Jackie Braun - Christmas with Him

As they left the restaurant an hour later, Eve got an idea.

“You know, my Tahoe is in the parking ramp. Why don’t you give your driver the rest of the night off? I can take us to the theater.” She sent him an angelic smile. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman and drop you at your home well before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Dawson glanced toward the curb where the limousine was waiting. His omnipresent driver had already hopped out to open the rear door for them.

She braced for his protest, but he agreed.

“All right. I guess that makes more sense than taking separate vehicles to the theater.”

Even more surprising than his agreement was the fact that Dawson didn’t insist on getting behind the wheel when they reached her Tahoe. Without a word, he got in on the passenger’s side … after opening the driver’s door for her, of course. If she saw his mother again, Eve would be sure to compliment Tallulah on her son’s fine manners.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a man who was willing to relinquish the driver’s seat, especially to a woman,” she joked after starting the vehicle.

She glanced over at Dawson in the Tahoe’s dim interior. Far from smiling, his face was drawn, his lips compressed. He was a man who preferred to be in control at all times, yet not only was he willing to let her drive, but it also dawned on Eve that he paid someone else to do the driving for him on a regular basis. Before, Eve had considered that a wealthy man’s preference. He could afford such a luxury and so he enjoyed it. It struck her now that, as the survivor of a harrowing crash, hiring a driver really was more of a necessity.

To fill the awkward silence, she said, “Well, just to put your mind at ease, I’ve never had so much as a traffic ticket.”

“Good to know,” came his clipped response.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him buckle his seat belt and then pull on the strap as if testing it. Afterward, he rested the palms of his hand on his thighs, hardly the picture of relaxation. In the rear of a limo it was probably easy to forget about oncoming traffic. That wasn’t the case with a front seat view.

“It’s nice to leave the driving to other people once in a while, isn’t it?” she said in an effort to make small talk.

Dawson responded with a tight-lipped, “Yes.”

“You probably get a lot done on the morning commute.”

“Yes.” Another laconic reply.

“I’d love to be able to while away my drive time reading or whatnot. I try to time it so I’m not on the roads at the height of rush hour. Traffic can be a killer, especially on the area highways.” As soon as the words were out she wanted to snatch them back. If Eve hadn’t needed to keep her foot on the gas pedal, she would have used it to kick herself. Talk about a poor choice of words.

Dawson, however, answered with an honest, “Yes. The highways can be a real killer.”

“My God, Dawson. I’m sorry. That came out badly.”

“No need to apologize.”

“You told me before that you don’t like to talk about the accident.” She refrained from adding that he probably should, rather than keeping all of that pain and self-blame bottled up inside. Her thoughts turned to her father, a perpetual man-child who had been emotionally stunted by his grief. It wasn’t healthy, Eve knew.

“We weren’t talking about the accident,” he said. “And we’re not.”

“Dawson—”

“We’re talking about driving. I prefer to leave that job to other people, which is why I pay a driver.”

She allowed him the out, though they both knew he was lying. “Ah. Right. Well, I live for the day I can not only afford to hire a driver but also pay someone to clean my toilets. It’s a nasty chore.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he replied blandly.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve never scrubbed a commode?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Well, I take care of mine every Saturday morning if you ever feel the need to rack up another life experience,” she offered.

As she turned onto Curtis Street, she glanced over in time to see his lips loosen with the beginnings of a smile.

“Thanks, but no,” he said.

WHEN they left the theater a few hours later, Eve was humming one of the musical’s more upbeat tunes.

“I take it you enjoyed the show,” Dawson said as they made their way to her Tahoe.

“I loved it.” She sighed. “Thank you again for coming with me.”

“You’re welcome. You know, that’s the third time I’ve seen Les Miz . The first two times were years ago when it was on Broadway.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head.

“You must love it.”

Actually, he hadn’t really cared for it in the past. Tonight, he had. Dawson credited Eve for that. She had a way of making him loosen up and let go. She’d laughed at the ribald antics of the Thénardiers and cried as Jean Valjean made his passionate plea to God to spare Marius’s life. At times, he’d found himself more interested in watching her than the stage.

“Do you own the soundtrack, too?” she asked, pulling him from his introspection.

“No.”

“You should have bought a copy tonight. I can lend you mine, if you’d like,” she offered.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. The music is outstanding, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not my style.”

“Oh?”

“I’m more a vintage rock fan. You know, pounding bass and wicked guitar riffs. Something to get the blood pumping.”

Eve smiled at him and he swallowed as the phrase took on a new meaning.

“Blood pumping, right.” She nodded as if in agreement, but shattered the illusion by adding, “Don’t forget men with seriously bad hairstyles wearing spandex and screaming out indecipherable lyrics at the tops of their lungs.”

She had a point about the bad hair and spandex. He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “I can figure out the lyrics.”

When she tipped down her chin and arched her brows, he amended, “Most of the time.”

As they started walking again, Eve mused, “I once dreamed about a career on Broadway. My goal was to be cast as Belle in the stage production of Beauty and the Beast . I had all of the songs memorized, and I rehearsed them daily in front of the bathroom mirror.”

“So, you have a good singing voice?”

She shook her head. “I can’t carry a tune, which is pretty much what killed that choice of careers for me.”

Dawson chuckled. “I suppose that would nip things in the bud. How old were you at the time?”

“Eleven. My dad’s a musician.”

It was one of the few references she’d made to her family, he realized. He found he wanted to know more. “Really? What kind?”

“The wanna-be kind. He plays old-school rock,” she replied. There was an edge to her tone he hadn’t heard before.

“Hence your objection to the genre.”

She merely shrugged.

“So, you wanted to follow in your dad’s footsteps,” Dawson said.

Eve snorted indelicately. “Only if they led me right to him. He was away. A lot,” she added. “Actually, my goal was to become a major stage star, an unrivaled success. I wanted my name in lights, as the saying goes.”

It was pretty easy for Dawson to read between the lines. “You wanted your father’s attention.”

“Sure I did. Sometimes I still do. There’s nothing unusual about that. All kids want their parents’ attention,” she stated matter-of-factly, but he noted the stiff set to her shoulders, the furrow in her brow.

Yes, all children wanted their parents’ attention, but not all of them got it. Dawson had been lucky in that regard. He’d had it in spades. Still did, come to think of it. Eve? Apparently not.