Bentleys Buy a Buick (That Business Between Us Book 5)

by Pamela Morsi

  He’d removed the bone headband and was looking like his usual self. He was smiling, but his manner was cautious. She had asked him for a favor, she remembered. Maybe he thought it was a much more serious one than she wanted to put to him. They walked to an empty waiting area off the far side of the hallway that contained a half-dozen uncomfortable chairs.

  “How is your workshop presentation coming along?” Erica asked.

  “Mine?” He seemed surprised by the question. “I’m basically done.”

  “Do you think you could give me some of that time? I’m in the first slot with the welcome and the get-acquainted, and then I’m sharing a short overview of health data collection and inventory. I’m running long on content and short on minutes.”

  “Sure, I can do that. How much do you need?”

  “Ten minutes,” she answered. “Fifteen on the outside. When we’re asking people to make such big changes in things that they’ve done every day for years, it’s important to give them a clear understanding of why the change furthers the goals.”

  Dr. Glover nodded. “And you can do that in fifteen minutes?” His statement was both genuine and laced with humor.

  Erica grinned at him. “I guess I’ve got to try,” she said. “I’m just going to remind them that it’s the ‘why’ that’s important in the job and not the ‘how.’ In Medical Records, we chronicle the events of a person’s lifetime. We do it because we know that to have any chance of moving forward in the right direction, caregivers have to understand where a patient, a person, has been.”

  Tom had promised to be on time, and for once, it was going to happen. At the end of the day he hurried his guys off, but they didn’t need a lot of persuasion. Gus hadn’t really done a lick of work since about three o’clock. Hector was exhausted after spending most of the afternoon wrestling a damaged axle boot. Cliff had spent the day in a better mood. Tom hoped that was tied to anticipating Halloween with his kids.

  Which was what Briscoe had been thinking and talking about all day.

  One of Kera’s cousins had shown up with a hand-me-down baby pumpkin costume. Briscoe was excited about taking it to the hospital, dressing his son in it and getting out of the NICU to trick-or-treat at the nursing station.

  “You know he won’t remember anything about this,” Tom pointed out.

  “But we’ll have pictures,” Briscoe said.

  Tom hurried them all out and double-checked the lock on the gate before driving home. The evening’s adventure was already in full swing. Little kids in disguises were going house to house, flitting in and out of the street at their own peril, their mamas and grandmas chasing after them with admonishments. Tom managed to slowly make it to his house without incident.

  His wife and son were eagerly waiting in the kitchen. They both looked relieved when he walked through the door.

  Quint’s vampire cape had been given some quick repairs after a hard day at school. Erica had changed out of her witch outfit into more comfortable jeans.

  “Quint’s already eaten everything I’m going to be able to get him to eat,” she said. “I’ve got a plate of leftovers for you to stick in the microwave. Could you man the doorbell while our vampire tries to get candy from our neighbors?” “Sure,” Tom answered. “Do I have time to take a shower?”

  Erica answered, “Yeah, of course.”

  But the crestfallen expression on his son’s face said otherwise.

  “I’ll wash up in the sink. Why don’t you two go ahead,” he suggested. “Somebody might run out of candy.”

  Quint was horrified at the thought. “They don’t run out, do they, Mom?”

  “Not this early,” she reassured him.

  They headed off into the night while Tom attempted to clean up the worst of his workday grime. He was interrupted about every five minutes by another trio or quartet of princesses, dinosaurs or superheroes. When he finally felt degreased enough to eat, he heated his dinner. Seated at the table alone, he opened up his laptop and checked his email. He had a new inquiry on the Buick, but it was from an auto auction. They were impressed by the photos, and suggested that they could bring the owner a top price.

  Guffy had already made clear that she wanted more control of Clara’s fate than an auction could offer.

  There was also another email from the dealer supposedly negotiating for a private customer. The guy was big on cutesy subject headings. This one read: Sleepless in Seattle Seeks Long-Term Relationship with Clara.

  As he took a bite of his dinner, he examined the direction of his thinking. Did he not want her to sell the car? Being honest with himself, he really didn’t. If he had his druthers, that car would never leave this town. And he’d do service on it for the rest of his life. But, of course, he didn’t have his druthers. It was Mrs. Gilfred’s car, and she was ready to sell. He was pushing as hard as he could locally, but more than likely it would be a buyer from far away who would finally claim the old girl.

  Tom found that inordinately sad, as if something really valuable, really special, was being ripped away. That was silly. It was just a car.

  Once more he recalled being in the backseat of that unknown Buick with unknown people driving to an unknown location. He could see his sneakers perfectly. They weren’t dirty and worn as they always had been during his childhood. These were new and clean and they were on his feet. These people had bought him the shoes. He suddenly knew that with complete certainty. Why? Who were they? Why had they done that?

  Concentrating on the memory didn’t bring it into focus. He just couldn’t remember, and trying to do so only increased his frustration.

  The doorbell rang again, and he went to distribute more candy.

  Quint and Erica arrived home a few minutes later. His son was excited about the impressive assortment of chocolate, lollipops and bubble gum in his bag. But he was also anxious to get to the party at the school gym where he was sure everything fun was happening.

  Tom locked up, turned off the lights and they headed that way.

  “There are like big kids who trick-or-treat, too,” Quint was explaining to him. “Like from junior high or something. And they don’t carry a sack with a pumpkin on it. They have pillowcases. Imagine that, Dad. A whole pillowcase just full of candy.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of candy,” Tom agreed.

  “Did you do that, Dad? When you were bigger than me, did you ever get that much?”

  Tom shook his head. “I never went on trick-or-treat.” “Never?”

  “Never. I was in Mexico a lot. They don’t do trick-or-treat there.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Quint!” Erica’s voice was scolding. “I don’t want to hear you say that. That’s not a word we’re going to use.”

  “Cody says it all the time,” Quint complained. “He even says it to Mrs. Salinas. He told her that ‘social studies sucks,’ and she didn’t send him to the principal’s office or nothing.” “I’m not Cody’s teacher or his mother,” Erica answered. “But I am yours, and you’re not going to use that word.” “Dad?” Quint pleaded for him to overrule.

  Tom shook his head. “Your mom knows what words are best. So I won’t say it if you won’t, pardner.”

  Quint sighed heavily. “Well that...stinks. That stinks!” “Yes, I guess it does,” Erica admitted.

  “But anyway, Quint likes big words,” Tom said. “That one only has five letters. Five letters is nothing.”

  “Stinks has six,” Quint announced, as if it were a personal victory.

  Tom shot his wife a secret grin. He knew his son could not appreciate the ordinariness of his middle-class life, but Tom truly did. Quint might never understand how lucky he was. And that was the sweetest thing about having a childhood. Only those who missed it could really imagine its value.

  The school gym was decorated with orange and black crepe paper. There was music and games and snacks. Quint tossed some beanbags, spun a prize wheel and bobbed for apples. He took a turn in the “haunted house” set up w
ithin a maze of room dividers near the bleachers.

  “It’s kind of baby scary,” he told Tom. “It’s not really scary, but it was fun.”

  As Erica’s attempts at makeup were long gone, Quint decided to get his face painted. The artist was surprisingly good putting a putrid green pallor on his child’s face, white around the eyes to make them seem hollow and drips of blood trailing down from the sides of his red lips.

  Looking at himself in the mirror, Quint was very impressed. “This is so cool. I’m like a total vampire or something.”

  “Yes, you are,” Tom agreed.

  It took less than an hour for Quint to experience all the Halloween party had to offer. Erica suggested it was time to visit his grandmother.

  “I’m sure Ann Marie has a special Halloween gift for you,” Erica said. “And you know how much she’ll love your Dracula costume.”

  Quint was easily persuaded.

  Tom kept a smile on his face, as if he were delighted about the visit as well.

  The thing about Ann Marie was that she was definitely not Erica. Tom saw her as a different version of his own mother. Always distracted by her ever dramatic relationships with men, nevertheless, she had a great sense of what families should be doing. And when it came to holidays, a visit to see her was nonnegotiable. Tom didn’t mind that. In truth, he liked having obligations to fulfill. Ann Marie didn’t like him very much. But that didn’t bother him. She thought her daughter could have done better. Tom kind of agreed with her. Erica could have had any man she wanted. He felt extremely lucky that she’d wanted him. And if other men might have been better able to provide for her, no one else would ever love her or value her more than he did. He was certain of that.

  Back in the car the three of them carefully picked their way through the neighborhood, deliberately avoiding Donaldson Avenue where the annual street party would be getting into full swing.

  Without incident they made it into Monte Vista, where the boulevards were wider and better lit.

  The front walk of the house was lined with long rows of jack-o’-lanterns, and the seating area on the porch was swathed in fake webs and giant spiders. Melvin was doling out the candy along with tongue depressors advertising his son’s medical supply store.

  “Oh, you look so scary!” Ann Marie raved about Quint’s costume. “Doesn’t he look scary, Melvin?”

  “Very frightening,” the old man agreed.

  “And the makeup is perfect, absolutely perfect,” Ann Marie said. “I know your mother didn’t do that.”

  “I had my face painted at the Halloween carnival at my school.”

  “Well, you look so impressive, I don’t want to mess you up,” Ann Marie told him, offering her usual air kiss as a greeting.

  “I look impressive,” Quint repeated.

  “Let’s take this vampire out to knock on some doors,” Ann Marie suggested.

  “Quint’s already done trick-or-treating in our neighborhood,” Erica told her.

  “In your neighborhood?” her mother said disparagingly. “In your neighborhood they only give out jawbreakers and caramelos. In these houses he’ll pick up actual chocolate bars or better. The Warricks across the street are giving out tickets to Sea World.”

  Quint’s eyes got as big as saucers. “Oh, Mom, can I go there? I wanna go to Sea World. Can I please?”

  Erica rolled her eyes at her mother, but agreed to let Quint go.

  Ann Marie wanted to take Quint herself, but Erica decided to go with them rather than worry the whole time they were gone.

  Tom took a seat on the chair next to Melvin. He liked the old guy. Much superior, he thought, to Ann Marie’s last husband whom Tom had only met once toward the end of their short marriage. Erica tended to give all her mother’s husbands the benefit of the doubt. And she undoubtedly knew better than Tom but, still, he sensed Melvin was a cut above Ann Marie’s typical catch.

  “I’ve got some sodas here in the cooler,” the older man offered. “Or there’s probably a beer in the fridge if you want one.”

  “Soda’s fine,” Tom told him. “I only drink beer on hot days or after I mow the lawn.”

  Melvin chuckled. “It’s not my favorite either, but it is certainly the social drink of South Texas.”

  He handed Tom a wet can of soda.

  “How’s everything?” Melvin asked.

  “Good,” Tom answered. “We’re making the adjustment with Erica going back to work. So far, that’s been working out fine. She likes her job, and Quint’s doing okay hanging out at the shop in the afternoons. It seems to be working.” “How are things with the business?”

  “Going okay,” Tom answered. “I just hired somebody new. He’s a helper, not a mechanic. I can’t really afford another mechanic, but I’ve been having some serious absentee problems the last couple of months, so I needed some help. Either that or work sixteen-hour days.”

  “That can be rough,” Melvin said.

  Tom nodded. “I don’t mind doing them,” he said. “Long hours means more business, more business more money, and that’s a good thing. But I can’t do it every day. I don’t want to do it every day. I want to be with Erica and Quint. Erica’s the center of my life. And Quint, he’s growing up fast. And you can’t get that back.”

  “True.”

  “Still, I like what I do,” Tom admitted. “And if you’ve got that, if you do work that you’re proud of, it makes a difference.”

  Melvin nodded. “And all those beautiful cars you get to be with. That’s just a nice plus.”

  Tom laughed and took a swig of his soda. “You are right about that. I’ve got a beauty in the shop right now. I’m selling her on consignment, and I can barely stand to part with her.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Fifty-six Buick Roadmaster, a convertible with a continental kit. It sounds like a cliché, but she’s a one-owner by a little old lady in Leon Valley.”

  “And she only drove her to church on Sundays?”

  Tom shook his head at Melvin’s question. “I think she had a bit more fun with her than that. But she was in really good condition when I got her. Now I’ve put her even closer to perfect, and I’ve shined her up like a new penny.”

  “It sounds like it was a labor of love,” Melvin said.

  “It felt like it, too,” Tom agreed. “She reminds me of something. Back when I was a kid I rode in a car just like her, but I can’t recall where exactly or when, but it was a really happy time, a celebration or something.”

  Tom paused, once more trying to recall this vision from his past. He shook his head in failure.

  “Anyway, I think that’s why the car appeals to me. Because of something I wish I could remember.”

  “Oh, I hate that,” Melvin said. “When you almost have the memory, but you just don’t quite. It’s in your head somewhere, but you can’t roll it out on demand. That gets worse with age, you know.”

  “Well, if I’m already suffering from it, my future doesn’t look too bright,” Tom joked. “Still, I love that Buick.”

  “I guess you’re not that eager to sell her.”

  Tom shrugged. “The owner’s giving me a nice commission. And when it happens I’m going to buy my wife a new fancy washer and dryer. The rusty old buckets she’s trying to work with now are beyond fixing.”

  Melvin was quiet, thoughtful for a moment. “Does she know you’re planning to buy that for her?”

  “No, it’s a surprise. Selling cars is not part of the business. It’s really an extra. And I figure the extra money probably ought to be spent on stuff for the family, not just plowed back into the business.”

  Melvin nodded.

  A group of children, with parents in tow, came racing up the walk. Melvin doled out the candy and tongue depressors. Every child said thank-you before hurrying off to the next destination.

  “So, are you interested in buying a really beautiful Buick convertible?” Tom asked when they were alone again.

  The older man laughed. “
I’m not really an auto collector kind of guy. I’ve got more vehicles in my garage than I can drive. And I haven’t even opened up a hood in twenty years or more.”

  “I’ll throw in free maintenance for the life of the car,” Tom said.

  “Really?”

  “I’d love to,” he confessed. “I’d like nothing better than to get to work on this beauty for the next fifty years.”

  “Why don’t you buy her yourself?” Melvin asked.

  Tom shook his head. “You know better than that, Melvin,” he said. “This is a rich man’s hobby. I’m a regular family guy with a small business and a lot of obligations.”

  “It could be an investment.”

  “Collectibles are not like other investments. They are not money in the bank. You can only get out of them what someone is willing to pay,” Tom said.

  Melvin chuckled. “Have you looked at money in the bank lately?” he said. “It’s not that much of an investment, either.”

  Tom laughed along with him, which was all a guy could do these days with the uncertainty of the current recession.

  “The most sage advice from brokers and speculation experts is to put your money into commodities that you understand,” Melvin told him. “Classic cars are your business. You’re involved in that market much more closely than the average guy.”

  “Maybe so,” Tom agreed. “But a guy would have to be able to view the car as little different than cold, hard cash on the hoof. He couldn’t be emotionally involved with it. I am so...so nuts about this car. It reminds me of something I just want to hold on to. That makes it not an investment, but an expensive souvenir.”

  Melvin tutted disapprovingly. “You are too hard on yourself, Tom,” he said. “I own the apartment building where my parents lived, where I grew up. That old brick place has a million memories of family and holidays, and I think of it every time I remember my father, my mother or my brother, all long dead. It’s a piece of investment real estate that I just happen to care about, and it is something I want to keep.” Tom nodded thoughtfully, then answered. “I have a great kid and a woman I love. I’d never jinx that by being greedy for more.”