We are on our way to the beach.
Suzette reluctantly permitted the family to tag along on the beach trip. I didn’t hear the conversation, but I’d imagine she did everything in her power to keep us from going. But we’re still here.
I’m looking forward to it though. It’s a private beach on the coast that only Suzette and her elite group of friends have access to. The beach requires a special card to get in. I’ve been to a lot of beaches in my life, but this is most likely the snootiest beach I’ve ever been to. I bet it’s really nice.
Enzo is driving, and as usual, he’s driving way too fast. I thought he would stop doing that after we had kids, but he still does it. And it doesn’t help that the kids love it.
“Can you please slow down?” I murmur as we pass a sign on the expressway that says 55 mph. We are at least twenty miles above that.
“Millie,” he says. “Everyone is going this fast. We go slower, and they will all be going around us.”
“I don’t drive this fast,” I point out.
He winks at me. “Yes, but you drive like old lady.” “No, I don’t.”
“My mistake. Old ladies drive faster than you.” I roll my eyes. “Very funny.”
“It’s true, Mom,” Nico chimes in. “People are always honking at you to go faster.”
Apparently in (on?) Long Island, you’re not allowed to go less than twenty miles above the speed limit.
Except as we’re taking the off-ramp from the expressway, the sound of a police siren comes from behind us. Enzo looks in the rearview mirror and swears in Italian under his breath. “You got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
He pulls over to the side of the road while I resist the urge to say I told him so. The police officer takes his sweet time getting out of the car while Enzo fumbles around, looking for his license.
“Is Dad going to be arrested?” Ada asks in a worried voice. “No,” I say.
“That would be cool,” Nico says. “Still no,” I say.
The cop is a guy in his thirties, who seems like he’s not too excited to be doing this in the ninety-degree heat. Enzo rolls down the window and smiles charmingly at him.
“Hello, officer,” he says in an accent so thick, it’s hard to understand him. “Is problem?”
“License and registration,” the officer says in a bored voice.
Enzo hands over the paperwork, waiting to hear what the cop has to say. He inspects Enzo’s license and finally says, “You know how fast you were going, Mr. Accardi?”
“I so sorry,” Enzo says. “But see gas dial? Is almost empty! I must go fast to find gas station before we run out!”
The officer stares at him for a second, scratching his head. “It doesn’t work like that, you know.”
“No?” Enzo flashes him an astonished look, which actually seems pretty genuine. “I did not know!”
“No. It doesn’t.” He looks down at the license again, then back at my husband and the rest of us in the car. “Okay, I don’t want to spoil your afternoon with your family. Go get some gas for your car. No need to go so fast.”
“Grazie.” Enzo smiles up at the officer. “You have good day, sir.”
It’s only after the police officer has gone back to his car and Enzo has rolled up the window that he winks at me. “Is too easy.”
He never gets tickets. He always manages to talk his way out of it. Or lie his way out of it, as the case may be. It’s astonishing how good he is at saying things that are a hundred percent untrue with a completely straight face.
I’ve always known my husband is an excellent liar. It just never bothered me until I suspected he was hiding something from me.
