I dated a guy with a Bentley once, a white two-seater convertible. I remember being more intrigued with the car than I was with the guy, but anyhow, it was a nice ride. Or at least a fine place to sit in Eastbound traffic on the LIE most weekends.
Joel was his name, a finance guy working near Wall Street in Lower Manhattan. Kind enough, certainly cute. Dull as a brick but good on paper. It ended abruptly when he learned of my Catholic upbringing, never mind that I was no longer practicing or even affiliated with a church. Didn’t fit his vision, he said, and we went our separate ways.
As I speak to you now, I can barely remember his face, but I do remember that car.
Which is why, as the boy from Bentley With a Bentley pulled into my office parking lot, I felt a certain rush. His vehicle was white, as well. No convertible, mind you, but still white. And with the rain beating down this morning, that, I must say, was a bit of a relief. He popped out of the car like a spring. The hat made me laugh.
“Madam Mayor?” he said, extending his hand and positioning an umbrella over both of us. “Bentley Rhodes, chief executive officer of Bentley With a Bentley, at your service. … Oh.”
He reached back into the car and produced a bottle of ice-cold water. “Here you go.”
I smiled and accepted it. “Thank you, very thoughtful … now … we better go get Mr. Rossie so we’re not late for our first appointment.”
“Yes, ma’am, I just want to thank you for your confidence in me today, well … this week, really. This is … well, this is important for me and I’m appreciative of your business and anxious to serve. If you need anything, I just … well, I just hope you’ll let me know.”
I nodded. “Very well … we should get on the road.”
Bentley opened the door for me gesturing to the seat directly behind him before closing the umbrella and settling in the front himself. He removed his hat and grinned. “I’m a little tall to keep the hat on while I’m driving.”
I chuckled because I understood. I’d always been ‘the tall one’ – at school, in my family. So, I did get it.
“Are you from here?” I asked.
Bentley nodded. “Yes, yes ma’am … Middle Valley born, still here. Living with my mom on Master’s Street, where I grew up.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am, it’s just the two of us. My dad left before my third birthday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Bentley,” I said, groping for a subject change. “How in the world did you ever afford this car? It’s beautiful!”
He smiled. “Well, I got a little lucky with the numbers, ma’am. I played ’em all through high school, then – BOOM – hit the jackpot. I spent the payday on the car. Mom named me after Bentleys, so I thought it appropriate.”
Bentley sat up a little straighter as he approached a traffic light.
“And now you work for yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, that’s impressive.”
As we pulled in beside the newspaper offices, Bernie Rossie stepped toward us off the curb.
“There’s our man. Bentley, can you pull up a little closer … keep him from the rain a bit?”
“Yes, ma’am … I’ll help him into the back with you, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, that is certainly okay.”
Bentley seemed to go through the same routine for Bernie as he had with me, right down to the bottle of water and handshake. As he opened the door, Bernie stepped in and sat beside me, his raincoat drenched, his hair wet and slightly askew across his face. He looked older to me than he had at the Peach Festival, but perhaps that was just my imagination.
He nodded at me. “Mayor.” He extended his hand.
“Mr. Rossie.” I was impressed at how forceful his handshake was, equally impressed with his direct eye contact.
“Call me Bernie, please. And thank you for inviting me to tag along today. I appreciate you being so open about this process.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “So now that we’ve covered all the pleasantries, my first question for you is simple: Where the hell is my sheriff? And why, in your educated opinion, do we have no movement around the original murder?”