Mortal Friends by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

always glanced at me in the rearview mirror, presumably to make sure I was comfortable. I always smiled at him. He always smiled back. Then he drove on. He was attentive and correct, yet careful not to intrude. The perfect chauffeur.
    The green mink blanket was folded neatly on the seat. I absently stroked the fur, dreading the evening ahead. I debated whether or not to tell Bob about the situation. Here again, I had to question my motives. I asked myself if I truly wanted his opinion or if I just wanted to confide a secret to him, hoping it would act as a catalyst to somehow deepen our own relationship.
    Bob and I had been seeing each other practically nonstop for over a month—which may not seem like a long time in the scheme of things, but when you’re at these older bat ages and time is precious, it’s a significant investment. We were still skimming the surface. Bob didn’tlike to talk about personal things. I kept hoping for that “watershed moment,” when we’d open up to each other and take the relationship to a whole different level. But it never seemed to come. I knew I couldn’t push it, so I just decided to relax and have fun.
    Now I had something serious on my mind. Perhaps this was the time to find out if he could be of some real emotional support to me. By the time we reached his office, I’d pretty much decided to take the chance and confide in him.
    Maxwell pulled up in front of the building. He spoke on the phone for a moment, and then turned back to me. “Mr. Poll apologizes, Ms. Lynch. He’s running late.”
    That was actually the most I’d ever heard Maxwell utter at a clip since Bob and I started dating. I was anxious, so I started up a casual conversation to calm my nerves.
    “How long have you been driving for Mr. Poll?” I asked.
    “Five years,” he replied without turning around.
    “This must be a wonderful car to drive.”
    “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said emphatically, patting the steering wheel. “’Course, she requires a lot of maintenance—just like all you beautiful ladies.”
    I asked him if he was from Washington, and he told me he was from Seattle originally. I remarked that he was a long way from home.
    “Yeah. I miss it sometimes. ’Specially this bakery I lived around the corner from. They had the best chocolate chip cookies,” he said.
    “Oh, I love chocolate chip cookies. There’s a farmer’s market up in Bethesda that makes fabulous chocolate chip cookies. I’ll bring you some.”
    “Thank you, ma’am! Though Lord knows I don’t need ’em.”
    Maxwell reminded me of a jolly uncle.
    I asked him some more about the car, just to make conversation. Of course, what I really wanted to ask him was how many of his boss’s women he’d looked at in that rearview mirror, and what he thought of them all. I wanted to ask him if Bob acted any differently with me than he did with the others. I wanted to ask him about Melody Hartford and what the real story was there—what she was like, and why she and Bob had broken up. I wanted to ask him who else Bob had dated.
    If anyone knew the secrets of Bob Poll’s life, it would be his chauffeur. There was also Felicity, of course, the incongruously named secretary who arranged his schedule with dour efficiency and who Bob referred to as his “Chief of Staff.” I actually spoke to her more than I spoke to Bob about our plans. But Felicity probably never laid eyes on most of the women she arranged dates for, including me, whereas Maxwell was on-site. He’d met us all in person. I sensed that old Maxwell was a loyal soul, however, and that I wouldn’t be able to maneuver him into a personal conversation about his boss. So we just kept talking about the car.
    Bob emerged about fifteen minutes later, wearing a tuxedo, patent leather pumps, the long white silk scarf around his neck, and a gray cashmere topcoat draped over his shoulders. Maxwell ushered him to the car, holding the umbrella over his head. Bob apologized for being