Promises To Keep. Shirley Hailstock

can probably expect this kind of reception anytime we park this car,” Parker said. He was relaxed, his arm across the back of her seat. It wasn’t touching her, but it might as well have been. McKenna could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. And the heat from his fingers tinged the air between them and caressed her neck. With her hair secured in a ponytail, she could feel the redness spread around her nape.

      “I know,” she replied. “It’s one of the reasons I chose to build it.”

      “What do you mean by that?”

      “A trip of this length means you need to meet people. The car is a way of doing that.”

      “You have everything planned out, down to the last detail. Are you sure you want to be Buz? You’re acting more like Tod.”

      “That was before we left. Now that all the planning is done, the execution is whatever comes.”

      She pulled into a parking space on the main street in front of a café with gingham curtains covering the lower part of the window. Before they were out of the car, people had begun to peer between the curtains at them. Parker exited the car and came around to open her door. McKenna was surprised. He offered his hand and helped her up from the low riding vehicle. Once she was standing, he dropped his hand.

      Inside, McKenna chose a table near the windows. Every eye in the place followed their movement.

      “That’s a great car,” a man of about thirty at the next table said before the waitress came over. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one of those.”

      “’59 Corvette.” McKenna answered his unasked question.

      “’59, huh?” Another man left his table and the woman with him to come over and stare out through the window. McKenna estimated his age at around sixty. He wore a short haircut and jeans and shirt that seemed as if they’d seen many days of hard work. “What a beauty. And she looks like she just came off the assembly line.”

      A small gathering of people had left the restaurant to get a better look at the car.

      “Almost,” McKenna stated, not explaining anything further.

      “Is she yours?” He swung his gaze between the two of them.

      McKenna nodded.

      “Wanna sell her?”

      McKenna’s eyes opened wide. It was the last question she’d expected. The idea of selling the car had never entered her mind. It had a purpose and while she’d put it together it had become part of her personality. Selling it wasn’t an option.

      “It’s not for sale,” she said.

      “Well, if you change your mind, give me a call.” He took a business card from his shirt pocket and thrust it toward Parker.

      “It’s the lady’s car,” Parker said. “She’s done everything for it except date it.”

      McKenna gave him a startled look.

      “How’d you happen to come by a car like this?” the thirtysomething asked.

      “Always wanted a Corvette. I have a couple of brothers who were interested in cars,” she answered.

      “One of them restore this for you?”

      “Afraid not,” McKenna told him. “Restored it myself.”

      “You’re a woman after my own heart,” the sixty-year-old said. The woman he’d left behind at his table made a rude noise.

      “I love you, honey,” he tossed over his shoulder. “But this is a car.” He looked at McKenna with a quiet appreciation in his eyes. “When I was a boy, a guy down the street from me had one of these. We always knew when he was coming or going.” He shook his head, as if remembering a better time in his life. “Man, did the girls go for him.”

      “If you’ll all move away, I’ll take their order,” the waitress said.

      McKenna and Parker acknowledged the woman, dressed in a skirt and a tight T-shirt, and gave their order. While the café patrons moved back to their tables, the discussion remained on the car, with everyone participating as if they were all from the same family, discussing an amusing incident that had just occurred.

      “What’s your name?” a woman asked.

      “McKenna Wellington,” she said. “This is Parker Fordum.”

      “Y’all married?”

      “No,” Parker replied. “We’re driving buddies. This is Buz and I’m Tod.”

      “Yeah?” an old woman spoke from a dark corner. She got up and walked over to them. Pointing a finger, she punctuated the air in a staccato cadence as if she were tapping out a message. “Buz and Tod. And that car. Don’t sound real to me. I remember that television program. What was it?” Her question was directed inward. She was trying to remember.