“Hello, officer,” he says in an accent so thick, it’s hard to understand him. “Is problem?”
“License and registration,” the officer says in a bored voice.
Enzo hands over the paperwork, waiting to hear what the cop has to say. He inspects Enzo’s license and finally says, “You know how fast you were going, Mr. Accardi?”
“I so sorry,” Enzo says. “But… see gas dial? Is almost empty! I must go fast to find gas station before we run out!”
The officer stares at him for a second, scratching his head. “It doesn’t work like that, you know.”
“No?” Enzo flashes him an astonished look, which actually seems pretty genuine. “I did not know!”
“No. It doesn’t.” He looks down at the license again, then back at my husband and the rest of us in the car. “Okay, I don’t want to spoil your afternoon with your family. Go get some gas for your car. No need to go so fast.”
“Grazie.” Enzo smiles up at the officer. “You have good day, sir.”
It’s only after the police officer has gone back to his car and Enzo has rolled up the window that he winks at me. “Is too easy.”
He never gets tickets. He always manages to talk his way out of it. Or lie his way out of it, as the case may be. It’s astonishing how good he is at saying things that are a hundred percent untrue with a completely straight face.
I’ve always known my husband is an excellent liar. It just never bothered me until I suspected he was hiding something from me.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jonathan and Suzette beat us to the beach. Even though we were likely driving faster, they didn’t get pulled over by the cops on the way over.
We park in the special fancy lot for the private beach, and when I get out of the car, Jonathan and Suzette are making their way to the entrance, which is guarded by a tough-looking guy in a black wife-beater T-shirt and swim shorts. He’s like the private beach equivalent of a bouncer.
Jonathan is carrying two beach chairs and an umbrella, while Suzette just has a small tote bag slung over her shoulder. Jonathan looks like the typical beachgoer at the beginning of the season—a little too pale, a bit of a gut hanging over his swim trunks, his white feet shoved into a pair of flip-flops, a baseball cap covering his thinning hair. Suzette, on the other hand, looks like she has been going to the beach all winter. She is perfectly tanned, her Cartier sunglasses perched on her nose, and she is wearing a tiny bikini that shows off a spectacularly fit body.
After two children and forty-plus years of gravity taking its toll, my body doesn’t look like that. It can’t. But even when I was twenty-five, I never felt comfortable prancing around the beach in a bikini the size of a handkerchief, so today I am wearing a modest one-piece bathing suit with a cover-up over it. And much like Jonathan, I am painfully pale. I probably won’t take the cover-up off the whole time, since I’m not much of a swimmer.
The beach bouncer is checking out Suzette in her teeny tiny bikini. Actually, a lot of people are checking out Suzette. Even I’m having trouble not staring a bit. When does she have time to get her belly that firm? And I’m guessing she doesn’t have any C-section scars or stretch marks she needs to cover up.
Enzo has his T-shirt and trunks on, and he is wrangling our own beach furniture he pulled from the trunk. To be honest, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he were checking Suzette out in that tiny bikini—he’s only human—but I don’t catch his gaze dipping below the neckline.
“Millie!” Suzette says. “What an… interesting cover-up you have on. I love how you don’t feel like you need to spend a ton of money on a beach outfit. That is so you.”
That was a backhanded compliment if there ever was one. But I can’t really argue with it. I got the cover-up from the discount rack.
And while Enzo has not been checking out Suzette, I can’t say the same for her. Her cool blue-green eyes rake over his body, and her lips curl. And he hasn’t even taken his shirt off yet.
We’re not even on the beach yet, and suddenly I want to go home. But I suppose it’s better I’m here instead of leaving him alone with Suzette in her tiny bikini.
“Did you have trouble finding the beach?” Suzette asks. “We were wondering if you guys got lost along the way.”
Nico quickly spills the beans. “Dad got pulled over by the cops.”
Enzo laughs. “I was going too fast, they said.”
“I’m sure you weren’t.” Suzette shakes her head. “The police around here are so overzealous.”
“Well, we’re glad you could make it,” Jonathan says. Unlike his wife, there doesn’t seem to be any overtone in his statement. He seems genuinely glad to see us. “How are you doing, Nico? We miss you coming over to do chores.”
It’s kind of Jonathan to say that, even though really I know they were sick of having Nico over at their house and breaking half their living room.
Nico shrugs.
I want to tell him he’s being rude, but it feels like there’s almost no point. His moodiness has gotten even worse lately. I finally called his pediatrician and took him in for a visit, but after listening to his heart and lungs, she didn’t have much else to add. She didn’t recommend therapy. In fact, she said the same exact thing Enzo said: Boys can be aggressive sometimes. He’s probably still adjusting to the move. Just give it time.
“Where are the clients we’re meeting?” I ask Suzette.
“Oh.” She shrugs. “They canceled.”
Enzo doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised, which makes me wonder if there was ever a client to begin with. I mean, a beach meeting? That sounded so made up.
But no, I’m being paranoid. I’m sure there was a client. People do cancel.
Suzette leads us to the beach to find the perfect spot to set up. Except she can’t seem to decide on the perfect spot. We tromp through half the beach, past several spots that seem perfectly fine. Poor Jonathan is struggling with carrying the two chairs and umbrella, so I offer to grab the umbrella for him in addition to our own. Suzette could offer to carry at least one thing, but she doesn’t seem inclined to do so. Jonathan is pretty good-natured about the whole thing though.
“Okay,” she finally says when it feels like my arms are about to fall off. “This seems good.”
Jonathan drops the two chairs on the ground, but just as he’s flexing his arms, she says, “Wait, maybe we should go down that way. The sun is better over there.”
Jonathan is ready to pick up the chairs again, but I’ve had enough. “Suzette,” I say, “this is perfect. And I’m not walking one more step.”
She rolls her eyes. “All right, all right. But, Millie, walking is good for you. It’s slimming.”
Would punching her in the face be slimming? Because that might happen today.
