If YouTube has taught me anything, it’s that someone out there knows how to fix every problem you could imagine… including vintage Mustangs that refuse to wake from their rusty coma.
I pull out my phone and look up the number for Clover Canyon Autos, owned by Georgina Lucas. The homepage pops up featuring a cherry-red Chevy Bel Air mid-restoration and the taglineWe build legends.
I’ve met Georgina a few times because her father, Sheriff Lucas, was friends with my grandpa, but I don’t know her well.
I look at the pictures of Georgina—George to her friends—working in grease-smudged overalls, smiling like she actually enjoys having carb cleaner in her hair. Reviews rave about her attention to detail, her custom jobs, and her ability to “bring the dead back to life.” Which sounds a little necromancer-adjacent, but hey, that’s exactly the kind of witchcraft I need.
I hitthe call buttonbefore I can second-guess myself.
The phone rings twice before a woman picks up, voice brisk but warm. “Clover Canyon Autos, George speaking.”
“Hi, um—hi! This is Sally Hargrave. We met once or twice, I think? My grandpa was Hank. Hank Hargrave?”
“Oh! Right. Mustang Hank.” A fond note enters her voice. “Sorry for your loss, Sally. Your granddad was a good man.”
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing. “I, uh, I inherited his car. The Mustang. I’m trying to restore it. Or, you know, raise it from the dead.”
George laughs lightly. “Classic Mustangs are stubborn bastards. What year?”
“Sixty-seven. Fastback. Original everything, which is… part of the problem.”
“Whew. Yeah, okay. That’s a hell of a project.”
“Would you be able to take a look at it?” I ask, already praying she says yes. “I’m filming the rebuild for my channel, and I really want to do this right. For him.”
She hesitates. “I’d love to help, but I’m slammed for the next two months. And I’m spending a lot of time out at Havenridge Ranch working on the Suttons’ fleet and trying not to fall behind on everything else.”
“Oh.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“But listen,” she says. “I’ve got someone working out of my shop full-time right now. Nolan West. He’s doing a lot of the day-to-day jobs while I’m off site, and he stays late most nights working on his own builds. He’s magic with classics. Grew up around engines like yours.”
“Nolan West,” I repeat. “Never heard of him,” I add, though the name feels steady somehow.
“I’m not surprised. He only moved to Clover Canyon a few months ago. Doesn’t do much advertising, but he’s the guy you want under the hood of that car. Especially with how much it meant to Hank, and now you. He’s careful. Knows his way around vintage engines.”
Careful.
That’s what I need. Someone who understands that this isn’t just a car. It’s memories. A legacy. Maybe even a last chance at something I can’t name yet.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. I’ll call him.”
George gives me his number and a gentle warning. “He’s grumpy as hell, but don’t let it scare you off. He’s good.”
My brain conjures an elderly, frowning Popeye with zero patience for social media girlies.
“Thanks, George.”
“Anytime. And Sally?”
“Yeah?”
“Your grandpa would be proud you’re doing this.”
I thank her again and hang up before I cry.
Then I stare at Nolan’s number.
Guess it’s time to call the night mechanic.
