“It really is.” Maggie went straight to the minibar. “I’m ready for room service, but first, let’s pregame.”
“Let’swhat?”
“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 gleamedlike 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 reallyareThelma 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?”
