Chapter Eighteen
Brew
T he smell of motor oil hangs in the air—thick, sweet, and oddly comforting. Sunlight streams through the dusty garage windows, illuminating the floating particles. Willis is lying on his back on the concrete floor under the Corvette, trying to figure out why it’s losing brake fluid.
“You sure you put the rotor cap on right, Anson?” I ask from under the hood.
He grunts, squinting at the part. “I followed the manual.”
“Manual don’t account for your kind of stupid, son.” Willis’s gravelly voice floats up as he scoots out from beneath the car and sits up.
“Greatest generation, my ass,” Anson mumbles under his breath, then turns to face him. “You want to do it, old man?” he asks.
Willis stands to his feet, arms folded across his chest, stained overalls hanging off his wiry frame. “I am doing it. Through you, which is somehow more painful than doing it myself, even with these arthritic hands.”
I smirk, flicking a socket wrench at Anson.
Anson shakes his head, slinging sweat in my direction. “At least I’m not the one who tried to use an American socket on metric bolts.”
“One time,” I mumble.
“One time is all it takes to screw something up real good,” Willis grumbles.
The three of us settle into a rhythm—Anson and me trading tools, Willis correcting every third move like we’re rookies straight out of diapers.
Which, to him, I guess we are. He has owned this shop and has been fixing and rebuilding cars since the ’60s.
Now, he sits perched on a wooden stool, yelling out instructions.
“All right, you got that ignition coil set?” he calls, not bothering to stand.
“Yep. Tight as your ass, old man.”
He grunts, which could mean anything. Approval. Disgust. Indigestion.
We keep working in the thick blanket of the afternoon heat until the topic drifts to women and dating.
“So,” Anson says, adjusting a bolt, “Brew met someone.”
That gets a pause from Willis’s nonstop grilling.
“Met someone, huh?” the old grump repeats. “Does this mythical ‘someone’ have a name?”
“Brandee.”
“And where did you meet Brandee?” he asks.
“At Whiskey Joe’s. She and some friends came to see Cody play.”
“I see. And you want to court this young woman?”
“Court? I think it’s too soon for those plans, Willis. He just wants to take her out on a date. And get this: she doesn’t know who he is. She thinks he’s a broke bartender, so he wants to keep it a cheap date.”
Willis whistles low. “Bad move, Brew. Women are scary creatures. They can sniff out the truth faster than a bluetick hound.”
“Right? All they need is your first name and an iPhone, and before you know it, they know your address, employer, bank account, and Social Security number,” Anson agrees.
Willis just blinks at him. Then he cuts his eyes back to me. “So, where are you planning on taking the young lady?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I admit. “I want it to be cool, but you know … on-a-budget romance. And it can’t be anywhere we might run into someone who knows me.”
“Well, that narrows it down. Maybe you should bring leftovers home from the bar for you two to eat in your truck,” Anson quips.
“Maybe.”
Willis scoffs like I just said I was gonna take her dumpster diving.
“Romance ain’t got nothing to do with money,” he mutters, standing up stiffly and limping toward the car with a rag in his hand. “But it also ain’t microwaved leftovers.”
Anson laughs. “What would you suggest, Casanova?”
Willis narrows his eyes at him. “Boy, you wouldn’t know romance if it slapped you over the head with a dozen roses.”
Anson grins. “Tabby’s not complaining.”
“Give her time,” Willis spits.
“Okay, fine. Enlighten us. What did you do when you were young and broke? Pick her up in your wagon and take her to church?” Anson asks.
I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh.
Willis leans against the car and scowls. “Back when I was courting I barely had a pot to piss in, so I had to get creative. I once took a girl dancin’ in the middle of a parking lot with nothin’ but my truck’s headlights and a radio.”
“That actually sounds … kinda cool,” Anson admits.
“It was. She married some other guy later, but that night? That night was magic.”
I glance at him, and the old man is actually wearing a faint smile.
“All right, so … ideas. What about the beach?” I say. “A picnic maybe?”
“This time of year?” Anson says. “Unless you’re doing a bonfire, it’ll be awfully chilly.”
“Ugh, maybe I should forget it,” I say, frustrated.
Willis scratches his chin. “You still got that old Coleman cooler I gave you?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You could pack it with sandwiches, take her someplace quiet. Somewhere with a view. You know I got that boat sittin’ in the back still.”
I blink. “A boat? Wouldn’t that be just as cold?”
“Nah, she’s got a small diesel heater. Doesn’t smell that great, but it’ll keep you warm.”
“Wow, thank you.”
Willis shrugs like it’s no big deal. “She ain’t a big, fancy sailboat like you have, but she floats. Got a little outboard on her that still runs. She’s a bit weathered, but then so am I.”
Anson nods. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I didn’t say I was givin’ it to you,” Willis barks. “Just lettin’ you borrow it.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I stammer.
“Say you’ll fill the tank before you bring it back,” he sputters.
I grin. “Deal.”
Sunset on the water. Just me, Brandee, a cooler full of snacks, maybe a little speaker for music.
We break for water and sit on crates out by the big sliding door, the garage half in shade now. The scent of hot rubber mixes with the salty breeze drifting up from the marsh behind the building.
“Romance isn’t about money,” Willis says again, more softly this time. “It’s about intention. You show someone they matter by putting in the time, the thought. You make them feel like they’re the only person in the world for those few hours.”
“That’s kind of poetic, old man,” Anson says, nudging him.
He glares at him. “I was a hell of a romantic before you two were even ideas in your parents’ heads.”
“Was?” Anson says.
“Still am,” he growls. “I just save it for behind closed doors.”
“Hey, this is just one date. Not intention and all that other stuff,” I tell them.
Willis slaps me on the back. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, son, but all that other stuff starts with one date.”
We finish the racer’s tune-up just as the sun starts to dip behind the trees. It purrs to life on the first turn of the key, the kind of deep-throated rumble that you can feel in your chest.
Willis smiles—just a twitch of the mouth.
“She’ll be ready for the track again before you know it,” he says.
“Thanks to us,” Anson adds, patting the hood.
“Mostly me,” Willis says. “But sure, let’s pretend you two contributed.”
We pack up the tools and clean our hands with gritty orange soap at the bay’s sink. I linger for a moment, looking past the garage toward the back lot, where the boat rests under a faded tarp.
I sure hope I still remember how to drive a fishing boat.
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for some girl you talked to at the bar for a little bit,” Anson says on the drive back to the beach house.
“We might have spent a tad more time together than that,” I admit.
He turns his head to me. “Really? How much time?”
“Overnight.”
He stifles a laugh. “Well, okay then. I’m assuming it was a good night.”
“A very good night.”
“Is she in town for long?” he asks. “I’m guessing she’s not a local if she doesn’t know you own Whiskey Joe’s.”
“Nah, she’s just house-sitting for her aunt Ida Mae.”
He laughs loudly. “You’re kidding me. Ida Mae?
Are you out of your mind? Look, she doesn’t need to have the nose of a bluetick hound.
Her aunt is friends with Sabel Hollister and is also neighbors with Seb and Avie.
She’ll know all about your background—your social standing and family history—before you even manage to get that old boat back under Willis’s tarp.
You’d better tell her yourself before one of them does. ”