by Ryan Dalton
“Um, so, how’s yours?”
He looked down at the sling. “Dislocations are painful, but I’ll be well soon if I leave it be.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, no sexy scars.”
Valentine shook her head in mock sympathy. “Oh, that’s too bad.”
“I know,” he played along, looking defeated. “How else could I attract a pretty girl’s attention?”
She bumped against him and grinned. “I guess you’ll just have to try harder.”
What are you doing?
John held her eyes with his gaze. “I guess I will.”
Blushing heat raced down Valentine’s cheeks. She stared back into his eyes—into that intense stare he fixed her with sometimes—and the heat spread down her neck, across her chest. Would it reach all the way to her toes?
What are you DOING?
I like him, okay? I. LIKE. HIM. There, I said it.
On the outside, she playfully feigned indifference. “Oh, okay. I was just making conversation.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m pleased we sorted that out.”
The road hummed, pulling Malcolm’s battered body toward sleep. His mind played back the afternoon, which he still had trouble believing. True to his word, Mr. Crane had driven to a diner on the town square, where they’d talked over burgers and fries.
Their mutual love for history carried most of the conversation, but the older man had actually revealed a few things about himself. Born and raised in Emmett’s Bluff, he’d rarely traveled for more than a few days. In fact, only three times had Walter Crane been away for long.
The longest had been during the Vietnam War, after which he’d spent a year traveling abroad. The other two he hadn’t seemed eager to discuss. The only real detail Malcolm had gleaned was how much Mr. Crane loved traveling. When he spoke about Rome, he actually smiled.
All the while, thoughts of the pocket watch swam through Malcolm’s head. He’d seen a glimpse of what it could do, and his mind still reeled from it. And from what he’d observed today, the watch held even more secrets. Who could’ve built it, and what else might they be hiding inside that house? He kept shaking that question away. The house was off limits now; he’d sworn it. But what if the shadowed man came looking for his watch?
Malcolm shook from his reverie as they pulled into the parking lot of a wide one-story building. The red brick occupied a whole corner of an intersection on the northeast side of town. Its twelve bay doors of gray steel were all closed tight. On the far right, antique gas pumps decorated the outside of the front office. Through the office windows, Malcolm made out vintage road signs and license plates along the walls.
“Still the best mechanic shop in town,” Mr. Crane explained as they exited the truck. “He’s owned it for a long time now.”
“Is it open?”
Mr. Crane nodded. “Doors are always closed, though. He’d never tolerate dust in his shop.”
Malcolm followed him into the office, where they opened another thick steel door. Echoing clangs of machinery greeted him as they entered the shop floor.
He stopped short, taken aback by the sight. Gleaming slabs of steel and painted concrete, expensive-looking computer equipment, mechanics in sleek Formula One style jumpsuits—it looked like the shop floor of NASA. Every rack boasted expensive foreign cars.
The only exception was the bay closest to the office. Its equipment looked decades behind the rest, and the car was an old classic in mid-restoration.
Mr. Crane led them to the classic and stood next to a pair of legs that poked out from underneath. A young shop assistant saw Mr. Crane coming and stepped back, his face going pale. It seemed everyone was afraid of him.
“Hey, Kevin?” a muffled voice called from under the car.
“Yes, s-sir?” the assistant answered, voice cracking under Mr. Crane’s scowl.
“You still got that socket wrench?” The voice called in a slow, smooth drawl. “I could use a hand down here.”
“I thought Clive Jessop didn’t need help,” Mr. Crane said.
The clinking under the car stopped. “Hey, Kevin? You put up that No Skinny Punks sign like I asked?”
Mr. Crane chuckled. “Get up here, old man.”
A tall black man with salt-and-pepper hair slid from underneath the car. “You givin’ orders in my shop, old man?” He flashed an easy smile and raised his hand.
Mr. Crane pulled him to his feet. “Got someone for you to meet.” He nodded to Malcolm. “Malcolm Gilbert, meet Clive Jessop.”
Clive turned his smile toward Malcolm and they shook hands. “Gilbert. You must be Grace’s kin,” he said, winking at Mr. Crane.
Malcolm nodded. “Yes. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Pleasure, son. Any kin o’ Grace can come here anytime.” He noticed Malcolm eyeing the shop. “Not what you expected, right?”
“My sister would love this place. She’d want to know what everything does.”
Clive nodded proudly. “Ain’t a car we can’t fix.” His hand rested affectionately on the classic. “Still got a soft spot for the oldies, though.”
“People come from all over the country to get work done,” Mr. Crane explained.
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Just to have a car fixed?”
“Well, it’s sure not for his charm.”
Clive leaned toward Malcolm. “Sounds like someone doesn’t want free work anymore, huh?”
Malcolm laughed.
“Speaking of that,” Mr. Crane jerked his thumb behind him. “Your handiwork needs more work. Want to take a look?”
“You gonna be nice?”
“No.”
Clive stroked his chin, pretending to weigh his options.
“Don’t you want to show off for the kid?” Mr. Crane asked.
Clive’s face brightened. “Don’t mind if I do! Let’s have ourselves a look.”
Malcolm followed them out to the red truck, his aching body complaining with every step. He stopped next to Clive while Mr. Crane climbed inside to start the engine.
“How’d you do it?” Clive said quietly.
Malcolm looked up at him. “Do what?”
“Get him to like you enough to bring you here. Walter Crane’s like a brother, but the man ain’t exactly social.”
Malcolm thought on Clive’s query. “Well, I guess I just thanked him. He found me behind that weird house across the street. I was, um, really in trouble. He helped me out when I needed it.” He chuckled. “Felt kind of like the lion and the mouse, except in reverse.”
Clive’s face grew thoughtful. He examined Mr. Crane first, then turned an appraising eye on Malcolm. It was a look with weight behind it, and Malcolm began to feel uneasy at the scrutiny.
“What is it?” he asked.
Clive inspected him a moment longer. A slight nod, as if he’d figured something out, then his smile returned.
“Oh, nothing,” he said lightly. “Old friend o’ mine used to say something similar, that’s all.”
The truck rumbled to life. Mr. Crane climbed out of the cab and raised the hood to reveal a new-looking engine, every part gleaming. Clive approached, swiped a finger across the head and held it up.
“See, now, this is why you can’t have nice things.”
Mr. Crane rolled his eyes. “It’s just a little dust. We can’t all spend every minute under a hood.”
“Yeah, I forgot—that busy retirement schedule o’ yours.”
“You going to take a look or not, old man?”
Clive flashed an impish grin. “Well, you know I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”
He drew a set of round, silver spectacles from his coveralls. Unfolding them, he slid the wire frames into place and peered at the engine. He placed a hand on it, staring as if he could see through it.
“Valves’re knockin’.
Timing’s a little off. And you stopped usin’ the oil I told you to.”
Malcolm gaped. The diagnosis had taken less than a minute, and Clive hadn’t used one tool.
“How’d you do that?”
“Oh, machines say what they need. Just gotta know how to listen.” He closed and latched the hood. “Bring it in on Wednesday, Walt. I’ll fix you up.”
“Thanks.”
Clive returned the silver spectacles to his pocket and fixed Malcolm with a stare. “Now that’s all finished, you look like someone who came here for a different reason. ‘M I right?”
Malcolm’s eyebrows raised. “Yeah, actually. I’m doing a project on the town’s history. I was hoping to interview you.”
“Oh, really.” Clive shot an amused look at Mr. Crane. “And why’d you think t’see me? You already came with the oldest man in town.”
“Well, uh, it was . . .” he glanced at Mr. Crane, who offered no help. “I’d heard that—”
Clive gestured to Mr. Crane. “He tell you I’m the oldest? He’s older by three months! Ain’t that right, Walt?”
Mr. Crane shook his head. “Still sticking with that story, eh?”
Malcolm grinned, both at their banter and at the idea of them being the oldest men in town. Neither could be older than late sixties. It was just the way old friends teased each other, he supposed.
“Story, my eye.” Clive turned toward the shop. “Come on, son. Bring Grandpa with you and we’ll talk.”
Valentine preferred this strip mall to the newer one across the street. It was quiet. The other place swarmed with shoppers, practically vibrating with the excitement of something new. That was rare for a small town, she supposed. After this week, I’m starting to think excitement is overrated.
Oma Grace had suggested this stop after leaving the hospital, though, and it wasn’t often that she let herself shop just for fun. Maybe a little retail therapy wouldn’t hurt. It would help keep her mind off yesterday, anyway.
Strolling along the deserted walkway, Valentine smiled. She’d spent a leisurely afternoon buying a few trinkets and junk food in peace, and now she wandered past the last row of stores.
Oooooh.
She stopped at a window display. A mannequin stood behind the 50% Off! signs, wrapped in the perfect little blue V-neck top. She leaned against the glass to steal a better look. So pretty.
Yeah, and SO girly. Keep walking.
She turned from the window, reminding herself that she didn’t care how pretty it was. She wore what was comfortable. Two steps away, thoughts of John flashed in her mind. She turned to glance at the V-neck again. Cut like it was, the top would hug her curves and maybe show a hint of cleavage. What would John think of her in that?
Her thoughts flashed unbidden to French class. Recently, Madame LaChance had worn a black cashmere sweater that clung to every curve, the top buttons undone to give a tease of cleavage. Her dark blue jeans could have been painted on, tucked into black leather boots with stiletto heels. A beret nestled in her silky chestnut hair. How very French of her. Of course, every boy had paid rapt attention, hanging on every word as if getting an A might make her fall in love with them.
Valentine peered down at her own body. At fifteen, she had some curves that she enjoyed, but nothing approaching the French bombshell. The boys’ eyes practically popped out whenever the teacher walked nearby. Valentine saw them looking in her direction sometimes, but . . .
Have they ever looked at me like that? Valentine told herself she didn’t really care what they thought of her. She knew it was a lie.
Forget it. Just go home.
Shut up.
Valentine threw her shoulders back and strode into the store. She emerged twenty minutes later with the V-neck and a little dress she hadn’t been able to resist.
You’re hopeless.
She grinned to herself. Yes, it seemed like she was. Somehow, if John liked it, she was perfectly fine with that.
Oma Grace sat waiting in the car, trunk open. Valentine piled the bags inside, careful to arrange the clothes to avoid any wrinkling.
There, perfect.
“Hello, Miss Gilbert.”
Valentine shrieked, smacking the back of her head on the trunk lid.
“Apologies, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Mr. Carmichael said. “Are you hurt?”
She sighed in relief at the tiny man. “Geez, you scared me. I didn’t hear you walk up.”
“It appears I owe you extra credit on your next lab assignment.” He grinned. “Not that you need it.”
She laughed weakly. “Are you shopping here?”
“Even world-class teachers need to eat. But I saw you here and, well, I just couldn’t wait until Monday.”
“To do what?”
“To extend an offer. You see, the Science Department will choose one exceptional student to be my teaching assistant next year. Traditionally, I would wait until next semester to make the choice. Really, though, who could even hope to challenge you?”
Valentine’s heart leapt. “Are you saying . . . ?”
“You have a brilliant future, Miss Gilbert, and I am proud to offer this to you.”
“I’ll get to work with you next year? Help you teach?”
He smiled warmly. “You’ll even receive extra class credits.”
Valentine put a hand to her mouth. She wanted to laugh, or cry, or maybe both. It’s finally happening! All the work, all the passion and study, and someone had finally noticed.
“So.” Mr. Carmichael clasped his hands together and assumed a formal air. “Do you accept my offer?”
“Yes!” she said as a giant bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. They both flinched at its intensity, and at the crack of thunder that followed. It had even lit up the daytime sky.
Mr. Carmichael stared up at the sky, his eyes narrowed. “How strange. What could possibly . . .” He shook his head. “Lightning always gave me chills. In any case, I must be going. I’ll see you in class.”
Valentine waved goodbye and walked to the passenger door on cloud nine.
Clive led Malcolm and Mr. Crane through the office and out a back door, which opened onto a sprawling fenced-in property. The rectangular plot of land covered at least an acre, half of it packed with orderly rows of classic vehicles. Each sat in a different state of repair, from rusted shells to gleaming masterpieces. Malcolm saw everything from motorcycles to dragsters to pickup trucks, and even military vehicles.
Clive led them across the yard toward a smaller building in the back. Along the way, he pointed out favorite models.
“Here’s a 1939 Kuro Hagane motorcycle from Japan, real rare. ‘51 Studebaker Champion convertible. ‘67 Ferrari Dino 206 GT, original red. Amazing how rich folk give up cars they’re tired of or don’t wanna fix.”
“Show him your new project.” Mr. Crane stopped at the first vehicle in a middle row.
“Wow,” Malcolm said.
Most of the other cars could fit inside this one with room to spare. Tall and boxy, it looked like a huge old pickup truck, except it was fully enclosed where the bed should be. Thick tires stood nearly to his waist. Malcolm noted the paint was half green and half primer white.
“Ah, the 1950 Dodge Power Wagon,” Clive beamed. “Model got used for all sorts o’ things, but this one was a soldier transport. Served plenty long ‘fore they threw it in some junkyard.” He caressed the blocky grille. “Tough as nails, these things. A lot o’ love, some parts and fresh paint, it’ll run like new.”
Malcolm nodded in appreciation. “Looks like fun.”
“Oh, you bet.” Clive gestured toward the back building. “Come on, let’s have a sit.”
A smaller copy of the main shop, this building had only one bay door next to the regular one. Clive slapped a button on the wall and the door rose smoothly into the ceiling.
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The inside consisted of an open space the size of two of Malcolm’s classrooms. A large round poker table dominated the center. The bay door took up one corner, and the other corners boasted a pool table, a flat-screen TV with couches, and a small kitchen.
“Welcome to my li’l getaway.”
Clive sauntered to the kitchen area and pulled open the fridge. Malcolm followed Mr. Crane to the table and settled into one of the cushioned leather seats.
“Who wants a beer?” Clive’s voice echoed from inside the fridge.
“Right here,” Mr. Crane said.
“I’m fifteen,” Malcolm said.
“Good t’know. So, you want one?”
Mr. Crane chuckled quietly to himself.
“Well, uh . . .”
Clive sat down and set a beer in front of each of them. “Take that as a yes.” He took a long gulp from his. “Ah, that’s good.” His eyebrows raised at Malcolm’s untouched bottle. “Last I heard, they don’ bite, son.”
Malcolm looked quizzically at the older man. He seemed genuinely puzzled why Malcolm’s age would make a difference. The product of an older era and a small town, he supposed. Still, he left the bottle alone. One of the men would probably drink it.
Clive settled back just as a giant bolt of lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a crack of thunder. “Huh,” he said, exchanging a glance with Mr. Crane, who was setting up the old record player. “Now, what can this old man tell you ‘bout our town, young man?”
Oh, right. In all the fun, Malcolm had almost forgotten why he was there. He drew his iPhone from a pocket along with the sheet of questions.
“So, can we start with what the town was like when you got here?”
“I was born here, actually,” Clive said as an old Miles Davis tune began playing in the background. He took another swig of beer and began his story. “But that’s not even the best part.”
As evening darkness fell, Valentine entered her brother’s room with a plate full of hot food. Dinner—the ultimate peace offering for a teenage boy. In minutes, the plate would be empty and hopefully she would be forgiven.
But all the lights were out and Malcolm was gone. Only the lightning from the storm brewing outside lit up the room. She switched on his desk lamp.