“What have you got under there?”
“Old Mustang.”
Her eyes changed.
“What year?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Fastback?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my Lord.”
She stepped one foot farther onto the garage floor before I gently moved to block her path.
“My son Bryson would lose his mind.”
I smiled politely.
“Tate and I rebuilt it.”
“Is it original?”
“Not entirely.”
“Is it valuable?”
“Valuable to me.”
She laughed.
“I mean money.”
“I know what you meant.”
Her smile tightened for half a second.
Then returned.
“Well, if you ever decide to sell, you let us know first. Bryson loves classics.”
“It isn’t for sale.”
Hadley nodded.
But it was not the nod of someone who had accepted an answer.
It was the nod of someone filing the answer away as an opening position.
The first time I met Bryson Lockwood was three weeks later.
The garage door was up.
Georgia in August does not negotiate with human beings.
I was replacing the Mustang’s front sway-bar bushings when a shadow crossed the driveway.
“Whoa.”
I looked up.
Bryson was nineteen.
Six foot two.
Athletic.
Blond.
White tennis shorts and expensive shoes that had probably never been within twenty yards of actual tennis.
He stopped at the edge of the garage.
“Is that a sixty-eight?”
“Yes.”
“Dude.”
He stepped closer.
I slid out from underneath the car.
“Can I help you?”
“My mom said somebody over here had one.”
“That would be me.”
He looked around the garage like he had walked into a showroom.
“What rear end is in it?”
“Nine-inch.”
“Original carb?”
“No.”
“What are you running?”
“Four-barrel.”
“Can I see the interior?”
“No.”
He laughed.
I did not.
He stopped laughing.
“Sorry. I’m Bryson.”
“I know.”
“My mom probably told you.”
“She did.”
He stood there another nine minutes asking questions while I answered in increasingly short sentences.
Finally I said, “Bryson, I need to get back to work.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
He left.
That evening, Hadley texted me.
Sterling, Bryson is OBSESSED with the Mustang. He turns nineteen next month. Whit and I would love to discuss a fair purchase price. Could we come by Saturday?
I replied:
Not for sale. Thank you again for the cake.
Nine seconds later:
Sterling, every car is for sale. Let’s just have a conversation.
I did not answer.
Saturday morning, she arrived with her husband anyway.
Whit Lockwood was a commercial real-estate developer in his mid-fifties.
Large man.
Salt-and-pepper hair.
Khakis.
Polo shirt.
The kind of expensive watch designed to be recognized by people who recognized expensive watches.
He shook my hand with both of his.
“Sterling, good to finally meet you.”