The Older Woman

“A 1966 Thunderbird convertible.”

“You are kidding me. Like the one in the movie, you mean?”

“Except this one is red. Leather seats. Mint condition.”

“You are kidding me,” he said again.

“Nope. The late Mr. Bee gave it to her, brand-new, for her fiftieth birthday. She’s called it Thelma and Louise ever since she saw the movie. He didn’t want her to be depressed about hitting the half-century mark.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, driving it certainly cheers me up. She wants me to blow it out on the interstate.”

“You know how to do that, I guess,” he said, trying not to smile.

“You just hold on to your hat, soldier.”

She led the way down the steps, and she didn’t offer to help him. He liked that about her—that she didn’t act as if she even noticed that he was incapacitated. Unless he was about to fall on his face.

Everything was working pretty well at the moment, though. Some pain. Not too bad. He wished he’d dressed up a little. He’d traded the PT outfit for civilian cargo shorts and a blue golf shirt, but no way was he in any kind of league with that dress.

The car was carefully locked away in a wooden building in the backyard, one Doyle had seen a million times and never wondered about.

He followed Meehan in that direction, then abruptly stopped.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking back at him.

“Before we get too far along here, I better tell you the boyfriend came by this morning—in case you want to do something about it.”

“Oh, I know,” she said.

“You know? What did he do? Call to report someone had broken into your house?”

“Something like that,” she said.

He started walking again. “And you said?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I don’t have to explain what you were doing in my house to anyone—except maybe my sisters. Those three would definitely have to have an explanation.”

He grinned and continued walking to the edge of the driveway, waiting well out of the way while Meehan unlocked the padlock on the door of the outbuilding.

“Damn,” he said under his breath as she eased the shiny red car out of the shed and into what was left of daylight. The vehicle was nothing short of spectacular. How had he missed knowing about this? The car was so fine it would be a privilege just to wash it. Mrs. Bee was full of surprises.

“How do you like it?” Meehan said through the open window.

“Damn,” he said again.

“Exactly,” Meehan said.

“So will the top go down?”

“No problem.”

“Outstanding!” he said with every bit of the enthusiasm he felt.

He hobbled around to the other side. She had the top moving before he reached the passenger-side door. It took some doing for him to get himself inside, but he managed. He sat there for a moment, admiring everything—the seats, the dash—Meehan’s legs. The radio worked, but it wasn’t original. Mrs. Bee apparently liked her sounds. This one had FM bass-expander stereo.

He was beginning to feel like a kid on Christmas morning. Or the cowboy in the Thelma and Louise movie.

“So where are we going?” he asked when he’d finished appreciating everything.

“I’ll leave that to you.”

“No—you pick. Anywhere you want.”

She looked at him for a moment in a way he couldn’t quite figure out. Like she wasn’t sure he meant it—and if he did, why.

But he did mean it. He didn’t care where they went—of course, his ensemble limited the options.

She picked a place near the mall—the same one he would have picked actually.

“Parking lot is pretty crowded,” she said as she pulled the car into a space.

“No, this is fine. They have great food.”

“And beer,” she said helpfully.

“And beer,” he agreed.

“You might see someone you know here.”

“You, too,” he countered.

“I don’t care.”

“Well, me, neither,” he assured her.

“This might work out then,” she said.

“Damn straight.”

“Can you walk that far? I can pull up to the door and let you out.”

“No, I can make it.” He opened the car door. He didn’t want to be let out. He wanted to hobble across the parking lot in plain view—with her—so all those people neither one of them cared about could see them together and eat their sorry hearts out.