Flirting in Cars - Softcover

Kwitney, Alisa

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743268970 ISBN 13: 9780743268974

Publisher: Atria Books, 2007

Synopsis

From Alisa Kwitney, the acclaimed author of Sex as a Second Language and The Dominant Blonde, comes a witty, romantic, and compassionate new novel about an urban working mom who leaves the city only to find her talents are no match for country life.

An accomplished journalist, Zoë Goren can't drive and she doesn't cook. But that's never been a problem in Manhattan, where the streets are filled with taxis and takeout restaurants, and a busy single mother can find everything she needs right at her fingertips. In fact, Zoë can't imagine living or working anyplace else. But when Zoë's daughter is diagnosed with dyslexia, she decides to make the ultimate sacrifice, moving two hours from Manhattan in order to enroll Maya in an excellent school for children with learning differences. Stranded in a rural paradise, Zoë must grapple with isolation, coyote howls, and the lack of good delivery services. But when she decides to overcome her fear of driving and take lessons, she meets Mack, an unnervingly attractive townie, back from the war in Iraq and trying to adjust to civilian life. With a budding new romance and a reporting gig for the local paper, Zoë just might survive in the wilderness of small-town America after all.

One of today's best breakout authors, who has been called "witty, charming, funny, and real" by Carly Phillips, Alisa Kwitney creates authentic characters that women love to read about -- and talk about. Zoë Goren will have them rooting for her all the way.

About this title

About the Author:

Alisa Kwitney is the author of On the Couch, Does She or Doesn't She?, The Dominant Blonde, Till the Fat Lady Sings, and the forthcoming Flirting in Cars. Her books have been translated into Russian, German, and Japanese. A former comic book editor with DC Comics/Vertigo, Kwitney holds an M.F.A. in fiction writing from Columbia University. She lives with her family in the Hudson River Valley and New York City. Visit her website at www.alisakwitney.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

One

Zoë woke up feeling chilled and groggy, like a bear roused too early from hibernation. She blinked myopically at the light filtering in through the shades, trying to figure out why she was suddenly conscious. Over the background hum of the air conditioner, she became aware of another noise, the clanking, hydraulic wheeze of a garbage truck from ten flights below. Rolling over, she fumbled for her glasses on the bedside table and peered at the clock. Seven fifty-five.

Zoë shuddered and turned off the air conditioner. This wasn't fair. It was Saturday and Maya had spent the night at a preteen slumber party, which meant that Zoë could sleep in as late as she wanted. And since the real estate agent had said he wanted to hold an open house on Sunday, this was probably her last moment of peace before everything imploded. Flopping back onto her stomach, Zoë closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself lying in a still, green valley.

The garbage truck made a series of piercing beeps, which sounded twice as loud without the air conditioner rumbling in the background. Try to ignore it.

Last night Zoë had been up till three AM finishing an article on the evolving relationship between the United States and the European Union. In every love affair, she'd written, there comes a point where the balance of power shifts, and the more dominant partner has to cede some control or risk a separation.

This had certainly been true for Zoë, whose last love affair had ended ten months earlier. Glad to have found an attractive man who could make intelligent dinner conversation, she'd put up with Jeremy's plaid shirts, his history professor beard, and his nocturnal blanket hogging. And then, on Halloween, Jeremy had told Zoë that he disapproved of Maya's Disney Cinderella costume, as it branded her as belonging to a vast, patriarchal conglomerate. In that moment, Zoë had realized that life was too short to spend with someone who not only lacked a sense of humor, but also a sense of the absurd. The first was regrettable, the second, unacceptable.

The only thing she missed now was the sex, which had been surprisingly good. No telling when good sex might reenter the picture, either, since Zoë was now intent on holding out for a man who understood the distinction between being politically savvy and being politically correct.

Don't think about that now. Sleep.

Down on Riverside Drive, the garbage truck made a noise halfway between a crunch and a crash, and then there was silence. Zoë groaned, trying to will herself back to drowsiness. No use. Behind her closed lids, the list of everything that remained to be done unscrolled itself. Clean the apartment, contact the bank, hire movers. You're supposed to leave some furniture in place so as not to look desperate, but what if she didn't find a buyer before the end of the month? Rubbing her eyes, Zoë gave a low, humorless laugh. Christ, it was ironic, worrying about not selling her home fast enough, when the thought of losing it still made her feel like rending her garments and throwing ashes on her head. She'd been so touched when she'd inherited this place ten years earlier from Mrs. Erenfeldt, an elderly widow who had rented her a room and then wound up becoming a kind of surrogate mother. Zoë was still amazed that the co-op board had agreed to let her keep the apartment, given her unreliable freelance income and lack of assets. Possibly the fact that she'd been six months pregnant and overcome with grief at the time of her interview had affected their decision.

Oh, God, maybe there was still some way to avoid giving up the place completely. Except that the current co-op board was intent on cracking down on subletters, large dogs, and therapists who worked from home.

Zoë dragged her fingers through her hair. I need to get up, she thought.

No, what she needed now was sleep. Zoë curled onto her left side and her stomach gave an empty gurgle. Or maybe she needed a cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and then sleep.

Zoë imagined someone bringing her the coffee; a man, telling her he thought she needed this. She could picture him sitting down next to her on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Stroking the tangled hair away from her forehead with one big hand. Pulling the covers over her head, Zoë had the fantasy man place the coffee up on the side table and join her in the bed.

Just as she was about to get kissed, the doorbell rang.

Zoë opened her front door and automatically said, "Houdini isn't here." But the woman standing on her straw doormat wasn't Nora from 9C, searching for her escaped Siamese. This woman was slender and blond and elegant in her complicated blouse and boutique jeans, the perfect outfit for an autumn day that still felt like summer. She had accessorized with a sleek red sports stroller and a cherubically bald baby, who was wearing a miniature version of the mother's outfit. Zoë didn't recognize either of them at first glance, but since she met so many people, she wasn't sure if she was supposed to know who they were. She decided to play it safe. "Hello?"

"I'm here for the open house."

Zoë felt a stab of panic. Was there supposed to be an open house here this morning? No, the agent had definitely said Sunday. Today was her day to get things ready. "I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong apartment."

The blond woman appeared unconvinced. "But this is sixteen D?"

"It is, but there's no open house today."

"Oh, crap. Did I get the date wrong?"

"I'm afraid so." Zoë kept standing behind her front door, acutely conscious of the fact that all she was wearing was an oversized Kiss My Bush T-shirt that barely reached the top of her thighs.

"This is so irritating." The blond woman flicked open her cell phone. "Hello, Ayelet? It's Susan. I'm standing here at Three Hundred Riverside Drive, and it seems that there is no open house today." Desperate for a cup of coffee, Zoë contemplated closing the door and walking away. The baby looked up at Zoë as if it knew what she was thinking.

"You're shitting me!" Susan caught Zoë's gaze and held up a finger, signaling that she needed another minute. The imperturbable infant continued to gaze at Zoë with what appeared to be rapt fascination. Well, fine, Zoë decided, no point in alienating a potential buyer. And even with financial assistance, paying tuition for the Mackinley School meant that money was going to be extremely tight. Her six-article contract with Vanity Fair might earn her some respect at Sebastian Junger's bar, but she still had to shop for the supermarket's daily specials.

"All right, fine, Ayelet, we'll talk later." Snapping her cell phone shut, Susan turned back to Zoë. "Listen, is there any way I can take a quick look around? I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow."

"Then why don't you make an appointment to see it when you get back?"

"You'll probably have sold it by then." Susan sounded forlorn.

Zoë sighed and thought about it for a moment. Was she really up to watching a stranger take a tour of her home? After all, she'd lived here for over a decade. This was the first place she hadn't shared with a roommate. All her memories of Maya as a newborn were bound up with these rooms, this light, this view. "I'm sure you'll find something else that suits you," she said, making up her mind.

"But I can already tell how much I'm going to love your place. Can't I take a quick peek? That's really all I need to decide whether or not I like something. I swear, I won't even take Maya out of her stroller."

Zoë glanced at the infant, who was chewing on her sleeve. "Oh, how funny. That's my daughter's name." Of course, Zoë thought, it wasn't really funny. It was deflating. Eight years earlier, the name "Maya" had sounded unusual to her ear, yet not unwieldy or pretentious. She'd liked the fact that it was easy to pronounce in at least ten different languages. Now it had become another ubiquitous urban fad, like Victorian mourning jewelry or thick, black, nerd-chic spectacles. Both of which Zoë happened to wear.

Oblivious to Zoë's reaction, Susan smiled as if she'd scored a point. "See? It's fate. You have to let us see your place."

Despite herself, Zoë found herself relenting. Chutzpah, she felt, was underrated as a virtue. Maya's school was forever stressing the importance of character traits such as empathy and diligence and industriousness, but she always warned her daughter that without a little boldness and misplaced confidence, these other qualities pretty much ensured a lifetime of grunt work.

"All right," she conceded. "A quick look."

"You're a doll," Susan said, steering her stroller through the foyer and into the living room, which still had Le Monde spread over the coffee table, along with a copy of the Guardian that the cat had begun to shred. Zoë resisted the urge to apologize for the untidiness.

"Oh, hey, that's interesting." Susan paused by the sectional sixties-style couch, looking up at Zoë's framed Shag print of Polyphemus and Grace.

Zoë walked over to the picture, which depicted a weeping Cyclops in a cave, looking yearningly at the mod brunette perched on his lap. "Isn't it funny? I picked it up in this quirky little art gallery in Melbourne. They call it hipster pop surrealism."

"Uh-huh. Actually, I was wondering whether this wall was structural, or if you could break through it to make an archway."

"Sorry, but I don't have the architectural blueprints handy."

"Oh, that's all right." Susan pointed to a thin crack in the ceiling. "Was there a leak there?"

"Nope, there were a lot of days like this." Zoë ran a hand through her wildly frizzing hair, always an accurate barometer of the humidity. "Listen, I'm going to get some clothes on while you take a quick look at the kitchen." She pitched it ha...

About this edition

• Publisher: Atria Books
• Publication date: 2007
• ISBN 10: 0743268970
• ISBN 13: 9780743268974
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 323