"So, you're into classic cars."
He settled behind the wheel. The minute he turned the key the radio exploded with Marvin Gaye. Byron turned it down to a murmur before cruising through the lot.
"Sixty-five Mustang with a 289 V-8. A car like this isn't just a mode of transportation. It's a
commitment."
"Really?" She liked the creamy white bucket seats, the trained-panther ride, but couldn't think of anything more impractical than owning a car older than she was. "Don't you have to spend a lot of time babying it, finding parts?''
"That's the commitment. Runs like a dream," he added with an affectionate stroke to the dash as he merged into traffic. "She was my first."
"First what? First car?"
"That's right." He grinned at her baffled stare. "Bought her when I was seventeen. She's got over two hundred thousand miles on her and still purrs like a kitten."
Kate would have said it was more "roars like a lion," but that wasn't her problem. "Nobody keeps their first car. It's like your first lover."
"Exactly." He downshifted, eased around a turn. "As it happens, I had my first lover in the backseat, one sweet summer night. Pretty Lisa Montgomery." He sighed reminiscently. "She opened a window to paradise for me, God bless her."
"A window to paradise." Unable to resist, Kate craned her neck and studied the pristine backseat. It wasn't very difficult to imagine two young bodies groping. "All that in the back of an old Mustang."
"Classic Mustang," he corrected.
Holding the Dream
___________________
Nine
Unreliable Classic Cars We Can't Help but Want
Some bad
decisions are still worth making.
___________________
She spotted the car now, a low-slung beast in shining black. “That's quite a car.”
“It's heading toward cold tonight. I didn't think you'd want the bike.”
She walked off the portico and had to admire the lines. Del had been right. It was very slick.
“It looks new, but it's not.”
“Older than I am, but it's a nice ride.” He opened the door for her. She slid in. It smelled of leather and man, a combination that only made her more aware of being female.
When he got in beside her, turned the ignition, the engine made her think of a fist, coiled and ready to strike.
“So, tell me about the car.”
“Sixty-six Corvette.”
“And?” He glanced at her, then shot up the drive.
“She moves.”
“I can see that.”
“Four-speed close-ratio trans, 427 CID with high-lift camshaft, dual side-mount exhausts.”
“What's the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there's not much difference between the gears.”
“You got it. It's for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.”
“There wouldn't be any point having a car like this if you weren't.”
Happy Ever After