“I know,” Jo Ellen said excitedly. “‘And she’ll have fun, fun, fun…’” she sang woefully off-key. “That one? The Beach Boys?”
“Yes, that one,” Frank said with a sad smile. “You know how she loves The Beach Boys.”
Maggie did remember that about Betty, always playing those songs on her record player.
“And look what I found.” He showed them a computer printout with a color picture of a red convertible. “This one is 1957, the classic year for Thunderbird. Fully restored down in Miami Beach. I can wire the dealer the money, but I just can’t go get it.” He glanced toward the house. “I can’t risk leaving her.”
“You’d buy her a car?” Maggie practically sputtered. “Now? When she’s?—”
“If not now, then when, Mags?” Jo Ellen asked, obviously following Frank’s insane logic.
“Exactly,” he said. “What better time than when she’s…” He looked over his shoulder to the house, letting his voice trail off.
Oh, no.Maggie’s heart clenched. Should she ask how much time Betty had left? Was that appropriate or?—
“Could you two go get it for me?” he asked.
Whatdid he say?
“In Miami Beach?” Maggie scoffed. “No.”
“Mags! We can do it,” Jo Ellen insisted.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“You can take my old truck down and leave it there,” Frank powered on, seeing an ally in Jo Ellen. “The car dealer agreed to take it as a trade-in for part of the payment. The T-bird isn’t ready yet, but will be in about a week or so. Could you do it?”
Drive a truck from here to South Florida? And come back in a sports car? She could barely drive down Highway 98 in Vivien’s high-end SUV.
“Frank?” Betty was at the door. “I think I need you.”
Frank looked from one to the other. “Will you just think about it?”
“Non-stop,” Jo Ellen blurted out.
“The answer is no,” Maggie interjected. “We are not driving your bucket of bolts God knows how many days to Miami Beach and coming back in a Thunderbird!”
“Work on her, Jo,” he whispered as he hugged them both, then shot back into the house, leaving them in the driveway alone.
“Maggie, we?—”
“No, we’re not doing it.”
“She could be dying!”
“Then he’d tell us that, Jo Ellen. She could also have a headache from a hangover, which would be much more in character, if you ask me.”
“She deserves joy,” Jo Ellen insisted. “And if a car will bring her happiness in her final days, who are we to deny it?”
“We are seventy-eight-year-old ladies who can’t see at night, are afraid of left turns, and don’t know how to pass on the highway.”
“Oh, Maggie, that’s not true. You can do anything!”
Once, maybe. Not anymore. “Rope one of your daughters into this trip, Jo, but I won’t risk my life for a car.”
Jo Ellen looked glum as they opened their doors and climbed in, silent in the blazing heat of the SUV.
“We could find a route with only backroads, no left turns, and no night driving,” Jo said softly.
