly all of them. They couldn’t get away. You could smell cooked meat for weeks. That’s why we’re renting out rooms, to make ends meet.”
“The fire didn’t touch the house,” Grace says.
“Nope.”
“You were lucky.”
“Don’t feel that way.” She stops and makes a short gesture with her hand. “This is it.”
Grace scans the room, large enough for a small sofa, an armchair, a table and two chairs. The woman has made an effort to transform what was essentially a place for tools into a cozy living room. The focal point is the fireplace. When the farm wife notices Grace’s glance, she says, “Fireplace draws good. I only put a hot plate out here case you want to make your own coffee. You always have access to the kitchen, and I make three meals a day. They’re included in the rent. You can eat with one of us, or bring your meal to the table here. As we go along, you can give me some idea of what you’d like. You plannin’ on having children?”
Grace and John look at each other.