"Yeah," he agreed, "only you came out of the parking lot where you are supposed to go in."
"I did?"
"That's why our crossing guard was blowing her whistle at you."
"She was?"
I glanced back in the rearview mirror. "Oh, well. You help me drive and I'll help you spell."
"Home is the other way," he informed me.
"Oh. Right." I needed to turn the car around. "Don't worry. All we have to do is-whoops! 'Do Not Enter.' So. . so, we'll take a left, then another left." I made the first turn. "Well get there eventually."
"When we do, can we play with my plastic horses? Ashley said you can ride Silver Knight."
"Ashley said-what?"
A horn blared at me as I turned the corner.
"To the right!" Patrick cried.
There was no time to veer away from the oncoming car. I slammed on the brakes. Our car screeched to a stop, nose to nose with the other vehicle. I wrenched around to look at Patrick. "Are you okay?"
He bobbed his head. "That was close."
There had been no thump, no crushing metal sounds, no shattering of glass. I sank back against my seat. "I'm sorry, Patrick. I hope I didn't scare you."
"Nope," he said. I saw him looking past me, and I turned to see the guy who had been driving the other car leap out of it. He shouted at me, waving his arms like a lunatic.
"What are you doing, lady? Are you trying to kill me?"
We could hear him though our windows were rolled "You ever driven a car before? Are you driving with your eyes closed? Do you know left from right? Do you want both sides of the street to be your side?"
I think he's mad," Patrick observed.
"Perhaps a bit," I said calmly. "You stay here." I got out of the car to speak to the guy and make sure no damage had been done. Cars moved slowly around our two vehicles, people craning their heads to see what had happened.
"Didn't you see me coming?" the guy asked as we strode toward each other. "What does it matter if you saw me?" he answered himself. "You're on the wrong side of the street!"
"I'm sorry. I made a mistake. But there's no reason to get dramatic about it."
"No reason! My entire life flashed before my eyes."
"Really. I hope it was interesting," I said, then checked over both cars, though clearly they had not touched. "I didn't even jostle your bonnet."
He looked at me funny, and I remembered that American cars had another name for the front of the vehicle. "I mean your cap."
He squinted at me and ran his hands through his hair, big hands through dark and wavy hair. I suddenly recognized him-the guy in the antique shop, the one who had been buying a last-minute gift.
"What I mean is that whatever that big metal thing is"-l pointed to the front of his car-"l didn't touch it."
"I remember you from the store," he said. "You're English."
"Not exactly."
"That's why you're driving on the wrong side of the road."
"It's only the wrong side in America," I pointed out.
He took a step closer, perhaps wanting another look at eyes that were like green plastic pop bottles, but I couldn't step back. The obedient little boy I had told to stay in the car was standing on my heels, peeking around me.
The guy rested his hand on the front of his car. "This is called a hood."
"I'll try to remember that," I replied crisply. "And I'll try to stay on the right side of the road." Oh, those dark, brilliant eyes! I thought. "Let's go, Patrick."
"Wait, Kate." Patrick yanked on me, wanting me to bend down so he could whisper. He spoke loud enough to be heard in the next shire. "It's Sam Koscinski, the hockey player. Don't you remember? I showed you his picture."
Hearing the awe in Patrick's voice, the guy smiled. No guy, I thought, should have both eyes and a smile that could melt steel. His ego was probably insufferable.
"I do remember. The manic-looking one."
The guy laughed. He didn't care-he knew girls found him attractive.
"Can I have your autograph?" Patrick asked.
"Sure," Sam replied in his soft American drawl. "Do you have something I could sign?"
Patrick glanced up at me.
"Get a piece of paper from your book bag. Not your spelling test," I added, watching him to make sure he stayed on the left side of the car, walking safely between it and the sidewalk.
"Are you his baby-sitter?" Sam asked me.
I turned back to him. "His tutor," I said, "his nanny, au pair, whatever. I live with the family."
"Oh, yeah? Where?"
"Outside of town, an estate called Mason's Choice."
"The Westbrooks' place?" Sam's smile disappeared.
"Yes."
"That kid is a Westbrook?" Sam's eyes narrowed. "How is he related?"
"He is Adrian Westbrook's son."
"Nice father," Sam remarked, his voice thick with sarcasm.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean a lot of things. For one, his father yanks people around."
"Well, his father isn't the one who wants your autograph," I reminded him.
"I tore off two pieces of paper," Patrick announced as he rejoined us. "Can you sign both? I'm going to mail one to Tim," he explained happily. "Tim's dad took us to your games."
Sam signed both of the ragged pieces quickly-carelessly, I thought. I hoped that Patrick was too enamored to notice the sudden chill in the air.
"Are you playing here this Saturday?" Patrick asked him.
"Yup. Got to go," Sam said brusquely.
"Can we go to the game, Kate? Can we, please? Please?"
"If we can't find anything better to do," I said.
Sam, who had started off, glanced back a moment.
I couldn't tell him off, not in front of Patrick. I wasn't going to tear down a child's hero, even if he was a royal jerk.
Sam waited for me to back up and drive past his car, perhaps thinking it was safest if he didn't move while I was on the road. It wasn't until we turned into the gates of Mason's Choice that I remembered what had distracted me from my driving.
At the thought of it, the skin on my arms rose in little bumps. According to Patrick, Ashley had said I could "ride" Silver Knight. The toy's name had been a secret shared by us-how did Patrick know it? Since the horse was my favorite among Ashley's toys, it was also the bribe she would use when she wanted me to play with her. I found it spooky that twelve years later, Patrick, wanting me to play, was making the same offer.
"An excellent idea, Patrick," Adrian said that evening, touching his son's cheek, smiling at him. "Mrs. Hopewell, set a place at the dinner table for Kate."
Eating dinner with the family was the last thing I wanted to do. "Thank you very much, but-" "You may place her between Trent and me," Emily interrupted.
"I've told you before, Emily," Robyn said, "you don't need to give Hoppy instructions. She is quite capable at her job. Besides, the order for seating people at the table was set long before you arrived here."
"By you, I suppose," Emily replied, "before I was born."
Robyn sent her a withering look.
In the last fifteen minutes, with the family gathered in the beautiful, high-ceilinged room that overlooked an expanse of darkening water and sky, the petty comments had run nonstop. Robyn, who had chosen the armchair closest to her father's, showed considerable skill in undermining Emily's authority in the household.
Emily, responding by positioning herself even closer to Adrian, perching on the ottoman that matched his chair, displayed her own talent for small putdowns, such as reminding Robyn of her age. Both women continually glanced at Adrian, like schoolgirls waiting for an adult to notice and take sides.
Across the room, next to the fireplace, Trent and Brook had their own game going.
"I don't care where anyone sits," Brook said, lounging on a striped silk sofa, his muddy feet on the upholstery, "as long as I get fed."