Page 112 of Life and Death
“I believe you, but I don’t think my truck could handle your driving.”
“Some trust, please, Beau.”
My hand curled around the key in my pocket. I pursed my lips, like I was deliberating, then shook my head with a tight grin.
“Nope. Not a chance.”
She raised her eyebrows, grabbed a fistful of my t-shirt, and yanked. I nearly stumbled into her, catching myself with one hand against her shoulder.
“Beau, I’ve already expended a great deal of personal effort at this point to keep you alive. I’m not about to let you get behind the wheel of a vehicle when you can’t even walk straight. Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”
“Drunk?” I objected.
She leaned up on her tiptoes so that her face was closer to mine. I could smell the unbearably sweet fragrance of her breath. “You’re intoxicated by my very presence.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I sighed. There was no way around it—I couldn’t resist her in anything. I held the key high and dropped it, watching her hand flash like lightning to catch it without a sound. “Take it easy. My truck is a senior citizen.”
“Very sensible.”
She dropped my shirt and ducked out from under my hand.
“So you’re not affected at all? By my presence?”
She turned back and reached for my hand, holding it to her face again. She leaned into my palm, her eyes sliding closed. She took a slow, deep breath.
“Regardless . . . ,” she murmured. Her eyes flashed open and she grinned. “I have better reflexes.”
14. MIND OVER MATTER
HER DRIVING WAS JUST FINE, IHAD TO ADMIT—WHEN SHE KEPTthe speed reasonable. Like so many things, it seemed to be effortless for her. She barely looked at the road, yet the truck was always perfectly centered in her lane. She drove one-handed, because I was holding her other hand between us. Sometimes she gazed into the setting sun, which glittered off her skin in ruby-tinged shimmers. Sometimes she glanced at me—stared into my eyes or looked down at our hands twined together.
She had tuned the radio to an oldies station, and she sang along with a song I’d never heard. Her voice was as perfect as everything else about her, soaring an octave above the melody. She knew every line.
“You like fifties music?” I asked.
“Music in the fifties was good. Much better than the sixties, or the seventies, ugh!” She shuddered delicately. “The eighties were bearable.”
“Are you ever going to tell me how old you are?”
I wondered if my question would upset her buoyant mood, but she just smiled.
“Does it matter very much?”
“No, but I want to know everything about you.”
“I wonder if it will upset you,” she said to herself. She stared straight into the sun; a minute passed.
“Try me,” I finally said.
She looked into my eyes, seeming to forget the road completely for a while. Whatever she saw must have encouraged her. She turned to face the last bloodred rays of the dying sun and sighed.
“I was born in Chicago in 1901.” She paused and glanced at me from the cornerof her eye. My face was carefully arranged, unsurprised, patient for the rest. She smiled a tiny smile and continued. “Carine found me in a hospital in the summer of 1918. I was seventeen, and I was dying of the Spanish influenza.”
She heard my gasp and looked up into my eyes again.
“I don’t remember it very well. It was a long time ago, and human memories fade.” She seemed lost in thought for a minute, but before I could prompt her, she went on. “I do remember how it felt when Carine saved me. It’s not an easy thing, not something you could forget.”
“Your parents?”
