She pulled to the curb, and he opened the door and got in.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi." She pulled into traffic.
I have no idea where we're going.
"It smells good in here," Matt said.
"And you just love women who wear French perfume, right?"
"I was talking about the smell of the leather," Matt replied. "Peculiarly Porsche, so to speak."
My God! He either thinks very quickly, or he really was talking about the damned leather.
He leaned close to her and sniffed.
"But now that you mention it, I do love women who wear French perfume."
And I can smell him, too. I don't know what that after-shave is, but he didn't get a large economy bottle of it for ninety-eight cents in Woolworth's.
And he's freshly shaven. He probably took a shower and a shave, getting all ready for the big date.
I wonder what he looks like in the shower?
What's the matter with you? Stop that!
"Is where we're going far?" Matt asked. "More than, say, two miles?"
"I haven't made up my mind where we're going. Only that it's not going to take long."
"Whatever you decide is fine with me, fair maiden. But keep in mind the two-mile limitation."
"What's with two miles? What are you talking about."
"These are marvelous machines, fair maiden, the ne plus ultra of German automotive engineering. But even a 911 requires what the Germans call, I think, 'petrol.' Or, maybe, essence. It's needed, you see, to make the pistons go up and down."
Susan dropped her eyes to the dashboard. The red FUEL WARNING light was blinking, and the needle on the gas gauge pointed below Empty.
"Shit!" Susan said, and started looking for a gas station.
"These are a real bitch to start after you've run them completely dry," he said matter-of-factly.
"Among your many other qualifications, you're a Porsche expert, right?" she snapped.
"Maybe 'journeyman craftsman' would be more accurate. "
"I'm touched by your modesty," she said.
"And well you should be," he said.
She pulled into a gas station and stopped at a line of pumps. Matt opened the door and got out.
The attendant appeared.
"You mind if I do it myself?" Matt asked.
"Help yourself," the attendant said.
"How about getting me a little rag? I want to check the oil, too."
"You got it."
"The oil's fine," Susan said.
"An ounce of prevention is worth several thousand dollars ' worth of cure," Matt proclaimed solemnly. "Pop the lid, fair maiden."
"Shit," Susan said, and got out of the car to check the oil herself.
"The way you do that," Matt called to her from the gas pump, "is that there's a long thin metal thing that fits in a hole."
"Screw you, Matt."
"Who taught you all the dirty words? Good ol' Whatsisname? "
She pulled the dipstick, wiped it, dipped it again and looked at it in disbelief, and dipped it again. And again there was only a trace of motor oil on it.
"How much does it need?" Matt asked, and when she looked at him, he added, "I was watching your face."
"A lot," she confessed.
"What do you run in it?" he asked.
"Pennzoil 10W-30," she said.
"Good stuff," he said. He turned to the attendant. "Two, and possibly three, quarts of your very best Pennzoil 10W-30, please."
"You got it," the attendant said, smiling at him.
Or, condescendingly, Susan wondered, at a stupid female who doesn't have enough brains to check the oil? Well, if that's it, I deserve it. Not checking the oil was stupid.
Matt put the oil in. It took three quarts, and half of a fourth.
"It was just a little low, I would say," Matt said.
"Okay. You were right and I was wrong. I've had a lot on my mind lately, I guess, and just didn't check."
"I have a sister who does the same sort of thing," he said with a smile.
"Anyway, thank you."
"You're welcome," he said. "Can I make a request?"
"Request."
"A truce until after dinner? Hostilities can resume immediately after the second cup of coffee."
"Okay," she said after a just perceptible hesitation.
Why not? What's playing the bitch with him going to accomplish?
"Deal?" Matt asked.
He put out his hand and, without thinking about it, she took it. His hand was warm and strong.
"Deal," Susan said. She was aware her voice sounded strange.
"Good," he said. "Then pay the man, fair maiden, and we'll be on our way."
He got behind the wheel and closed the door.
"What makes you think I'm going to let you drive?" Susan demanded.
"Because we are in a state of truce," Matt replied. "And also maybe because you are grateful I kept you from running out of gas."
Why not? Same reason as before.
She gave the attendant her credit card, signed the form, and got in beside him. She was a trifle amused at the care with which he adjusted the driver's seat.
He pulled out of the station, and she saw that he was better working the gears than she was.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To the only decent restaurant I know around here. Except, of course, the Penn-Harris. They gave me a very nice breakfast. My lunch was a disaster."
"Where is this only decent restaurant?"
"Little town called Hershey," Matt said. "They make chocolate there, you know."
"I don't want to go all the way out to Hershey."
"Not to worry, fair maiden. We now have a full tank of petrol. And I'm driving."
Susan elected not to make an issue of it.
He got on U.S. 422 and immediately pushed harder on the accelerator.
"You're going to get a ticket," Susan said.
"Fear not, fair maiden."
The speedometer was indicating seventy-five when there was the sound of a siren and the image of the flashing lights of a bubble-gum machine on a state trooper's car in the rearview mirror.
Matt immediately slowed, but did not pull off the highway onto the shoulder. The state trooper pulled alongside. Matt held his identification folder up for the trooper to see.
The trooper made a slow-it-down gesture. Matt nodded his willingness to do so. The trooper's car slowed and fell behind. Susan turned and looked out the window. The trooper had pulled his car off the road, and was about to make a U-turn back toward Harrisburg.
Back to give a ticket to some ordinary citizen for going five miles over the speed limit.
"That's outrageous!" Susan said indignantly.
"That's what's known as professional courtesy," Matt said. "You know, like sharks don't eat lawyers?"
"It's an abuse of power!"
"It's legal," he said. "Traffic officers have the option of issuing a citation or a warning. He opted to give me a warning."
"Jesus!" she said in contempt.
Five minutes later, with the speedometer indicating sixty-five-fifteen miles over the posted limit-Matt said:
"I really like the smell in here. And I am not talking about the leather."
Susan didn't reply.
He drove into the town of Hershey. The delightful smell of cocoa beans overwhelmed the smell of her perfume, and he told her so.
"That may not be a bad thing," he said. "Have you ever thought of rubbing a Hershey bar behind your ears? Or someplace more feminine? You might be able to save some money that way. What you're wearing has to be awfully expensive."
"No," she said as sternly as she could manage. But she had to smile.
He pulled into the parking lot behind the Hotel Hershey.
Susan started to open the door.
"Wait a minute," Matt ordered.
She turned and looked at him, and obediently slumped back into her seat.
He turned, so that his back was resting on the door. His hand and arm came to rest on the back of her seat. She could feel the warmth of his hand.