Rain (Hudson 1)

"Not the sort of car George Gibbs would have, but it's all I have," he called to me.

He wore a light blue button-down oxford shirt and jeans, and his hair was a little wild from blowing in the wind.

"Got your script?" he asked as I approached the car. "Yes," I said patting my black leather bag.

"You have the lines memorized though, I bet," he said as I got into his car.

"Maybe."

He laughed and accelerated so hard and fast, I was thrown back against the seat. I screamed and he roared with glee as he spun around and out of the driveway.

Except for my ride to school and back in the Rolls, I really hadn't seen much of the countryside. Corbette seemed to take the least traveled roads, narrow and bumpy and then cutting over one that wasn't even well paved.

"Short cut," he said as we bounced over the ruts. We had yet to pass any houses or stores.

"Is this always how you get to your house?" I asked with teeth chattering from the vibrations.

"From yours," he said but looked away quickly. I suspected he wasn't eager to have anyone see me riding in his car. "How do you like Dogwood?" "I like it a lot," I said.

"It's a big change from where you were I bet, huh?"

"No, not big," I said. "Gigantic."

He smiled, those white teeth gleaming. With the sun in his face and the wind playing in his hair, he looked like a movie star. He never had to question his good looks, I thought, but he also didn't show any signs of modesty. Roy would call him a white boy sweet on himself, I thought, and turned away to laugh at the thought.

We passed a farm where there were cows and a half dozen horses grazing. After another long section of overgrown fields and some woods, his family's farm came into view.

"Home sweet home," he declared nodding toward the house. It was a large house, covered in fieldstone and I had to admit I had never seen a home quite like it.

"My grandfather built it after he returned from the First World War, or at least, that's what I've been told. It's French Eclectic and you're right, there are few like it around here."

Behind the house was a large, freshly painted gray barn with glossy black trim on its doors and windows. The property was all fenced in, the grounds mowed and trimmed. There was a cobblestone circular driveway leading up to the house with lanterns on pewter colored metal poles. Corbette turned abruptly off the driveway and followed a dirt road toward the barn.

"When were there animals here?" I asked.

"When my grandfather lived here, but not for real farming. He had some riding horses and some prize bulls. It was more like a hobby."

"What does your father do?" I asked, impressed with

the size of the house and the beautiful grounds. A pool and a tennis court were behind the house with a gazebo and a rock garden nearby. I saw at least a half dozen pretty fountains and stone benches.

"He's a lawyer, contract law, even some international work," he said. "My mother is the president of a half dozen charities. She's busier than my father. At least, that's what he says."

We stopped in front of the barn. It was so quiet, not a living soul was in sight.

"Is your mother home?"

"No, she's at a board meeting for one of the charity events she's planning. And my father had to go to his office. Come on," he said hopping over his door rather than opening it. I got out and he opened the door to the barn. "My hideaway," he announced and stepped back as I approached.

Part of the barn had been sectioned off and what looked like a living room in an apartment had been constructed. There was an oatmeal colored rug on the floor, furniture that included a curved sofa, two overstuffed chairs, side tables, a large coffee table, an entertainment center with a television set and a stereo unit that included a CD player. Above us, track lighting ran along the unpainted beams. He flipped a switch and lit up the room. Some of the walls had movie and rock posters on them. There was a mirror and a book case as well as a cabinet on the right wall.

"I can't believe this is in a barn," I said.

"Anyway, you see there's no smell. No hay or manure. You want something to drink?" he asked going to a small refrigerator on the left. He opened the door and looked into it. "I have beer, soda, bottled water, and some cranberry juice. Goes good with vodka," he said turning and smiling my way. "And I've got that too."

"Just some water, thanks," I said.

He took out a small bottle and poured me some and then he opened a bottle of beer for himself.