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And by that, she meant to show her off. I didn’t want her talking before the event, so I decided to lie some more. “I’m not going to the gala.”
She huffed. “Sidney Lewis, I raised you better. After all these years, you finally let someone in, and you won’t introduce her to me? What have I done wrong?”
Her voice cracked like she was going to cry.
I sighed. “Nothing. It’s a new relationship.”
She was silent, but I could hear her trying to get herself under control, so I knew she hadn’t hung up. After another thirty seconds, she sighed. “Okay. I understand.”
I could hear the disappointment in her voice, but she didn’t push further and instead turned the conversation to how the family was doing. I spent ten minutes listening to how great my brothers were before we hung up. Exhaustion set in, which was normal after a conversation with my mom.
It was early, and I couldn’t stand to be in the house any longer. The only problem was that all my friends were with their families and wouldn’t be available to meet for a beer. I debated calling my brother Will to see if he’d want to grab a drink, but then thought better of it. Even though he’d be open to it, I didn’t have the energy or patience to deal with him.
My mood only darkened the longer I sat and thought about how alone I was. The loneliness settled in like a blanket. I needed a hobby, something to take my mind off shit. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and the mystery novel I’d been reading and carried both to the front porch. Shiloh lay at my feet when I settled into the porch swing.
There was a slight nip in the air, but it was quiet, and the sky was clear enough that I could see the thousands of stars dotting it. It was beautiful. I let out a loud sigh and cracked open my beer. As I lifted it to my mouth, I heard banging. I stilled and listened again. The banging started up again. It sounded like metal on metal, and it was coming from Mr. Thompson’s house next door.
Shiloh followed me around the house toward his backyard. The banging grew louder as I neared the garage. I found Mr. Thompson under a classic car, banging on the undercarriage.
“Mr. Thompson?”
He stopped and then slowly wheeled himself out from under the car. He wiped his hands off as he sat up. “What can I do for you, son?”
“I heard some banging and thought I’d check it out. This yours?”
He smiled and pushed to stand. The man had to be over seventy, but he was in great shape. “Yeah. Isn’t she a beaut?”
I chuckled. “I never really got into cars. My dad was more a tractor guy.”
Mr. Thompson walked over to the car and wiped at the back bumper. “This here isn’t just a car. She’s a classic. A 1968 Cadillac Deville convertible.”
“I didn’t know you were hiding this back here,” I said, walking slowly around the car. It was pristine, with bright red paint that gleamed and shiny chrome bumpers. “It looks brand new.”
He stroked the fender with obvious pride. “I only take her out when the weather is nice and we’re headed to a classic car show. She only sees pavement if it’s dry.”
I frowned. “What if it’s nice and then the weather turns?”
“Then I pull off and find cover. If it doesn’t pass, I call my friend who’s got a trailer to come and pick us up.”
“It seems like a lot of work for a car.”
He laughed. “It is. But it’s a hobby, and I’ve been doing it since I was young. My dad had a 1958 Pontiac Bonneville, and he treated it like his baby. I learned all about cars and keeping them nice from him. It was relatively new when he bought it, and unfortunately it met the rear end of a truck when my dad got behind the wheel intoxicated. What I wouldn’t give to have it here in my collection.”
“Do you have more than this one?” I asked.
He nodded and walked toward the back of his garage. He pulled open a door, and I followed him, Shiloh at my heels. The back of our houses butted up to a field, but off to the left in the distance was a barn. I’d always wondered who it had belonged to and what was inside. Mr. Thompson headed straight for it.
“This field belongs to a gentleman about a mile down the road. He never used the barn. It belonged to the previous owners. I asked if I could use it to store some things, and he said I could. I’ve been working on restoring it. My cars are in a storage unit that’s costing me a fortune.”
I walked in and looked around. The structure was okay, but some of the wood was dry rotted and there were holes in the roof. “I could help.”
“Oh no. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You wouldn’t be. I was just thinking that I needed to find a hobby. This seems like the perfect thing. I’ve been around animals and barns my whole life. I know a thing or two, and what I don’t, I can learn. My friends have building experience too. We can fix this up in no time.”
He clapped his hands together. “That would be fantastic. Thank you.”
I nodded and looked around again. This was exactly what I needed to keep busy. I followed Mr. Thompson back to his garage, and he grabbed us each a drink. He told me stories about his cars and talked about what he was doing to fix the Deville. He had a lift in his garage so he could easily move beneath the car. His knowledge seemed endless, and I was glad I’d investigated the noise earlier.
