Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
I ’m at the office early on Monday prepping for our weekly meeting and still riding yesterday’s beach high. I’m crackling with vitality and eager for new assignments. I open my note pad, pen at the ready, and sip my fresh coffee.
Tyler breezes into the room last in his stylish clothes, hip loafers, and impeccably styled hair. “We’ve got a big agenda this morning, so I hope no one’s hungover,” he says with his signature snark. “Status updates. Starting with you, Greg.”
We go around the table, each reporting on our current articles, with Tyler troubleshooting any issues.
“Next, we’ve got a special edition in the works for the new year. You’ve got exactly two weeks to pitch me your ideas. I’m looking for fresh , people, not the tired shit everyone prints. Do not come to me with resolutions, fad diets, or psychobabbly self-help BS, or it will be instant termination.”
Is he joking? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
“We haven’t settled on a theme either, so even though we’re just one section of the magazine, think bigger…bolder…for the entire issue. Fourteen days. Got it?”
Heads bob, and I my brain takes off in a sprint.
“Now, onto new assignments,” he announces, corralling my attention back to the meeting.
Tyler addresses me third—above Tanya—which is a first. He doles out the choice stories up front, so it means I’ve inched further up the list in a short time. There aren’t a lot of attagirls given around here, so I’m glowing at his display of confidence.
“You’re writing a feature on Hamilton Restorations.
It’s a car restoration business. Family owned, small town vibe, storied past, known clientele—celebrities, dignitaries, etcetera.
It’s a haul, down south, middle of nowhere.
But I think you’ll give this the right touch. You’re into cars, if memory serves.”
Pride surges again as I lap up his flattery. “Sure am. This is absolutely in my wheelhouse.” My lips stretch into a smile as an old fire flickers. Cars? Hell yeah . I can’t wait to dig in.
I don’t miss Tanya’s pen smacking her pad with force, but I can’t bother with her passive-aggressive tantrums. I’ve got a great article— a feature —on the horizon, and a New Year edition to think about.
Back at my desk, I review the assignment brief, then phone my provided contact.
“Hamilton Restorations.” The man’s voice is sandpaper rough, which makes him sound old.
“This is Jacqui Hall from Virginia Now. May I speak with Gus Hamilton?”
“You got him.”
“Hello, Mr. Hamilton. I’m?—”
“Call me Gus,” he clarifies, his definitive Southern accent emerging with every word.
“Thank you,” I say, underling his first name in my notepad.
“I’ll be writing the article about your business for the magazine, and I’d like to schedule an interview at your earliest convenience.
You can show me what you do and the kinds of vehicles you restore, and share your history, mission, and whatever else to tell the Hamilton Restorations story. ”
“Sounds agreeable.”
“I understand your son works with you as well?”
“That’s right. Between the two of us, we can cover everything you need.
” Despite his gruff tone, he seems more than amenable to meet.
“I only have one condition. I want to see the article before it prints. I’ve been misquoted in the past by journalist types, but I’ve known Don for years and he assured me this wouldn’t be a problem.
He promised to send a crack reporter.” The way his cadence emphasizes the word crack almost makes me jump.
Am I a crack reporter? If he knows Don, I hope Gus isn’t in the womanizing douchebag camp with him. And why the hell wasn’t I given a heads-up on this?
“I’ll make certain you’re satisfied with the outcome. We should plan on a few hours. I’ve got time available this week if that works.”
There’s a pause. “Friday. And if you show up before lunchtime, my wife will probably try to feed you.”
A pleased chuckle leaves my lips. “She sounds like a lovely woman.”
“The best.”
His adoration for her touches a soft spot. We finalize the time, and I jot everything in my notepad then head to the library to do more research on the four stories I’m juggling.
It takes ninety minutes to drive to Hampton Springs, and once I hit state and county roads, it’s downright scenic.
I pass modest homes, acres of farmland, and vast woodlands, occasionally cruising through tiny towns with little else than weathered gas stations, walk-up custard stands, and small, independent grocery stores.
It’s a slice of Americana, one I’ve rarely glimpsed.
A sign comes into view, and I slow. Two chains hanging from a fancy wrought iron post hold a metal oval painted teal. The words “Hamilton Restorations” curve overtop a classic car with “Est. 1956” curving below in black. A white border brings it all together. Classy.
I turn into the driveway. A farmhouse gleams in the late summer sunshine with its white paint and black shutters, the front wrapped with a welcoming porch.
A towering oak shades the house, and the abundant garden adds another dose of charm.
I find the business farther down, housed in a vast, stately garage next to other outbuildings, the same oval sign—only bigger—mounted to the main building.
A fenced parking area houses a smattering of vehicles in all stages of disrepair.
I park by the office next to a pristine Dodge Power Wagon, collect my satchel, and hop out. When I walk around the truck, my gaze catches and fixates on the first muscle car I’ve seen since leaving home. A Plymouth Barracuda, black as night, probably a late-60s model. Let the salivating begin.
The office door swings open, and an older gentleman greets me with a wave as a large, yellow Labrador squeezes by him and beelines for me, barking excitedly.
The dog sidles up alongside and I offer my hand.
Once I pass his sniff test, I venture a scratch on his head and am rewarded with tail wags and a lolling tongue.
“That’s Hemi, and he’s harmless,” the man says. My lips lift at the name. “I’m Gus Hamilton,” he adds, voice just as raspy as it sounded on the phone. “Also harmless.”
I straighten and shake his proffered hand. He’s noticeably tall, his brunette hair flecked with gray and his eyes a vivid cerulean blue.
“Jacqui Hall. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise. ”
“Quite a place you’ve got here.”
He gazes in the distance, humming in agreement. “Eighty-three acres. Our family’s lived here a century. And that old farmhouse has reared a lot of Hamiltons.”
“It’s very picturesque.” The exterior is an open invitation—different from the hard, modern angles of California houses—and I long to see the inside. “I’m a big fan of this Barracuda. Yours?” If so, you just raised your cool quotient by a thousand.
“My son’s,” he admits. “But I’ve got a nice assortment of Mopars in my personal collection.” His knowing smile says it all, and I nearly get a head rush thinking about what awaits in that garage.
“I’m looking forward to seeing everything today.”
“Let me show you around and then we can sit and chat.”
“Perfect.”
Gus starts the tour outside, rattling off a brief history.
His great grandfather owned the now-defunct Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodge dealership in town, which is why Hamilton Restorations specializes in Mopars, a word that’s become synonymous with those manufacturers.
Their downtown started crumbling after department stores moved to malls and larger entities eclipsed mom-and-pop establishments.
I hear his despondency as he explains how the once-thriving Main Street now lies mostly vacant, housing a few attorneys, an insurance agent, two antique shops, and a pharmacy with an eat-in counter and soda fountain.
He points out some of the old vehicles. Even in their state of decay, I admire the exterior details: bulbous fenders, signature tail fins, chrome bumpers, hood ornaments, wing windows. These old gals exude real style, the kind long faded from today’s automobile manufacturing.
“Gus, this is a little off topic, but I’ve noticed since moving here, and even on my drive across the country, the absence of makes and models I’m accustomed to seeing. Where are all the cars? It’s as if they don’t exist outside of California.”
“The car culture here is different. A big issue lies in our harsh winters. Cars rust. People also get rid of the old models in favor of new ones. Modern engineering means vehicles last longer with less maintenance, which is certainly attractive to many folks. There are enthusiasts and collectors here, and we take our cars to shows and meetups rather than use them for daily drivers. I’ve been fortunate to spend time out west, and you’re right…
it’s not the same.” He chuckles. “Bit of a culture shock both ways, I imagine.”
Gus continues talking about the business while I jot notes.
We enter the main garage, Hemi trailing behind us and then flopping down on the cement floor with a groan of contentment.
I scan the beautiful cars in various stages of restoration.
There are too many to see from one vantage point in the gargantuan facility and my gaze flits incessantly. I’m in car nirvana.
We round the bend into another section, and a steady clanging rings out.
I surmise someone’s working on a project—perhaps the son I’ve yet to meet or another employee.
Gus keeps chatting as we walk toward the sound.
A torso bent over the engine of an aqua vehicle that looks fresh off the set of American Graffiti comes into view.
Long legs fill out a pair of jeans leading to black work boots. I swing my attention back to Gus.
“One of our repeat clients, an NFL player and car collector, brought us this 1959 Plymouth Savoy,” he says. “It needs repair to the body, interior, and motor. My son is machining some of the parts by hand—he’s our best fabricator. Let me introduce you.”
The mystery man pops up from under the hood. Surprise crosses his face, followed by a grin that lights up bold emerald eyes.
“Sundance?”