The Secret of the Nightingale Palace by Dana Sachs Page B

would break down on I–80, maybe somewhere in Indiana, but Pete gave her his cell phone number and told her to call if she had any problems.
    Anna already liked this car. The carpet, a rich gray that turned shiny silver in the sun, felt luscious to her touch. “Can I drive barefoot?” she had asked Pete.
    He shook his head. “Your feet sweat, and they’ll slide right off the brake.”
    The air inside the car still smelled like new leather, and the upholstery felt as soft as an Italian glove. Shiny steel framed the windows, and the dashboard and rear of the seats had silver fixtures and rosewood molding. The backseats even had fold-down tray tables, with lace doilies on them. Best of all, though, for her purposes, the car really did drive like a dream. From the outside, it looked enormous, but you barely had to press your finger to the wheel to feel it respond to your touch. The gas pedal and brakes were equally sensitive—so sensitive that she lurched at the corner of Sixty-eighth and Park. “Hey!” Pete said. “We’re not driving a Chevette here.”
    â€œI think it needs a name,” Anna had told Pete as she closed the door of the car to leave it with him for its last night in New York City. Even the sound of the door shutting was substantial, more of a firm click than a loud bang.
    Pete was probably in his sixties, and he had become invested in the plan of a young woman about to drive her eighty-something grandmother all the way to San Francisco. “Can’t hurt,” he said. “What you got in mind?”
    â€œChitty Chitty Bang Bang?” Anna suggested.
    â€œYou need something classy.”
    Anna felt stumped.
    â€œYou want a friend,” said Pete. “So give her a friendly name.”
    â€œI’ll name him Pete,” she decided. “It’s the least I can do. You gave me your cell number.”
    He shook his head. “She’s a she. Like a boat.”
    â€œYou decide.”
    Pete took a long, fond look at the car. “She’s a beauty.”
    â€œIf she does break down, can I even find someone to fix her?”
    Pete gave the car a friendly little tap on the hood. “Any mechanic can fix her, especially if you give me a call. This is not the space shuttle.”
    Anna put her hand on the edge of the hood where it arced gently toward the driver’s window. She could love this car, she thought. “Give me a name.”
    Pete said, “Bridget.”
    The next morning, although the traffic demanded attention, Anna felt calm. She could keep her eye on the road while following the driving instructions on the Post-it she’d stuck to the dashboard. She welcomed the need to concentrate, too, because it meant that she and Goldie didn’t have to talk to each other. The silence gave them an opportunity to adjust to the fact that they were stuck together now.
    It wasn’t until Bridget reached I–80, about twenty miles out of Manhattan, that Anna felt ready to engage in conversation. She had good news for Goldie, too. Even if they couldn’t see California from this distance, they could not get lost. “This road is called Interstate 80,” she announced. She pointed her finger toward a blue and red sign that said 80 WEST , then explained, “This takes us all the way to California. Nearly to San Francisco.”
    Goldie looked at her. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “Isn’t that marvelous?”
    â€œWe can thank President Eisenhower for the interstate system,” said Anna. “Didn’t they build it during his era?”
    â€œThat’s not my area of expertise.”
    Pete had told Anna to keep to a maximum of seventy miles an hour. That would be tricky, because Bridget had no cruise control. She was beautiful and she had a Princess Grace glamour, but she was also old and lacked basic features you would find in a cheap rental.
    Those thoughts made Anna