Chapter 54
Fifty-Four
B utch takes Emmy to her dance class on Saturday morning.
He asked me to join him when we were having dinner at his folks’ house last night, but Gus intervened, saying he wanted to pick my brain about an idea he had.
Without realizing it, his father unwittingly provided the perfect opportunity to view those family photo albums on the sly if our conversation doesn’t take too long.
I’m waiting for Gus in the living room, those painful words replaying in my mind for the nth time no matter how hard I try to shut them out.
I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t want this life.
Butch and I haven’t spoken of the note again, and I’m wondering if we’ll ever go there. It sure helps me understand some of his pain. Childhood sweetheart. Married young. Unplanned pregnancy. Then poof, everything you thought was forever…gone.
I thought Mick was going to be my forever. Would have met him at the altar in half a heartbeat. Then poof, everything was gone. I realize that doesn’t hurt like it once did. It’s more of a bee sting than a gut shot .
I take a sip of coffee as Gus enters and sits in his favorite plaid wingback chair. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t his next words.
“I want to start a magazine about car restorations. A quality publication, something upscale, different.”
“Well, that’s exciting.”
“You helped spark the idea, actually.”
“Me? How?”
“Back when you mentioned the lack of car culture on this coast. It got me thinking about a way to share about the classics, resto jobs, show vehicles, barn finds…all of it.”
“It’s a cool idea.” Very cool. “There’s nothing on the market like that now?”
“There are plenty of car magazines, but nothing like what I’m envisioning.
I’m talking about every issue being a collector item with professional photography, longer layouts, and articles that carefully detail the restoration process and showcase the result.
Maybe it’s a quarterly, so it can be done right, and thick enough that it’s printed on better paper, perhaps bound instead of stapled like the flimsy magazines on the rack. ”
“It sounds worth pursuing.” Not that I’m any expert.
“Since you’re in the business, I thought you could advise on what I should do next.”
“Not sure I’m qualified to answer,” I say, clearing my throat.
But actually, I do have some suggestions.
“I’d start with market research, so you can identify what’s out there now.
Then I’d sketch out a few editions to crystalize some ideas for content and how you’d plan to write the articles and handle the photography.
It’ll require an advertising staff, which you may be able to hire on a freelance or contract basis.
You also have production concerns, such as who will print the magazine, how you’ll distribute it, and what entities could handle subscriptions and newsstand sales.
You eventually need to figure out if it’s a venture worth taking on in terms of costs, time, projections, and viability. ”
Gus grins. “Sounds like you’re perfectly qualified to answer.”
I smile shyly. “I’m happy to help any way I can.”
“I’ll give Don a call this week. Pick his brain. He’ll probably try to talk me out of my harebrained scheme.”
My heart drops into my stomach, and it’s all I can do to nod my encouragement and keep my qualms about my boss internalized. “That’s smart. He obviously knows much more about the magazine industry.”
“You’ve given me plenty to think about. Right now, it’s just a notion, but maybe one day it will materialize into the real thing.”
A sheen of sweat coats my skin and when I register the tremor in my hands, I surreptitiously press my palms against my thighs and force myself back to the present.
“You’re in a unique position with your restoration business to offer something of value.
You have the perspective, clientele, connections, and history. Car enthusiasts would respect that.”
Jerri strides into the living room balancing photo albums, effectively halting all conversation. I’m relieved. I don’t want to think about Don or the wedge he could drive between me and this family I’m starting to belong to.
She drops the stack onto the coffee table. “There are more, but we can get started with these.” She glances at her husband. “You all finished in here?”
Gus stands. “Yes, my love. And knowing you as I do, you’re going to do what the heck you want anyway.”
“You know me well,” she answers.
He winks. “That I do.”
Jerri joins me on the sofa and hefts the first thick volume into her lap. Our eyes meet and hers turn scrutinizing. “You look a little pale. You alright, sugar?”
I’m not. I’m in a nightmare that hasn’t played out yet, one I don’t know how to stop from unfolding, but which probably won’t end well. “I’m fine,” I say, rallying my most reassuring smile.
She opens the album, balancing it between us, allowing me to fall into their family archives. There’s cooing, squealing, and laughing as I soak up the precious, awkward, hilarious images of Butch through various stages of youth.
A half hour later, Butch groans when he busts us. “Mom! What the...? That is so…” He grapples for words. “ Wrong .”
Jerri frowns. “What? You’re adorable.”
“Spoken like a true mother,” he mutters.
“You were hot in that purple tux,” I say. “And that long hair? Mmm .”
“Stop. No. We’re not doing this.” He’s truly annoyed, stepping closer and looming over us.
He lunges for the album, but I clutch it to my chest. “You’re such a spoilsport.”
“Am not.”
“Are you five?” I tease.
“Give it. Or else show me all your awkward pictures.”
I shrug, giggling. “They’re in California.”
“Convenient.” He rubs the scruff of his jaw.
I hand the object of his ire to Jerri and rise from the sofa, placing my hands on Butch’s forearms. “You were a handsome devil at every iteration.” He glares.
“Naked in the bathtub with your sister.” He groans.
“On your bike with the banana seat and sissy bar.” He narrows his gaze.
“At the science fair, proud of your potato-powered lightbulb.” I push up on my toes and kiss his lips, which stubbornly don’t respond.
“Really?” he mumbles into my mouth.
“Really,” I say, not taking my lips off his.
He relents, his arms opening as he tugs me closer and kisses me back.
“That’s my cue to leave,” Jerri says .
Laughter bubbles out of us both, forcing our mouths apart.
“Where’s Emmy?” I ask.
“Dad intercepted her outside. She’s probably shredding her tutu running on all cylinders. Did you have a nice time here?”
“Are you kidding? Purple. Tuxedo .”
He rolls his eyes.
“To answer your question, I did. Your parents are awesome.”
“Yup. Case in point, Emmy’s staying over tonight so we can go on a date.”
Alone time. As much as I’ve enjoyed all the family togetherness, Butch and I are rarely on our own here, and I crave it.
Butch enters the cabin near sunset, swinging some keys around his finger. “Ready for an old-school date, gorgeous?”
More than. He’s been secretive all afternoon about the details, but when we go outside, I audibly gasp. I’m staring at one of the most stunning classic cars I’ve ever seen. “ Wow. ”
“It’s a 1958 Plymouth Fury.”
My eyes dart to his. “The Christine car?”
“One and the same.”
It even looks like the Fury from the movie with its cherry red paint, sleek lines, and cool fins.
“I stayed up until three in the morning reading that damn Stephen King book and then I was too scared to fall asleep. For some moronic reason, I doubled down when the movie came out and saw it too. Color me terrified.” Moving slowly toward the vehicle, I outright ogle it.
Butch chuckles. “Maybe I should have gone with the Special Deluxe instead. ”
“Are you kidding? This is perfect.” I continue soaking in the car’s beauty. The white top. The grille that looks beautiful and frightening. The long swath of chrome across the sides into the fins.
Once I finish my circuit of the entire vehicle, Butch opens the passenger door like the gentleman he is, and I slide onto the bench seat.
The interior is matching red, but the steering wheel is two-toned in cherry and white.
Totally bitchin’. Scooting over, I check out the driver’s-side dash.
The classic dashboards are jaw-droppingly cool, and this one doesn’t disappoint.
I’m ogling Butch now, at ease behind the wheel of this big sexy car, one that seems to comfortably fit his big sexy self.
The engine rumbles to life, a steady cranking in the idle. Butch takes off, and she rides so smoothly, it’s as if we’re gliding. The seat has a noticeable bounce to it, and I can’t help whooping.
My handsome driver flashes me a pleased smile.
Then he rattles off some interesting history about the Fury.
It’s a rare, low-production car. The nickname for the 350-cubic-inch high-performance engine is Golden Commando.
The custom paint is a nod to Christine , as the originals were white and gold or beige.
He relays some insider restoration gossip on how hard it was for director John Carpenter to wrangle enough Furys to make the movie, most of which were destroyed during filming.
Well, yeah…they were crashed, set on fire, crushed. Christine was a murderess.
An old-style, drive-in burger joint comes into view and when Butch pulls in, I bounce in my seat. Maybe I’m five. I’ve only seen these in movies, and I’m marveling that one exists, let alone that I’m here.
“Is someone going to roller-skate over and take our order?” I ask .
Butch chuckles. “No on the skates, yes on the order. The menu is printed right here.” He points to his left.
I slide closer and peer out his window, checking out the limited offering: burgers and dogs, fries and onion rings, sodas, shakes, and malts.
“We can’t spill anything, or my father will have both our hides.”
“Hell, I’m nervous about eating in ol’ Christy. Maybe she’ll eject or kill us before we leave the parking lot.”