Free A Shot to Die For by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

straight ahead, pointedly ignoring me, even when I pounded on the window.
    Barry dropped his hand and lowered the window. “Hi,” he said casually.
    I wondered if he’d be as casual if he’d been the one to brush up against a ton of moving steel. “What—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    Rachel wouldn’t meet my eyes, but Barry leaned back against the leather-covered seat. “What does it look like?” He smiled lazily.
    “Are you crazy? Barry, you can’t do this! She doesn’t have her learner’s permit!”
    My ex-husband is a dead ringer for Kevin Costner, and despite years of acrimony, I still react when I see him. I planted my hands on my hips, annoyed at myself for noticing his blue eyes that had just the right arrangement of laugh lines, his mostly brown hair that refused to recede though he was well past fifty, the body that still looked buff in cutoffs and T-shirt. His grin widened. He had me, and he knew it. “She’s got great hand-eye coordination.”
    “Especially when she’s running over her mother.”
    Rachel slouched, then twisted around. “This is the first time something ever happened, Mom. I’ve been doing really well. Ask Dad. I need to get my learner’s. Please?”
    I knew they were ganging up on me—whenever Rachel wants something and figures I won’t cave in, she automatically recruits her father, who’s usually all too happy to oblige, particularly if it means overruling me. But getting a driver’s license is one of those rites of passage that’s more traumatic for the parent—usually the mother—than the child. I couldn’t block images of Rachel speeding down the highway at seventy miles an hour, the brakes suddenly failing, the crash and splinter of metal on metal, her young body tossed to the side of the road. I shuddered.
    “Mutthher….”
    Both Rachel and Barry were watching me, Rachel impatiently, Barry with a hint of amusement, as if he knew what was going through my mind and was enjoying my predicament.
    I was reminded of the time when Rachel was a baby and Barry was babysitting. I’d been on a shoot all day, and when I got home, Rachel was in front of the TV in her little swing, her eyes glued to the screen. I followed her gaze, expecting to see Mr. Rogers making some dignified pronouncement or Oscar grousing about life in the trash. Instead the TV was tuned to a kung fu movie, the actors violently jabbing, chopping, and aiming well-timed kicks into each other’s groins. Barry was on the edge of his seat, cheering whenever one of them got in a particularly vicious move.
    “What are you doing?” I yelled. Rachel promptly started to cry. “We agreed. No violence.” I scooped her up from the swing and turned off the tube, which prompted a fresh stream of tears.
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ellie.” Barry got up and snapped the TV back on. “Check out those moves. How choreographed they are. How smooth. This shit’s better than ballet!” He pointed to Rachel. “And look! She loves it!”
    The punch line was that she did. As soon as I swung her back toward the television, she quieted.
    Now, I sighed and opened the car door. “We had a deal, young lady.”
    “We did?”
    “You were going to go on the Internet and find out what you need to give the DMV to get your learner’s.”
    She made a brushing aside gesture with her hand. “I already know. I need—”
    “But I don’t. And I need to see a list.”
    She got out of the car, shooting me one of those disdainful scowls teenage girls use primarily on their mothers. She favored her father with a dazzling smile. “Bye, Dad. Thanks.”
    Barry waved and slid into the driver’s seat. As he backed out of the driveway, still grinning, I tried not to think about the fact she’d inherited half her genetic code from him. Otherwise, I might have to shoot myself. Or her.
    Back in the kitchen, Rachel opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a can of pop. “Oh, by the way,” she said as she flipped open