Chapter Eight Old Trucks
Lydia
The truck looked different up close.
In the garage, with the door half open and cold light slipping in around the edges, it no longer felt like a charming solution. It felt large and very solid. I wondered how my dad felt about accidental dents happening.
I was notorious for kissing curbs and accidentally kicking open my driver side door only to hit it into a lamp post. A stick shift on top? That was asking a lot of me.
I stood there with my hands in my coat pockets, staring at it with a little trepidation.
“You can do this,” I told myself.
The truck remained unimpressed.
Dad pulled off the tarp entirely. The paint was faded but intact. The lines were boxy and dated. This was not a truck designed to be pretty. It had been built to work.
I exhaled slowly.
I could manage event planning at the inn. I could juggle contracts, guests, inspections, budgets, and family dynamics.
I could not, apparently, manage a clutch.
The thought made me laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. Enthusiasm, it turned out, did not equal ability. I had been very enthusiastic about the truck. That was not going to magically teach me how to drive it.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and typed, how hard is driving a stick shift really?
The internet responded immediately and cruelly.
“Not hard once you get the feel.”
“Easy if you’re not panicky.”
“If you stall more than twice, you’re overthinking it.”
I closed my phone.
That was enough of that.
The garage door creaked as Dad pushed it open wider, a box of tools balanced on his hip. He took one look at my expression and smiled faintly.
“Cold feet?” he asked.
“Cold everything,” I replied. “Including confidence.”
He set the box down and rolled up his sleeves. “Before you worry about driving it, we make sure it deserves to be driven.”
That helped, somehow.
Dad worked methodically, the way he did everything.
No wasted motions and no unnecessary commentary.
I was given the practical job of holding the flashlight, which was something I felt confident doing.
He swapped out the battery with practiced ease, explaining what he was doing as he went, not because I asked but because that was how his mind worked.
“Fluids first,” he said, getting on a wheeled board and going under the truck to drain out oil and other things I didn’t understand. “Old trucks will tolerate a lot, but they won’t tolerate neglect.”
I tried to be helpful. This mostly resulted in me laying on the cold floor, holding the flashlight at the wrong angle and asking questions that slowed him down.
“Is that supposed to look like that?” I asked as some gunky stuff flowed out into a small bucket he was holding.
“Yes,” he said.
“What about that?”
“Also yes.”
I nodded as if this clarified things. I had once killed an engine by not getting the oil changed. It wasn’t really my fault, because I hadn’t known cars needed servicing on a regular basis.
Finally putting everything back in place, Dad and I were able to stand upright again. He poured liquids into different tubes and doublechecked the dipsticks. “It needs to show between here and here. If it’s too full, it’s not good. If it’s too low, it needs more.”
I nodded like I understood.
He checked the tires next, crouching to inspect the tread. “These are fine. Not new, but serviceable.”
“Serviceable sounds promising,” I said.
“It means they won’t betray you,” he replied. “As long as you don’t panic if it’s icy.”
That word again.
I crossed my arms. “I don’t panic.”
Dad’s expression was patient in a way that suggested he had known me a long time. “The truck will do what you tell it but you need to be cautious. It’s old and things won’t work the same as a newer vehicle. Take it driving and get used to it”
That felt uncomfortably applicable to more than driving.
When he was finished, he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag, before putting the hood down. “All right. She’s ready.”
I stared at the driver’s door.
“You don’t have to do it right now,” Dad added, reading my hesitation. “The offer stands even if you decide this is a terrible idea.”
“It’s a terrible idea but I don’t have another one,” I said. “I’m not quitting so I’ll have to learn.”
That earned me a short, approving nod. Dad pulled the keys out of his pocket, handing them to me. “Get in and see if it runs.”
Carefully taking the keys, I hopped into the driver’s seat.
The cab smelled faintly of oil and something older, something lived-in.
The steering wheel was thicker than I expected, the pedals heavier under my feet.
I took a breath, adjusted the seat, and placed my hands carefully at ten and two like that suddenly mattered.
Putting the key in the ignition, the engine coughed once before settling into a rough but steady idle.
“Start in first gear and just get the hang of starting and stopping. Then work on getting up to second gear. Keep the windows down so I can talk to you." Dad stepped back. “I’ll be nearby.”
“You’re not staying?” I asked in surprise.
He smiled, already retreating. “You need space to swear at it privately.”
“Okay,” I said aloud. “We’re just going to practice driving.”
I pressed the clutch all the way in, shifted into first, and eased off slowly, carefully, exactly like I had been told.
The truck lurched forward six inches and stalled.
I laughed, startled by the sound. “All right.”
I tried again.
Stall.
Again.
Stall.
I rested my forehead briefly against the steering wheel. “We’re getting to know each other. This is going to take a little time. I can do this.”
I started it once more and focused on my feet, the pressure, the timing. The truck shuddered but stayed alive a second longer this time before dying again.
I repeated the process, over and over, until I could inch out of the garage. Just as I was about to add some gas, I lifted my foot off the clutch too fast and it stalled again.
I flinched, hands tightening on the wheel, and took a breath through my nose.
“I am learning,” I informed the dashboard. “You do not need to announce every mistake.”
The engine remained silent.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone step out of the inn and come to stand beside Dad.
Inwardly I groaned. I didn’t want more people seeing my bad attempts at figuring out how to lift my left foot and depress the gas with my right foot at the same time.
I always had bad coordination. In sports, I was a total clutz.
“Is that the truck?” Jane’s voice carried across the lot, hopeful and worried in equal measure.
“Yes,” I called back. “Everything is fine.”
That was a lie, but it was an optimistic one.
The engine turned over again, rough but alive. I eased the clutch up slowly, carefully, the way Dad had told me to. The truck shuddered like it was considering cooperation, then stalled again.
“Oh,” Kitty said brightly as she joined Dad and Jane. “You stalled.”
“I noticed,” I replied.
Jane standing a safe distance away, hands clasped in front of her, her face a study in concern.
Kitty hovered beside her, arms crossed, clearly invested.
Meri sat on the steps near the side entrance, a book open in her lap, her legs stretched out like she had every intention of settling in and watching the show.
“Do you want help?” Jane asked.
“No,” I said immediately. “I want silence.”
Jane nodded. “Of course.”
Kitty leaned forward. “You’re supposed to give it more gas.”
“I am not,” I said.
“Yes you are,” Kitty insisted. “I watched a video once.”
“I am begging you,” I said, “to stop watching videos.”
Meri did not look up from her book. “She’s overthinking it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“She always does,” Meri added.
I restarted the truck and tried again. The clutch came up. The truck rolled forward a foot.
I gasped. “Did you see that?”
Jane clapped softly. “Yes!”
Kitty cheered. “She’s moving!”
With renewed confidence, I tried switching to second gear and the truck stalled.
Kitty winced. “Okay, but still, it was better than last time..”
Mom appeared in the doorway then, wrapped in a coat she hadn’t bothered to button. “What is all this noise?”
“I’m learning to drive a stick shift,” I said, projecting calm I did not feel.
Mom’s hand flew to her chest. “In the parking lot?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“With that truck?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Why? The last time you borrowed a car it came back with a dent in the bumper.”
“Because the parade is coming up. We need a float. And this is the solution,” I resolutely told her.
Mom opened her eyes and stared at the truck like it had personally offended her. “It sounds angry.”
“It’s old,” Dad calmly mentioned.
“That’s not comforting,” she replied.
Jane stepped closer. “You’re doing really well.”
“I am not,” I said, stalling again.
Lucy came out then, drawn by the noise and the gathering crowd. She stopped short when she took in the scene: the truck, the sisters, my mother, me gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
She smiled slowly.
“Oh,” she said. “This is happening.”
“Do not say anything,” I warned.
Lucy leaned against the railing, folding her arms. “I won’t. I’ll just… observe.”
Kitty turned to her immediately. “She keeps stalling.”
Lucy nodded. “Yes, that’s what learning looks like.”
Mom waved her hand. “She should stop. This is stressful. What if she hits a parked car.”
“She’s never hit a car yet. Objects absolutely, but not a car,” Lucy glanced at me. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” I said, tightening my hands on the steering wheel.
Lucy shrugged. “Then she shouldn’t stop.”
I smiled despite myself.
I tried again. The engine caught. The clutch came up slowly. The truck lurched forward, then steadied. I let out a startled laugh as it rolled several feet.
“I went somewhere!” I said.
Kitty squinted. “You were supposed to shift.”
“I was not ready to shift,” I snapped.
Mom stepped closer. “Should it smell like that?”
I inhaled and immediately regretted it. “It smells like new fluids were put in.”
Meri finally looked up from her book. “You’re tense.”
“I am driving a machine that predates my birth. I am allowed to be tense,” I gritted my teeth.
Lucy pushed off the railing and came closer to the driver’s side window. “You’re doing fine,” she said quietly, so only I could hear. “And even if you weren’t, this isn’t a performance.”
I swallowed. “It feels like one.”
Lucy tilted her head toward the small cluster of my family. “They’re rooting for you. Loudly, poorly, but sincerely.”
I took a breath and tried again.
The truck rolled forward. Not smoothly, but steadily. I held my breath, eyes fixed ahead, foot trembling on the clutch and the other on the gas.
“Look at her go,” Kitty said, impressed.
“She’s doing it,” Jane whispered.
The truck stalled.
I slumped back in the seat, laughing despite myself. “Okay. That one hurt.”
Lucy grinned. “She’s not quitting.”
Meri marked her page and closed her book. “Of course she isn’t. Lydia hates quitting more than she hates failing.”
That landed somewhere deep.
I straightened in the seat and turned the key again.
The engine caught.
I pressed the clutch, shifted, and eased off, slower this time, calmer. The truck rolled forward, just a little, just enough to count.
I smiled, wide and breathless.
“I am doing this,” I said.
The truck stalled again, but I was already laughing.
Behind me, headlights swept across the parking lot.
I froze, hands tightening on the wheel.
A car pulled in and parked near the entrance. The engine cut. A door opened.
Ephram stepped out, jacket zipped against the cold, posture relaxed in the way of someone off duty but never fully disengaged. His gaze moved immediately to the unfamiliar truck, then to the garage, where my family stood watching.
Ephram started toward them.
I sank back in the seat, heart thudding, equal parts mortified and determined.
Of course he would see this.
The truck sat silent beneath me, unapologetic and heavy, as if to say it would be here whether I figured it out or not.
And apparently, so would witnesses.