8. Abel
Abel
Sandro’s as good as his word and he’s up early the very next morning, asking to borrow some work clothes.
Everyone laughed when Regan—arguably the smallest of the three of us—lent him a few spare items, and he went off to the cabin and came back looking like a small child dressed as his father.
Quite obviously, the two of them would need to go into town and buy a few essentials, since they’d come away with so little.
Pride prevents them from borrowing any money from us, and it didn’t seem polite to say that it was borrowing that had gotten them into this mess in the first place, so I kept my mouth shut, which I generally find to be a good idea.
But they say they have enough cash for a few items of clothing each, so long as they’re not too expensive.
Meantime, we eat breakfast. Feels strange to have the kitchen so full of people—five instead of just three—but not only that, but it feels different.
I mean, three blokes… well, we just kinda stumble past each other in the mornings.
Grunt a greeting, nod a reply. Breakfast is about getting dressed, grabbing coffee and going. It’s hardly a social occasion.
Until now.
Regan’s up a good forty-five minutes earlier than usual, and as I enter the kitchen I’m greeted by a fully-laid table, and the smell of bacon frying in the skillet. The coffee’s already made, and there’s a huge plate of fried eggs, glistening on a plate in the center of the table.
I glance at Grant, raising my eyebrows inquiringly. He just shrugs, and takes his usual place at the head of the table, before reaching for the coffee jug.
“Hey, big guy,” Regan greets me with a big smile. “Come on in and sit down. Thought we could have a proper breakfast for once.”
I sit down, and Grant passes me the coffee jug.
God alone knows what’s gotten into Regan, but if I was a betting man I’d say it had something to do with Maria, and those big hazel eyes of hers.
I’m not saying I don’t find her attractive myself, because frankly she’s…
well… she’s gorgeous. But Regan wears his heart on his sleeve, and he was never one for subtlety when it comes to the women.
Sandro comes back, dressed once more in his own clothes, and this time Maria’s with him.
It has to be said, her presence really does bring a glow of radiance to the room.
The kitchen feels three or four degrees warmer and brighter with her presence.
It’s ridiculous really, I know it is. Yet somehow, I still feel it.
Honestly, I’m not sure whether to enjoy it, or resent it.
I didn’t ask for any of this, and I was perfectly happy as things were.
But I’ve lived long enough to know that you don’t always get what you ask for.
And you certainly don’t always get what you want.
Oh no.
In this world, what you get is what you’re given.
Successful people… well they realize this. They’ve learned to take what they’re given and run with it. Turn it—whatever it happens to be—into something positive, rather than sitting there moping about what they didn’t get but hoped for.
That’s how I see it, anyway.
We all take our seats, and Regan sets down the dish of freshly fried bacon rashers next to the eggs and the ever-present sliced bread.
Without further conversation, we dig in.
After a short while with not much more having been said than asking for something to be passed across the table, our appetites dissipate, and the conversation picks up again. Inevitably, perhaps, it turns to shopping for cheap, durable clothes.
Regan tells them to try Jude’s Work Wear on Hope Street, and I nod my agreement.
They stock cheap but serviceable clothing of most kinds for average working people—jeans, overalls, shirts, and so on.
Baseball caps, cotton Ts, and shorts in the summer months.
Anoraks, coats, scarves and gloves in the winter months.
Good, serviceable work boots all year round.
A few pairs of inexpensive sneakers. That sort of thing.
They won’t find anything fashionable at Jude’s, but they won’t want it.
Anyone walking around Coyote Creek Falls in a Hugo Boss suit or a Versace dress is asking to be noticed and talked about—probably for the next three weeks.
But before they depart, I have a thought.
“This car of yours—the Toyota, I mean.”
“Yes,” Maria turns to me, a quizzical look on her face. “What about it?”
“Your friend Tony. Does he know about it?”
“Well… yes, sure. It was no secret. I drove it all around Brooklyn all the time.”
“So… he might put out a message to all his friends along the lines of ‘Look out for a nine-year-old Silver Corolla with a New York plate?”
She sighs heavily. “Jesus, you’re right. We’re hopeless at this game. We’d have easily been found out. But what am I going to do? We can hardly sell it, because that would give us away just as much as driving it. And I can’t afford to just buy another car without selling that one first.”
“No problem,” I say. We got lots of cars. Kind of normal for a business like ours. People come in needing their car to be serviced, or to have it fixed. They tend to want a loaner while their own is being worked on. We always have two or three runners in the yard. Take your pick.”
“Wow… that would be amazing, thank you. You sure you don’t mind?”
“No sweat,” Grant chips in. “Abe’s right. Better not to have anything that traces you back to your old life.”
“If I was you,” Regan butts in. “I’d take Grant’s 1974 Dodge Challenger. That’s a 440 big-block V8 beast we’re talking about… beautiful! Bright citrus yellow coachwork, black vinyl roof, and a black stripe down the hood. You’ll love the sound of the exhaust, and it’s?—”
“No,” I cut in. “They need something that won’t get them noticed.
“If I were you,” I turn back to Maria. “I’d take the Honda Civic. It’s a good car, though nothing fancy. Dark gray, 2017 model. No one will look twice at you in it.”
“Yeah,” Grant agrees. “You’d be welcome to the Challenger, but it’s not exactly a low-profile vehicle. Much better off with the Civic, and to be honest, a lot safer on these mountain roads. Anyway, can you even drive a stick shift?”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile of gratitude. “To be honest, a stick shift monster V8 in these mountains is more than I could handle. The last thing I want to do is get your beautiful vintage car stuck in a ditch. The Civic sounds perfect, and we really appreciate it.”
“That’s agreed then,” says Grant.
“But… what about our car? The Corolla, I mean. It’s got to be worth something. I mean… I’m grateful—really grateful—but I can’t afford to have it just sit and rot.”
“That’s easy,” says Regan. “We’ll give it to Ritchie.”
“Yeah, good plan,” agrees Grant. “Ritchie’ll take it.”
Maria looks across at Regan and Grant quizzically.
“Sometimes we sell cars as well as fixing them,” Grant explains.
“Yeah,” Regan chips in. “And when we do, our customer sometimes wants to trade something in. So we take in their old car for not much money, allow for the cost in the deal price, and then sell it on to Ritchie.” He smiles brightly at this, and Maria turns to Grant and me for further explanation.
“Ritchie’s what’s called a trade exchange seller,” I explain.
“He travels up and down the country, buying in cars from places like us—older cars that have been traded in by their owners for something newer. He buys them from us, fixes them up if necessary, gives them a service and a new set of tires, renews their annual registration, and sells them to his own customers.”
“Oh,” says Maria.
“And he’s perfect for your Corolla,” explains Regan. “Because he’ll come and pick it up on his transport with a half dozen others when he’s next doing this area, and then take ‘em all back to his place in North Carolina. Nowhere near here. No link back to us. No link back to you.”
“Perfect!” Maria’s face brightens. “So, it’s just a case of waiting until he’s next in the area, I guess?”
“Exactly,” Grant confirms. “I’ll give him a call sometime this week. Let him know we’ve got your Corolla and we could also give him that 2017 Dodge Journey.”
“Oh, could we?” Regan grins. “That’s a terrible vehicle. I’ll be glad to see the back of it.”
So that’s all settled. But then Regan comes up with another idea.
“I tell you what, I’ll take the afternoon off—not got much on anyway—and come down with you, so you can learn the way into town and back, and I can show you around the Civic at the same time, make sure you’re comfortable with the controls.
Also, once we’re in town I can show you where everything is. How about that?”
Somehow, I doubt Regan’s enthusiasm to help is as much to do with the old man as it is to getting himself as close as possible to the fair Maria, but in all honesty, and regardless of Regan’s motivations, it’s not such a bad idea.
There are several twists, turns, and junctions that need to be negotiated between here and town.
Of course, Regan had picked her up from Martha’s yesterday, which is right next to town, but it’s better for her to have travelled it a couple of times before doing it herself, and besides, she’d been very tired yesterday.
“Actually, I’d really like that,” Maria says. “I haven’t driven very many different cars, so I’d feel much more confident if one of you is with me the first time. Plus, I did try to observe the way here, but I’m not a hundred percent confident I can find my way back into town.”
So that’s settled too. But then Maria raises another issue.
“What about work?” Maria asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, can any of you think of anywhere that might want to employ me? Like Papa says, we don’t want to be relying entirely on you for everything. Besides, we want to contribute if we can. You’re doing so much.”
“We don’t mind,” Regan gives her his winning grin—the one he reserves for chatting up the girls—and opens his mouth to carry on speaking, so, I cut in again.