Page 32 of The Summer We Kept Secrets (The Destin Diaries #4)
Jo Ellen dropped her purse and flopped on the bed. “We did it, Mags. We road-tripped to Miami Beach, didn’t die, and scored a room without using any weapons. Well, one of my stories, which could be considered a weapon. Think I should write a book?”
Maggie walked to the window, pushed open the slider, and looked out at the pink-lit skyline before turning back to her friend. “You know what I think?”
Jo Ellen lifted a brow.
“I think we are still young.”
Jo Ellen grinned. “That’s because of sixty years with me, darling!”
“It really is.” Maggie went straight to the minibar. “I’m ready for room service, but first, let’s pregame.”
“Let’s what ?”
“It’s what the kids call it,” Maggie said, yanking open the fridge door. “You drink before you go out, or, in our case, stay in. Either way, it’s fun.”
Maggie pulled out two tiny cans of something called White Claw and handed one to Jo Ellen. “Cheers to the man with holes in his ears.”
“He thought we were a cute couple.”
Maggie lifted her can and popped the top. “Well, we are!”
The car gleamed like a cherry on top of the sundae of life.
Parked under a striped awning at Suncoast Classic Motors, the candy-apple red ’57 Thunderbird shimmered in the morning light, top down, white leather interior glowing like a fresh manicure. Even the whitewall tires looked buffed to a mirror finish.
“Oh, my word,” Maggie breathed, stopping dead at the sight. “That car is…sexy.”
Jo Ellen let out a low whistle. “I feel like we should be wearing scarves and red lipstick. We really are Thelma and Louise. They were in a Thunderbird! Oh, no, Maggie—it’s bad luck.”
“Hush, and don’t make me sorry I let you watch that.”
Maggie walked a slow circle around the car, her fingers twitching with the urge to touch. She didn’t know what she expected after all that fuss Frank Cavallari made about this being Betty’s antique dream car, but this was no rusted relic. This was a statement.
“This is so Betty,” Jo Ellen said, following Maggie’s train of thought.
“Like that ridiculous fur coat,” Maggie muttered. “Gorgeous and useless.”
“Maggie.” Jo elbowed her. “The woman is dying. If she wants this car, she should get it.”
“We’re here, aren’t we?”
“Ladies?” A dark-haired middle-aged man dressed in a suit came out the door. “Can I help make your dreams come true?”
Maggie looked him up and down, but Jo Ellen stepped forward, no doubt to stave off sarcasm that wasn’t going to make this go any easier.
“This is our car.” She pointed at it.
“Sorry, but she’s spoken for,” he said. “I have another?—”
“It’s spoken for us,” Maggie interjected. “We’re here on behalf of Frank Cavallari. That’s his lovely truck for the trade-in and we have a cashier’s check for the rest, the paperwork, the phone number, everything you need.”
“Oh, you’re Maggie and Jo Ellen. He told me to expect you.” He reached out a hand to shake hers. “I’m Rodrigo and I will get everything set up inside. Why don’t you sit in the car and get comfortable with her? I’ll come and get you momentarily.”
When he left, Maggie and Jo Ellen climbed in with the necessary amount of reverence.
Inside, the Thunderbird had a bright white dashboard lined with chrome, a big circular speedometer, and a bench seat that seemed tailor-made for teenage makeout sessions.
The steering wheel was the size of a pizza pan, and the whole thing smelled faintly like leather and wax, all warmed by the Florida sunshine.
Jo Ellen was nearly vibrating. “Maggie, this is what joy looks like. Candy-coated and completely impractical.”
“I’m not usually a car person,” Maggie said.
“You don’t say.”
She gave a dry laugh. “But this is?—”
“A stick shift,” Jo Ellen interjected, putting her hand on a shiny ball that stuck up on the end of a wand between them.
“Isn’t that just the thing you use to put it in Park and Reverse?”
Jo Ellen made a face. “Pretty sure this H-shaped diagram with the numbers one, two, and three is for shifting. And that pedal?” She pointed to the floor. “Is what my husband used to call a clutch.”
“A… clutch ?” Maggie choked the words. “I have no idea how to drive a clutch.”
“Don’t tell Rodrigo or he won’t let us have it,” Jo Ellen said, jutting her head toward the door when the man came out. “And I’ll ask Oscar for some tips.”
But somehow Maggie didn’t think even that robot could help her now.
Inside the much cooler showroom, they followed the slick-looking salesman to a glass-enclosed office to sign their lives away. Rodrigo seemed a little surprised that they were driving all the way back to the Panhandle, but Maggie decided to let Jo Ellen do the talking.
Sometimes, that really was better. Especially when all Maggie could think about was…a clutch . And it wasn’t her favorite beaded handbag.
They gave away Frank’s keys for the truck, signed a mountain of documents, and drank some bitter and tasteless coffee.
“Well, we’re committed now,” Maggie murmured to Jo Ellen, who was madly tapping her phone, no doubt begging Oscar for a driving lesson.
Two men in white shirts came in, looking crisp and efficient. “We transferred all your belongings from the truck to the T-bird,” one said.
“We reset the top, too,” the other informed them. “And we fit all your stuff inside. Cooler, bags, and the…bike helmet.”
Maggie and Jo Ellen shared a surprised look.
“I bet Brick slipped that in there so you didn’t forget him,” Jo Ellen teased. “Probably wrote his number inside.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and signed the last page of a contract, the one that probably included fine print that legally acknowledged she could drive a stick shift.
After she put down the pen, Rodrigo dropped the keys ceremoniously into her hand and gave Jo Ellen a packet of papers the size of the Yellow Pages, prattling on about temporary tags and a bill of sale for registration. But all Maggie could do was stare at the keys and think about…the clutch.
“She’s all yours,” he said. “Happy trails, ladies.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be…interesting,” Maggie muttered, her hands already sweating as she imagined gripping that gearshift like she was in a racecar at Indy.
Jo Ellen grinned. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”
Outside, with Rodrigo looking on like a proud papa, Maggie opened the driver’s side door, slid into the low-slung seat, and looked down at the clutch. She breathed the words that would define the next thirty minutes of her life…
“Oh, hell .”
Jo Ellen, already shoving the papers in the glovebox, glanced over. “Come on, Mags. How hard can it be?”
Very .
The first attempt launched them half a foot forward before the engine stalled with a cough.
The second attempt got them rolling five feet before a grinding sound made Jo Ellen scream and seize the door handle like it was a lifeline.
By the third attempt, Maggie was sweating through her cotton top and swearing like a sailor as she caught a glimpse of the shock and horror on Rodrigo’s face in the rearview mirror.
“Give it gas! More gas!” Jo Ellen yelped. “And put your foot on the pedal at the exact second you move that stick. Oscar says it’s like choreography.”
“Oscar can bite me!”
The Thunderbird jerked forward like a toddler learning to walk and sputtered into the street with a horn blast from behind. Somehow, Maggie managed to jam it into second gear without turning the transmission into shrapnel.
“We’re in traffic!” Jo Ellen, queen of the obvious, shouted over the noisy motor.
“I know! ”
A sleek white BMW honked as it swerved past them, and Maggie gave the driver a prim, queenly wave. “Sorry, darling, we’re learning.”
Jo Ellen leaned closer, clutching her phone. “Oscar suggests we…pray.”
“Finally, something smart from that dimwit.”
They somehow navigated through the South Beach traffic without getting arrested or rear-ended, though there were several close calls, one heated middle finger, and a woman on a scooter who shouted, “Learn to drive, ya old bag!”
“God bless you, too!” Maggie yelled back.
By the time they hit a red light on Collins Avenue, Maggie had found something resembling a rhythm. Her left leg ached from the stupid little pedal, her jaw was tight from the tension, and her soul had left her body no less than five times.
“You know what?” she said, flexing her fingers on the wheel. “I feel like Scarlett after Rhett left her stranded with a sick horse, a half-dead woman, and a newborn.”
Jo Ellen peeked through her fingers. “Traumatized?”
“Determined to get home.” Maggie threw the car from Neutral into first gear with increasing confidence. Small screech of the clutch, but it caught. “As God is my witness, I will never avoid a highway again.”
“You’re not going on the highway, are you?”
“I might. We can make it to Orlando today. Honestly, Jo, this thing drives like it was dipped in caffeine.”
Jo Ellen moaned. “Well, bad news, honey. If you want to get to the interstate, you have to turn left here. But forget an arrow—there’s not even light. And lots of oncoming traffic.”
“Oh, boy.” She pulled into the left lane, said the prayer Oscar recommended, and stepped on the gas like it was a palmetto bug on her patio.
Before long, Miami was finally in the rearview mirror and Maggie was zipping up I-95 like a pro.
“You know what?” she said to Jo Ellen. “Roger would be so proud of me.”
“I’m proud of you,” Jo said, putting a hand on her arm. “You are my idol, Maggie Lawson. I never met a woman like you, and I never will again.”
Maggie laughed. A deep, from-the-gut laugh that wiped out decades of fear.
“Thank you for pushing me. I feel like I could take on anything. Drive Route 66. Race a dune buggy. Parallel park on Peachtree Street.”
“You’re drunk on power.”
Maggie turned the wheel with one hand and passed a truck that was just going too slow. “I’m drunk on freedom. Being afraid is the same as being in prison. We’re out, sister.”
Jo Ellen hooted. “We should get a car like this!”
“Don’t tempt me.”
They sped north, the T-Bird humming along, and Maggie let herself feel it—that buzz of youth, that hum of strength, that knowledge that she could do something scary and still keep going.