A soft knock sounded nearby.
“Lydia?”
I turned to see Dad standing a few feet away, concern written across his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I just needed a moment.”
He nodded, accepting that without question. “Lucy told me you are having trouble with the float.”
I laughed, a little hysterically. “That is one way to put it.”
He hesitated, then motioned toward the back of the inn. “Come with me.”
Curiosity outweighed exhaustion. I followed him down the back stairs, through a side door and into the garage, the air colder and smelling faintly of oil and dust. He flicked on a light.
In the corner, under a tarp, sat a truck.
A very old one.
William pulled the tarp back with a flourish. “This belonged to my father. It hasn’t run in a few years. But if I can get it started…”
My breath caught.
It was beautiful in a stubborn, boxy way. Faded paint. Solid lines. A truck that looked like it had stories.
“If I can get it running,” William continued, “you are welcome to use it. There’s no trailer, but the bed should hold a display.”
Relief surged through me so fast it made my knees weak.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Absolutely yes. Thank you!”
He smiled. “It will need a new battery. Fluids checked. Tires looked at. Don’t get your hopes up until we hear the motor start.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I will help. I will hold tools. I will provide moral support.”
He chuckled. “There is one thing.”
I paused.“What?”
“It’s a manual,” he solemnly said. “Stick shift.”
The word landed between us.
I stared at the truck.
“I don’t know how to drive a stick,” I said slowly.
Dad tilted his head. “You can learn.”
I laughed, the sound half hysteria, half exhilaration.
Tomorrow at noon.
A truck.
A float.
