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“Hey, I didn’t mind,” I tell him. “It was fun seeing which cookies went the fastest. I’m going to have to whip up a batch of those fudge-dipped coconut crunchies and see how fast they disappear at the B&B.”
“Yeah, well, I’m here to do my part. No sense in taking advantage of you any more than I already do like every big brother.” Marty tugs down his oversized shades and gives us a cringe-worthy grin.
Between him and West, I’m not sure whose sense of humor sucks more eggs.
But I do know which man wins in the looks department—and it’d be no contest even if I wasn’t blood-related to the most annoying brother ever.
“Lemme know when you need help getting the cars home. This caramel apple vodka thing’s pretty good, but I’ll stick to beer the rest of the evening and sober up a few hours before,” he tells Weston, and then leans in quietly. “Uh, I hope that’s not messing with you, man, all this booze...”
I cock my head, staring at them.
“Nope,” Weston says flatly. “It’ll be a couple hours before we start loading. I’m going to walk Shelly over there now. She hasn’t even seen them yet.”
“Pet the Mustangs for me.” Marty nods at Gram and Faye. “Oh, and I’ll get them fed with a couple burritos off the truck. Gram loves ’em to death.”
“So does Faye,” Weston says.
“Burritos, huh? Did Dallas jump that hard on the food truck craze?” I ask.
Both of them look at me and smile.
“You’ve been gone too long, Shelly. You haven’t lived till you’ve had a burrito fatter than your head off Kenny’s Taco Truck,” Marty says, thumping his chest for emphasis. “They take your regular spice bomb and dress it up real nice. Ground bison, seven kinds of cheeses, avocado out your ears, and the secret sauce from Hatch chilis. Kenny himself is even tossing around a new Cuban style as an experiment—that vieja beef with the fried plantains might be my new favorite—even though burritos ain’t a Cuban thing.”
“She’ll have her pick after we see the cars,” Weston says.
“I don’t know if I should be scared of a Dallas food truck,” I say jokingly as we head for the open lots where the cars are all lined up in neat rows, looking like they rolled off their assembly lines yesterday.
“Dang. Smithsonian, eat your heart out,” I say, nudging him playfully in the side.
“You don’t bring these beauties out without bringing out their soul,” he says.
I smile. He has a nice way with words sometimes for a dude who’s so down-to-earth I think he’s a force of gravity.
“Your burrito truck better live up to its reputation, mister,” I joke. “What if I don’t like it?”
He clenches my fingers tighter. “Then I’ll eat for both of us.”
Thrilled at the warmth in his moody eyes, I laugh. “Deal. Pretty cars and gut bombs for dinner...you’re an expert at planning first dates.”
“Who said this was a first, Shel? Could be a second or third that’s been delayed seven years.”
He gives me a sideways glance, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips.
Hand in hand, I blush like a rose while we walk through the rows of museum-grade cars. It’s the atmosphere that makes them shine.
I’ve seen Grandpa’s cars hundreds of times, idling in storage. But it’s different outside in the thinning crowds.
People still point when they pass by, sharing memories and laughter from old times, wearing Cheshire cat grins under their superhero masks...
Yeah. I’m not the only one who sees more than an amazingly well-preserved set of machines.
These cars are sweetly sentimental for far more than just my family.
Some of the older muscle cars and fat, boxy vehicles from the forties and fifties get awestruck whispers.
“Will you look at that! Remember driving off on our wedding day in that thing?” An older man chuckles to his wife.
They share a moment, their eyes worn with the smiles you only get from sharing decades of life together.
