Banished from the garage, Molly followed Glen to the house. Margaret was gone, having departed earlier in the evening.  "I'm going to go to my office," Glen repeated.

"I'd love to go with you.  Your boss doesn't have a patent leather couch, does he?"

"No, why?"

"For some reason I've always wanted to have sex on someone's boss' patent leather couch.  This fantasy came to me in my first year of college, and it's been there ever since.  My main hurdle has been a lack of bosses with patent leather couches in their offices."

Glen opened the Porsche's door for her.  "Sorry to disappoint," he said.  "Edgar's actually a tweed cloth man.  But his office will be locked this time of evening anyway," he added.

"One day, my couch will come," Molly said.  They both laughed at the double entendre.  "So where is Late Apex based?"

"Downtown.  Detroit," he clarified.  The sky was cloudy, but it wasn't snowing.  The all-wheel-drive Porsche crawled through the streets without putting a wheel wrong.  "I took a couple of days off, so they won't be wondering where I am, but I'd like to check my messages.  There are always letters and press releases showing up in the mail, and I like to keep track of them."

"Dedicated man," Molly said.  Downtown was about a half-hour drive.  "Would you like to go to dinner afterward?" she asked quickly.

He was silent for a few heartbeats.  Molly half-expected him to refuse, he thought about it for so long.  "Sure," he said finally.  "I'd like that."

"I'll let you ask me lots of questions…about Lexi," she said, to soften the invite.  Something about her asking him out had made him nervous.  Whether it was the fact of being asked, or something else, she couldn't tell.  "And about me too, if you'd like.  But I imagine you're sick of me by now."  Blatant fishing for compliments, true, but a girl had to do what she had to do.

"Of course I'm not," he replied.  "But I'd like to go to the office and take a shower first."

"There's a shower in your office?"

"The building we were in used to be split up into apartments before it got rezoned.  When they renovated the floor for us, they left two full baths.  Very handy, especially for those of us with hectic race weekend schedules.  I keep a change of clothes in my office, too.  You don't mind waiting?"

Molly shook her head.  "Can I watch?"

"Do you have medical insurance?" Glen shot back.  "In case you faint from shock, you know."  That kept both of them laughing for several miles.

When they calmed down, Molly asked Glen about his Lexi article.  "You said it was freelance, right?" 

"Yes.  Late Apex doesn't usually do personality pieces.  I don't even think they'll be interested in the car she's building, unless she's planning to sell it.  But I think someone like People Weekly would be interested."

"Do me a favor and promise you won't sell to a tabloid," Molly said. 

He looked at her.  She was serious.  Lexi had spent a lot of time in the tabloids, even after she'd more or less gone into hiding in her big old house.  Molly's sincerity in not wanting her friend to turn up in the checkout line rags put a smile in Glen's heart.  "I promise," he said.  "I'll call Cosmo before I call any tabloid."

"If you get a line on Cosmo, get them to put me on the cover," Molly volunteered, puffing her considerable chest out slightly. 

"I can put in a good word for you," Glen said, adding without thinking, "of course, I'll need some pictures, so they'll know that we've got the real deal."  He immediately blushed, hoping the evening dark would hide it.  Every time he said something he was certain would offend Molly, she just laughed and fired an equally risque comment right back.  He didn't like the memories it was bringing up.

"I'll pose on your boss' tweed couch," she said.  "I look good on wool."  They both laughed some more, Glen in spite of his darker thoughts.  He let the conversation drift into duller territory after that, explaining a bit of Late Apex' history and coverage to her.  By the time he finished talking about the things he usually wrote about (classic car collections, racing collections and restoration projects, and old-car guy impressions of new cars, mainly) they had arrived at Late Apex' downtown Detroit home.  "We're on the twentieth floor," he said as they pulled into one of the magazine's parking spots.  There were a three-year old Land Rover and a brand-new BMW parked close by;  the latter was a test car on loan from BMW, the former the hand-me-down  car belonging to their secretary, who was the daughter of the publisher. 

Molly spent a few minutes looking around Glen's small office while he checked his voicemail.  He had a small display case with some painstakingly handbuilt model cars (she could tell they were handbuilt; Lexi collected them too) and a couple of small trophies and other arcane knickknacks that looked like giveaways from car companies.  There was a racing helmet on top of the case; Molly saw that there was a big crack in the top of it, and made a note to ask to hear the story behind it.  He had several posters on the walls, all of them arty car show posters, but no family pictures.  Molly had already noticed that he didn't wear a wedding band.  Maybe he wasn't close to his family.  There was a small bookshelf heavy with back issues of Late Apex and other magazines next to the door.  It also contained some large automotive volumes, but no photographs.

"Looks like most everyone's gone home," he said.  "But maybe I can trade with whoever's driving that 540 tonight."

"But we'll look so much swankier pulling up to the restaurant in a Porsche, won't we?" 

"Not a dirty one.  The BMW is clean."

"Good point.  I want to argue about that, and make it a big deal, but I can't think of anything.  I'll try to think of a pithy, snappy comeback while you shower," she said.

"Okay.  I'll be back in five minutes."

"Make sure you wear that tight sweater I love so much," she said absently.  It sounded like something Lexi would have said, and she smiled.  When Glen was out, she picked up the phone and called Margaret's house, to see how Lexi was doing.  "I'm being a mother hen," she told Margaret.  "I just wanted to see if she was back yet."

"She hasn't come back since she left in Bert's truck," Margaret replied.

That lightened Molly's heart a bit.  Lexi was playing with cars; she was fine.  "Thanks, Margaret.  I'll be in late, I've got a dinner date."

"Was it that nice fellow who was here today?"

"Yes, ma'am it was."  Although related to none of them, Margaret was a bit of a mother figure for both Molly and Lexi because of her relationship with Lex's father.  "I'll tell you all about it in the morning.  If I'm lucky, that's when I'll be coming in."

Fresh out of his shower, Glen successfully sweet-talked Late Apex' photo editor into giving them the keys to the BMW (the keys to the Porsche made a convincing bribe) and then took Molly to a "little place he knew," which turned out to be a tiny coffee shop and restaurant folded neatly into the space between two larger buildings downtown.  She teased him for describing it with a cliché, but it was actually a nice little restaurant.  The décor had an Alice in Wonderland theme, which Molly liked a lot; each table was slightly different, and the ladies' room was painted like the inside of a rabbit hole.  The door to the kitchen was framed like Lewis Carroll's looking glass, and the doors were painted bright, mirror-finish silver.  The food was Irish pub-style, which was also pleasantly unexpected.

"Very avant-garde," Molly said.  "I had you figured for something a lot more conservative."

He responded with a moderately wicked, eyebrow-waggling grin.  "You'd be surprised at the things I get up to, when my buddies are around."

She leaned forward, elbows on the table on either side of her plate.  "And what do you and your buddies do?"

"We drive, of course."

That clearly wasn't the response she expected.  Somehow the fact that he was often serious when she was teasing didn't bother her much.  It had always annoyed her when Rich (her ex-husband) had been oblivious to her teasing, but Glen somehow managed to play straightman well, without making her feel like she was flirting by herself.  "You drive?  Well, okay, that makes sense.  Okay, here's a dumb question.  When you guys all get together and stand around with your cars, or drive like you're in a parade, what's the draw?  I've never quite seen it, and Lexi is a girl so she's terrible at explaining it to me."

"Are you suggesting that women don't communicate well?" Glen said.  "That men are somehow better at explaining things?"

"Don't change the subject," she said.  "Tell me about your relationship with cars.  And about your friends.  So far you sound like a hermit to me, who only goes out to go to class, work at his magazine, or polish the cars, except for his secret automotive society affiliations of course.  But you're too nice and well-versed to be a complete social pariah, so what do you do?"

Glen blushed.  "I am kind of a hermit," he said.  "Most of my significant social time is taken up by media events, or with the Road Associates.  And when we get together, driving is literally what we do.  I think that, as a group, we're all in tune with the intimacy of driving."

"I'm playing devil's advocate here, and don't really think that you're insane, but I fail to see the intimacy in being alone in a car, with your friends each in their own cars."

"It's between you and the car."

It was Molly's turn to grin wickedly.

"Not what I mean at all.  Think about it.  When you're driving, you're talking to the car, physically.  You communicate with it through the steering wheel, through the pedals, even through where you sit in the seat.  And it talks back to you, too.  The feel of the tires on the road, of the engine as it moves through the powerband.  And when you're talking about a car that you know really well, that you've restored from the ground up, that kind of communication is flawless.  After a day of arguing with people and constantly saying, 'oh, I didn't mean it that way,' and trying to make yourself heard in meetings, it can be a tremendously wonderful sensation to have a friend--of sorts--who knows exactly what you're trying to tell it, and whom you can understand just as well.  That's the draw."

"I don't see it."

"Not everyone does."

"You're suggesting that I can find the key to happiness by turning on the oven?  It listens to me, and knows exactly what I'm telling it when I twist the knob, too."  She punctuated her words by pantomiming a knob twist.  Glen noticed that she talked with her hands almost constantly.

Glen shook his head.  "It's not for everyone.  That's sort of the point.  The Road Associates is made up of people who understand and appreciate this fact.  And you didn't let me finish.  We don't just drive.  In addition to meeting at races and other car-guy events, we want to do charity two or three times a year.  We're going to do a toy run this Christmas, where we'll all take a week to ten days to collect and deliver toys to needy kids all over the country.  Mostly kids who want to do car stuff, of course," he added, with a smile.  "I get quite a bit of pleasure from seeing the kids' eyes light up when I pull up in a sports car all filthy with road dirt and crammed full of toys."

Her eyes sparkled.  She liked the happiness in his voice, even if she didn't share the car-nut enthusiasm aspect.

"When we're finished, around the twentieth, we'll have a big party and announce nominations."

"Ah, yes.  Your secret initiation rites."  Molly raised her eyebrows, waiting to hear more.

"Road Associates is a small group.  There are only about twenty of us, and so we're kind of selective.  It's not like most car clubs, where anyone who wants to pay a fee can get in.  There are attitude tests, and other silly things like that."

"Oh, God, don't tell me you haze new members."

"No, no, nothing like that.  God, no.  We just keep an eye out for people we think would make good Road Associates.  People who love cars for what they are, and immerse themselves in them.  And we can each nominate a new member every year.  Not everyone does.  And not everyone who's nominated passes, because the existing members have to agree on new members' inclusion."

"A secret society of automotive Freemasons," Molly said, her lips curling in a smile that told Glen she was kidding.

"I've thought seriously about nominating Lexi," he said.

That made her smile.  "She wasn't already a member?"

"At least two people planned to nominate Ren this year," Glen said sadly.  "She was kind of in his shadow.  When he died, no one was sure what she was going to do.  A lot of people were half-convinced she wasn't really into it the way he was.  The auction didn't help."

"But she didn't want that to happen."

"I know, and I wish I knew how it did.  No one should have been able to sell her cars out from under her like that."

Molly didn't respond for several moments.  Glen looked at her.  She toyed with the silk scarf around her neck, her eyes gazing into the middle distance between her plate and her water glass, and then frowned and waved a hand, dismissing the subject for the moment.  "So she gets to be nominated even if she doesn't have all her cars?"

"Of course.  I think I will.  Dobie Cassarell will be pissed off, that's for sure."

"What does Dobie Cassarell have to do with this?" 

"Dobie's a wannabee.  For every Road Associate, there are three or four people who really want to be in the group, of course.  They come to our events, or they'll visit us if we're at a race or a show, but they're not full-fledged members."

"I am reminded of websites that have public and members-only areas."

"Something like that, except you can't buy your way in.  And Dobie's tried, believe me.  Which is part of the problem.  The people who are the best fits to be Road Associates are the ones who don't really care one way or the other if they are or not--they'll just go on doing what they're doing, members or not.  He's got the enthusiasm, but it's all in the wrong place.  He doesn't have any mechanical sympathy.  He has a lot of cars because he has a lot of money, and you can kind of tell he doesn't know how to drive them well, and doesn't really understand them.  His collection reads like a laundry list of 'important' cars, rather than being a reflection of his personality."

"You never know," Molly said, turning her hands palm-up.  "It could be more of a reflection than you think."

Glen smiled.  "I saw him not two weeks ago.  He called my office, and wanted to talk to me about the Road Associates.  He didn't ask to be nominated, but I have no doubt he called Harold and several of the others as well.  Campaigning, as it were.  He also asked about Lexi, so he knows she's likely to be nominated."

"He asked about her?"  Glen nodded.  "Did you tell him anything?"

"No.  The last time I had seen him before that was at the auction, at her house, and it was a natural turn for the conversation to take."

"But his family and the Packard family are close," Molly said.

"What's their problem with her?" Glen asked.  "I haven't been able to figure that out exactly.  I can tell they're very much at odds.  Was it the inheritance?" 

"Oh, God no."  Molly's hands described a pattern in the air.  "Where do I start?  First off, they never liked her to begin with.  She wasn't from a Family, if you know what I mean.  Not Mayflower material."

"I understand."

"They were always pissed that he fell for her.  In the end they gave him an ultimatum, her or us, and he chose her.  Turned his back on the family, on their money, on everything.  When he went off and made his own fortune, that really rubbed their faces in it.  And when he died, they were convinced that Lexi had something to do with it."

"That she ran his car off the road?"

"I didn't say it was a remotely valid suspicion."

Glen shook his head.  "So they think that she got away with murder, basically.  I don't see it."

"And if you could, I'd have to kill you with my fork, right here and now.  It's stupid, is what it is.  But, stupid or not, the Packards are massively, hugely rich, and that makes all the difference in the world.  I'm sure they're telling all of their 'close friends' all about how Lexi forced his car off a desolate mountain road and caused a huge accident so she could inherit Ren's money."

"That's a shame."

"So that's why I worry when someone like Dobie Cassarell is asking around about her.  The friends of the Packards might be looking for dirt on her."

"Is there anything to find?"

Molly nailed him to the chair with her eyes.  "No.  But with enough money, people like that can make nothing look like something.  The last thing Lexi needs is to go to jail for no reason other than to satisfy that deranged bitch Becka Packard."

"Well, I hope nominating her for the Road Associates won't cause trouble."

"What kinds of tests do you do?  I've been dying to ask for ten solid minutes now."  Their server came by the table and offered dessert.  Molly and Glen both declined.  "How is Road Associates eligibility decided?"

"The attitude is easy.  Kindred spirits are always easy to find."

"Harder than you'd think," Molly said, meeting his eyes for a long moment. 

Glen was frozen by the look for an instant.  He had to take a drink of water to continue as if nothing had happened.  "We like to make sure that they play with their cars, and know how to do it well.  We'll drive somewhere--usually to the Minilite Bar--and have a picnic, to make sure they travel.  Then one of us will ride with them, to see how they handle normal driving tasks.  People who drive like sheep and those who drive like maniacs to try and impress us are both likely to be excluded.  Then we'll have some track time--going fast on the track is okay.  Sometimes we'll tell them that they have to beat one of our times, to be admitted, and then make them chase Roger--he's a retired professional race driver."

"That's mean," Molly said, but she was smiling.  "I thought you said you didn't haze?"

"It's not hazing.  Some people aren't willing to play with their cars, and we are.  Most folks will try to beat Roger's time without being told they need to, actually."

"Okay, I clearly just don't get car people, then.  I thought I did, once, but I should have known better."

"Well, I like you anyway," Glen said, and blushed.  He looked up into Molly's eyes and suddenly wanted to be at home.  He was enjoying himself, and so was she obviously, but a chasm seemed to have opened up between them and he couldn't bear talking to her any more, didn't even want to look at her.  She was getting too important, too quickly, and he needed to maintain some semblance of control over his feelings.  He did not want to go down this road again.

Molly felt the conversation die, and her attempts to defibrillate it for the rest of the evening all failed.  What had happened?  Everything had been going well. 

After dinner, when she thought she'd made it more than amply clear that she'd go home with him if he asked, Glen drove her back to Margaret's house, and said he'd be back later in the day to talk to Lexi some more.  He hadn't even attempted to give her a kiss. And just like that, she was alone on the porch.  It was barely ten.  Molly regretted her glib remark to Margaret about not being home until morning.  She managed a tight smile into the headlights anyway, and waved as the BMW drove off into the night. 

It would have been nice to sit on the porch and think about it for a few minutes, try to figure out what had gone wrong, but it was too cold for that.  The wind had picked up a bit, and she wasn't dressed for a night out in the cold.  Molly let herself in with the key she had borrowed earlier.  The house was silent and dark; Margaret went to bed early.  Molly looked back out at the garage, but the interior lights seemed to be off.  So Lexi wasn't here.  Lex rarely went to bed before midnight, if she was at home.  Molly wondered where she was, as she pulled off her scarf and trudged to the guest room.

Her flight back to Boston was at a quarter to one, and she had told Glen so.  He probably wouldn't show until after she was gone.  But what had she done to scare him off?  It didn't make any sense.  He hadn't showed any sudden change in his level of interest, or gotten weird about anything she had said.  If she had pissed him off, he had hidden it completely.  As Molly went about the process of washing up for bed, she replayed the entire evening in her head, exchange by exchange, trying to figure out what she had said to frighten Glen off.

By the time she was finished, she still hadn't thought of anything.  It was hard not to feel as though he'd somehow done it on purpose--she'd had the upper hand in flirting, but he'd gotten the last laugh by...okay, so that was an absurd thought.  She was just tired, and feeling humiliated.  Luckily it was all in her head...she hoped.

The question of why he had seemed so interested and then just as suddenly shut down still nagged at her, though.  Rationally, she was sure that it was something with him and nothing to do with her, but it was hard to convince her bruised ego of this.  Prying Glen's secrets out of him and turning him into a project boyfriend just wasn't in the cards either, since they lived about nine hundred miles apart and the last thing she needed right now was a high-maintenance, long-distance relationship.  It was still a shame she probably wouldn't see him in the morning, though.  Just to say goodbye.

Yeah, that was all that was bothering her.

Molly went to bed unhappy.