A Taste of Sugar

by Marina Adair

  “I love the Tiffany blue. Don’t you?”

  “Um, sure.” At this point he didn’t care.

  “It goes really well with the cream accents.” She paused, and Jace was about to say, “Great, Tiffany it is,” when she sighed like the entire fate of her generation rested on this one decision. “But the original sky blue would bring up the value of the car.”

  A point that was made at the beginning of this hourlong debate.

  “And it brings out the light-blue flecks in your eyes,” she said, holding the samples up to his face as if they were fabric swatches.

  Harvey sat down. Jace wanted to sit, too, but was afraid Payton would take that as a sign of weakness and bring back options three and four—which they’d eliminated twenty minutes ago. So he stood firm. “I’m not going to be driving this, Hattie is. So pick whatever you think matches the flecks in her eyes.”

  She let out a long-winded sigh, and so did Jace, because he’d heard that sigh before. About ten minutes ago. So he took a seat on the tailgate of a pickup that was in for servicing.

  “I need to see them inside once more,” she said. “See how they look under the fluorescent lights.”

  “You bet.” Because cars were examined under fluorescent lighting so often.

  When Payton was inside, Jace turned to Harvey. “Sorry about this.”

  To his surprise Harvey waved a dismissive hand. Then he pulled out a toothpick and stuck it between his teeth, rolling it around. “Girl wants to get it right, I say let her have her fun.”

  “Even if her fun lasts all day?” Jace joked.

  “It’s a sign of character, shows she was raised to go after what she wants.” Harvey slid the toothpick to the back of his mouth to chew in it. “Son, part of being a man is waiting on a woman. I’ve spent the last forty years waiting on my woman, and I wouldn’t change a thing, because a woman who won’t settle is the one worth waiting for.”

  Jace looked inside the far bay at Payton, holding up one sample and taking a selfie with her cell, and something inside Jace softened. So what if she was taking a year to make a decision, if she posted it on Instagram to see what Tiffany thought, he was spending time with his niece, passing on the love of cars that his dad instilled in him.

  Sure, her first visit to the garage had been to impress her boyfriend. Scratch that: her friend who was a boy but not a boyfriend. But she’d come every day after practice and put in the sweat and hours. Helped him finish up the engine, flush out the radiator, even change the oil, never once complaining about her dirty fingers or chipped nails.

  And she talked. The entire time. About school, cheerleading, colleges, boys, if she should cut her hair or leave it long, if her lipstick matched her complexion. She even talked about how much fun she had when he took her camping a few summers back, and how she wanted to go again. He’d learned more about Payton and, as sad as it was, his family, in the few hours they’d shared under the hood than he had in the past fifteen years. So, yeah, he’d wait. Just like he’d happily wait on that front porch swing forever if it meant spending even a second with Charlotte.

  “You got another one of those?” Jace asked, pointing to Harvey’s mouth. Harvey pulled out a plastic container filed with toothpicks. “Thanks. And thanks for coming out. I know it’s a bit of a drive for you.”

  “Well, I was hoping to bend your ear about a 426 Hemi.”

  “Yours?” Jace picked one and stuck it in his mouth, then leaned back and let himself enjoy the moment with Payton. He had nowhere he needed to go, nothing he needed to do, except sit back and do some good old-fashioned small talk with an old-timer about the king of engines.

  “Belongs to a friend of mine. He wants to get it rebuilt. It’s been sitting in his garage for fifty years. Stock condition, can you imagine?” Yes, Jace could. His fingers tingled at the thought. “He finally has the time now that he’s retired, but his hands don’t work the way they used to. Told him I’d see if you were interested.”

  The chance to work on a factory 426 Hemi was every gearhead’s dream. Plus, Harvey had done him a huge favor coming out today and promising to get a week’s paint job done in three days. The least he could do was take a look at the guy’s engine. Only…

  “I’m leaving after Founder’s Day to open a garage in Atlanta.”

  “Heard about that. Hattie’s right proud, telling everyone how her boy’s made it big, handling Ferraris and whatnot.”

  Jace wanted to say that he was a damn good engine specialist and that to most people “making it big” meant owning a Ferrari. Only people in Sugar were different, and when one of theirs made something of themselves, whether they were under the hood or holding the trophy, people took pride in that.

  Jace had seen it in the way people looked at his brothers, but he’d never stopped to think that people would be proud of him. And now that he was on the receiving end of that kind of praise, here in his hometown, he wasn’t sure how to respond. “I like what I do.”

  “Are you only interested in fancy engine work?” Harvey asked. “Or are you open to classic restorations?”

  “Both.”

  “I bet he’d ship it to you.” Harvey rolled the toothpick back and forth. “Also, I belong to the Dixie Rumblers.”

  The Dixie Rumblers was a classic muscle car collectors club that had members all over the South. Mostly old-timers, but Jace’s dad had been a member, even taken him to a few meetings and shows as a kid.

  “Some of the members are getting up there in age,” Harvey said disgustedly, as though he, who looked as though he’d walked the earth with Jesus, wasn’t one of those men. “They want to enjoy the ride but don’t have the patience to put in the work. But with Alan Parson moving to Palm Beach, we’re short an engine guy. I brought your name up at the last meeting as a potential replacement.”

  Blown away by Harvey’s support, it took Jace a minute to respond. “An endorsement from you means a lot, but do they know which McGraw you were talking about?”

  Jace hadn’t seen any of those guys since he was a teen and got busted taking a little joyride around Sugar Lake in a sweet ’69 Camaro SS—that belonged to the Ramblers’ president. Jace joined the army, the old-timer dropped the charges, but he wasn’t so sure they’d want him tinkering with their collection. “Not sure my reputation with them is so solid.”

  “Your reputation under the hood is widely known and all that matters, son,” Harvey said, and Jace let that sink in. “Hell, when I brought up your name as a replacement, they all started clucking like a bunch of churchwomen.”

  As humbling as it was startling, it got Jace thinking that maybe he had been away too long. Or maybe he’d been away just long enough to finally miss home.

  It also got him thinking about how many Ramblers hired outside help when rebuilding and maintaining their cars. And how many of them had stock Hemis just sitting in the barn, waiting to be worked on, because turning wrenches with these old-timers to restore forgotten history would be amazing. Then he wondered if working on classic engines would give him the same thrill and satisfaction as high-performance engines.

  It was a toss-up.

  Then again, isn’t that what Charlotte had done? She’d walked away from a glamorous job in Atlanta, where she was at the forefront of medical advancement, and managed to come home and find her place. Sure, the place hadn’t existed when she moved back. But instead of chasing a dream, she dug deep and built her own right here in her hometown, surrounded by her friends and family.

  That took guts. And a lot of hard work. But Charlotte never shied away from a challenge, which was why there were a half-dozen pathetic-looking Jockey Janes sitting on the couch. The ability to do the undoable time and again was an admirable trait.

  “Do you think you could corral a few of the Ramblers into driving some debutantes in the Founder’s Day Parade next Sunday?” Jace asked. “There’s also going to be small car show at the fair where they can display their cars. So far there is a ’64 Bellaire, a ’59 Caddie
, and two concept cars.”

  Harvey nodded. “The single fellas will hear debutantes and sign up, the others will sign up because McGraw’s son is asking.”

  “That’s it?” Jaced asked. “Just like that?”

  Harvey clapped Jace on the shoulder. “Son, debutantes aside, those fellas would wet themselves if they knew you’d be there to talk shop. Share a few of your stories. It doesn’t get any bigger around these parts than you.”

  Jace was going to have to ask Harvey to repeat that last statement next time Brett was around, but for now he said, “I’ll give you the number of the woman running the parade before you leave.”

  Harvey let out a gravelly laugh. “It always comes down to a woman.”

  A fact Jace was starting to understand a little more every day. But instead of feeling suffocated by the implications, he actually took peace in it.

  “The tallies are in,” Payton said proudly, walking out of the garage waving her cell. “The final decision is sky blue. It is original to the car, which is important in restoration.”

  She hopped up on the tailgate and rested her head on Jace’s shoulder, and he couldn’t help but smile. Payton hadn’t only been listening, she’d cared enough about their project to put her mark on it. They’d created some memories and, more importantly, a bond that went beyond him being that fly-by-night fun uncle. And every time Hattie took her car out for a spin, Payton was going to remember the time she helped her uncle restore it.

  “And the cheer team agreed.” She looked up at him—to put the sample next to his face again. “It makes you look friendlier. More approachable.”

  “Friendlier? I’m a friendly guy,” he said, a little hurt.

  Payton made a sound that implied he was, in fact, not friendly or approachable and she was really banking on the sky blue. It was the tattoos, he decided, until she reached up and smoothed out the creases in his forehead and he realized he’d been scowling.

  He flashed a grin. “Is that better?”

  Payton put a finger to her lips, deep in thought. “Maybe shirts in a color other than black would help. And ones that don’t show all your muscles.”

  He’d consider other colors, but he’d consult Charlotte on the whole muscle thing later, seeing as how he caught her staring at his arms all the time. Or maybe it was his ink?

  A theory he was more than willing to test—while naked in her bed.

  * * *

  By early Thursday morning, Sugar Medical Center was a hospital in transition. What had been the back parking lot for the past ninety years was slowly taking shape to become the new and improved Founder’s Day fairgrounds. The empty field beyond had become the new sheep scurry track and course. Which explained the half-dozen tractors, the piles of boards, and the army of excited Sugar residents already hard at work assembling the fences for the holding pens, even though the sun was barely cresting.

  It also explained the warm lump of wool nestled at her feet. Mrs. Ferguson, excited that Woolamena had moved into the fifth stage of loss, the Upward Turn, thought it best if she could watch the new tract being erected. Hoping a change of location would give Woolamena the push she needed to work through the loss, she’d loaded up her motor home and set up camp right outside the track’s starting line.

  When Charlotte told her this wasn’t a campground but a hospital, the older woman agreed and asked if she could park her motor home outside Charlotte’s house, then went on and on about the serene lake view being therapeutic. So Charlotte had agreed to let Mrs. Ferguson park on the field, with the understanding that she couldn’t let the sheep wander around the facility or eat the vegetation. Which was how Charlotte ended up on girlfriend duty when Mrs. Ferguson went into town to stock up on ice cream.

  Just in case.

  To make sure that the sheep didn’t get into trouble, Charlotte tied the pathetic scarf she’d used as a practice run yesterday to leash the animal to her hip. On the up side, Woolamena seemed to like the new pink yarn, nuzzling it and coating it with her scent.

  “Think of this new track as a fresh start,” Charlotte said.

  Woolamena peeked out from beneath the sign-up table to watch the first wall of the pens go up and let go an agreeable baa-ah.

  “Hey, ladies,” Glory said, slipping through the back flap of the pop-up tent Cal lent them, otherwise known as Command Central. She gave the sheep a pet to the ears and then looked at Charlotte. “I managed to push your first three appointments forward and your last three back an hour.”

  Charlotte looked at the schedule Glory had created and exhaled. “This will be tight.”

  “It’s going to suck, but it gives you from seven until nine to organize the volunteers, then Joie can take over. And it frees up an hour before lunch, giving you two hours to oversee the installation of the sheep scurry track.” Which was exactly what she’d asked Glory to accomplish. But nine patients in two hours?

  As though sensing the growing panic in Charlotte, Glory added, “I can always call the on-call doctor and see if—”

  “Nope, Ben’s on call today.” And was going hiking with the twenty-something pretzel from HR. Not that Charlotte would choose the coed for Ben, but he seemed happy, and who was she to judge? She’d done the skinny-dipping free-for-all under a dock, with a potential witness. A memory that still made her good parts tingle.

  She had managed to balance medical school, working full-time, and interning at a local hospital. She could handle her job and a silly fair.

  Besides, she owed Ben. He’d been covering for her for the past two weeks, the man deserved to spend his free day being free. Not picking up the Holden slack. “This is really great. And I’ll be fine.”

  Glory looked over Charlotte’s shoulder and gave a worried expression. “You sure?”

  “Positive.” Charlotte even gave her most assertive nod to prove it. Woolamena stirred at her feet.

  “Okay,” Glory dragged out, still not meeting Charlotte’s eyes. “But call me if you change your mind.”

  Still so positive that she had this, Charlotte stacked the parade route and lineup order she’d compiled and printed out last night in case people had questions, and, after making sure her booth was ready to go, she turned around and let out a “Lord have mercy” when she saw a swarm of women headed toward the booth.

  Not just women. Miss Peaches. It was as though every Miss Peach from the dawn of time until the present had amassed in pearls and purpose. Charlotte felt a genuine smile take over.

  Baa-ah.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she said, blown away at the sign of support. Many of the Peaches in the crowd had been disappointed that they weren’t jumping into renovating Bluebell Hall, so the fact that they had shown up this early, braving the cold, the mud, and broken fingernails, touched her. “We can use all the help we can get. If you all just make a line, I can get you signed up for the team you are interested in.”

  “Perfect,” an older woman with meaty hands and meatier hips said, stepping out from the front of the pack. It was Etta Jayne, owner of the local bar, The Saddle Rack, and Miss Peach 1954. “I would like to sign up to ride in one of those fancy cars.”

  Charlotte paused, trying to make sense of what the older woman was asking. “I can give you a list of what cars and floats go where for the parade, if that’s what you mean.” Charlotte held up her color-coordinated sheet.

  Etta Jayne pointed toward the first of the classic cars on the list. “I want to be in that one. Riding shotgun.”

  “Shotgun don’t mean you get to carry your shotgun, Etta Jayne,” MeMaw Wilkes snapped, elbowing her way to the front.

  “The hell it doesn’t.”

  “It’s just a saying,” MeMaw argued, and, ignoring Etta Jayne’s mumbling about checking the history books, turned to Charlotte. “I want to sign up, too, only I want to ride in whatever car that good-looking McGraw boy is driving. The single one.”

  “You mean, Jace?”

  “Yup, the muscly one with the big arms and t
ight buns.”

  “I think he’s driving his grandma,” she said, guessing that after all the time he spent on the car he’d want to be the one to parade Hattie around. Then again, driving in the parade was as close to an “I’m moving back” sign as one could get in Sugar. So maybe not.

  “Well, then put me in that car,” MeMaw said. “I can still hang on to his arm from the backseat.”

  Charlotte didn’t get to explain that the car didn’t have a backseat, nor was it one of the show cars, because someone hollered out, “Me too.”

  “There are a few extra seats in the classic cars,” Charlotte explained. “As for who is riding in them, that hasn’t been decided yet.”

  “Well, decision made,” Etta Jayne said, as though there would be no further argument. “First come, first served. And since I’m here first, sign me up.”

  A wave of frenzy took over the crowd as women started pushing forward to be next in line. Woolamena, smart girl, smashed her entire body under the table and started nibbling on the yarn leash.

  “Hang on!” Charlotte held up a silencing hand, wishing she’d made time to grab a cup of coffee before leaving the house. But it had still been dark and the tight-bunned McGraw with the big arms was sleeping peacefully in her bed—naked and sated after a long night of considering each and every one of his partner’s needs—so Charlotte had been as quiet as possible when leaving. “This booth is for volunteers. How many of you are here to help build the sheep track?” Nothing. “How many of you are here to ride in one of the classic cars?”

  Every single hand went up.

  “Well, as you all know, due to the limited number of cars, there is only enough room for the board members and the current Miss Peach,” Charlotte told the group, and was met with hostile glares.

  “We were told that there were extra seats,” Jelly Lou said, rolling forward in her wheelchair. “So we gave up our seats on the tractors to the Sons of the Confederation.”

  Charlotte stopped breathing. She told her lungs to take in oxygen, but they weren’t listening. “You gave up your seats?”