She avoided making friends and finding lovers, for she was afraid of the pain that only friends and lovers could inflict with their rejections and betrayals. But at the same time that she was protecting herself from the pain, she was denying herself the pleasure of good relationships with good people who would not betray her. Growing up with her drunken violent parents, she had learned that displays of affection were usually followed by sudden outbursts of rage and anger and unexpected punishment.
She was never afraid to take chances in her work and in business matters; now it was time to bring the same spirit of adventure to her personal life. As she walked briskly toward the blue Jeep, swinging her hips a little, she felt tense about taking the emotional risks that the mating dance entailed, but she also felt fresh and feminine and considerably happier than she had in a long time.
Tony hurried around to the passenger’s side and opened the door. Bending low, he said, “The royal carriage awaits.”
“Oh, there must be some mistake. I’m not the queen.”
“You look like a queen to me.”
“I’m just a lowly serving girl.”
“You’re a great deal prettier than the queen.”
“Better not let her hear you say that. She’ll have your head for sure.”
“Too late.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve already lost my head over you.”
Hilary groaned.
“Too saccharine?” he asked.
“I need a bite of lemon after that one.”
“But you liked it.”
“Yes, I admit I did. I guess I’m a sucker for flattery,” she said, getting into the Jeep in a swirl of green silk.
As they drove down toward Westwood Boulevard, Tony said, “You’re not offended?”
“By what?”
“By this buggy?”
“How could I be offended by a Jeep? Does it talk? Is it liable to insult me?”
“It’s not a Mercedes.”
“A Mercedes isn’t a Rolls. And a Rolls isn’t a Toyota.”
“There’s something very Zen about that.”
“If you think I’m a snob, why’d you ask me out?”
“I don’t think you’re a snob,” he said. “But Frank says we’ll be awkward with each other because you’ve got more money than I have.”
“Well, based on my experience with him, I’d say Frank’s judgments of other people are not to be trusted.”
“He has his problems,” Tony agreed as he turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. “But he’s working them out.”
“I will admit this isn’t a car you see many of in L.A.”
“Usually, women ask me if it’s my second car.”
“I don’t really care if it is or isn’t.”
“They say that in L.A. you are what you drive.”
“Is that what they say? Then you’re a Jeep. And I’m a Mercedes. We’re cars, not people. We should be going to the garage for an oil change, not to a restaurant for dinner. Does that make sense?”
“No sense at all,” Tony said. “Actually, I got a Jeep because I like to go skiing three or four weekends every winter. With this jalopy, I know I’ll always be able to get through the mountain passes, no matter how bad the weather gets.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn to ski.”
“I’ll teach you. You’ll have to wait a few weeks. But it won’t be long until there’s snow at Mammoth.”
“You seem pretty sure we’ll still be friends a few weeks from now.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” he asked.
“Maybe we’ll get into a fight tonight, first thing, at the restaurant.”
“Over what?”
“Politics.”
“I think all politicians are power-hungry bastards too incompetent to tie their own shoelaces.”
“So do I”
“I’m a Libertarian.”
“So am I–sort of.”
“Short argument.”
“Maybe we’ll fight over religion.”
“I was raised a Catholic. But I’m not much of anything any more.”
“Me either.”
“We don’t seem to be good at arguing.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe we’re the kind of people who fight over little things, inconsequential matters.”
“Such as?”
“Well, since we’re going to an Italian restaurant, maybe you’ll love the garlic bread, and I’ll hate it.”
“And we’ll fight over that?”
“That or the fettucini or the manicotti.”
“No. Where we’re going, you’ll love everything,” he said. “Wait and see.”
He took her to Savatino’s Ristorante on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was an intimate place, seating no more than sixty and somehow appearing to seat only half that number; it was cozy, comfortable, the kind of restaurant in which you could lose track of time and spend six hours over dinner if the waiters didn’t nudge you along. The lighting was soft and warm. The recorded opera–leaning heavily to the voices of Gigli and Caruso and Pavarotti–was played loud enough to be heard and appreciated, but not so loud that it intruded on conversation. There was a bit too much decor, but one part of it, a spectacular mural, was, Hilary thought, absolutely wonderful. The painting covered an entire wall and was a depiction of the most commonly perceived joys of the Italian lifestyle: grapes, wine, pasta, dark-eyed women, darkly handsome men, a loving and rotund nonna, a group of people dancing to the music of an accordionist, a picnic under olive trees, and much more. Hilary had never seen anything remotely like it, for it was neither entirely realistic nor stylized nor abstract nor impressionistic, but an odd stepchild of surrealism, as if it were a wildly inventive collaboration between Andrew Wyeth and Salvador Dali.