“Both?” she practically squeaks the word.
Rory’s eyes bounce between her husband and the girl I shouldn’t be so fascinated by, nearly as invested in this exchange as I am.
“Why don’t you start by telling me the van’s history,” Wyatt suggests, leaning back on the hood of the vehicle behind him.
Amelia shifts her weight between her legs, grabs onto one elbow, and speaks. “She’s a 2005, but I got her about eight years ago. She’d been through a lot by then, almost two hundred thousand miles on her dash, but she was all I could afford. She’d been an airport shuttle for a chain hotel out west, and they ran her hard from what I heard. I gutted her and outfitted her for the van life, and I know she looks pretty good for her age, but that’s just because I gave her a facelift. Her guts are still original.”
Amelia wraps one fist in the material of her sleeve that hangs past her free hand before she continues.
“I’ve taken her around the country slowly, tried not to wear her down too fast, but I’ve still put another two hundred or so on her since then.”
Wyatt lets out a low whistle. “Then I say you’re damn lucky. This thing should’ve died on you a long time ago.”
Guilt flashes across her features before she answers him. “My check engine light has been on…a while.” She says the last bit delicately, face alight with a refreshing kind of self-deprecating humor. That buzz inside me gets stronger, and I resist the urge to step into her personal space, busying myself by bouncing my niece in my arms.
“If it makes you feel any better, there’s not really anything you could’ve done to save her life,” Wyatt tells her. “Even humans who live to be a hundred can be taken out by a damn cold. You never know what’s going to be the kiss of death.”
Rory flinches so slightly I bet Amelia didn’t even notice, but Wyatt keeps talking, though one hand does move to his wife’s back.
“We’ve all only got so much in us. But I’d say you got a hundred and twenty human years out of this one here, and to count your blessings.”
Amelia takes another deep breath in and then nods, that hand now rubbing up and down her arm. “So are you saying it’s time for a funeral?”
Wyatt’s mouth turns down, and he shakes his head. “Nah, not unless you want it to be. There are options.” He taps the printout in his hand.
Amelia’s gaze drifts over the paper, stepping closer to take it in, and her eyes widen. “Walk me through what I’m looking at here before I have a heart attack at twenty-seven and you’re found liable for my deathandVan Gogh’s.”
“I think our insurance policy covers death by shock from estimates,” Rory says, straight-faced. “As long as you don’t haveany gold diggers in your family who’ll come after us for our last few bucks, we should be fine,” she jokes.
But Amelia’s laugh in response isn’t real, like the ones I earned from her last night were. It’s forced, like she doesn’t want to bring attention to whatever it is she’s mentally sprinting past there.
Lucky for her, Wyatt’s never dragged out a conversation in his life. “We can rebuild with OEM parts, or do an aftermarket build. Getting parts straight from the manufacturer is that top number.”
“The arm and two legs,” Amelia tosses out, deadpan.
“Still cheaper than a new van with all the bells and whistles yours has,” he points out.
“Barely,” she mumbles.
“The second number is if we get aftermarket parts and rebuild the engine and transmission cheaper. I checked my suppliers, and I couldn’t find any new or even decent used engines that’ll work for your van, so we’d have to source the parts individually and then put it together here.”
Amelia takes just a second to grapple with the bad news before standing up straighter and nodding her head again. Is it wrong that it intrigues me? That I’m dying to know what she’s been through that she’s so quick to accept the worst-case scenario and go right into moving forward, rather than mourning what she’s lost?
“And that price, how would that be charged?” she asks, all business. I think Rory might even be impressed, which is saying something.
“This right here,” Wyatt taps something on the paper, “is the deposit. It’s the cost of the materials we’d have to order for the job. The rest is labor, which would be due on completion, you’re looking at about three, maybe four weeks until that would be due.”
“Three weeks?” Her brows raise, but she seems like she’s already accepted this change in her course of fate.
“The parts will take at least a week to get here, and then it’s gonna be another week or two to get the engine rebuilt, installed, and ready for ya. Maybe three, with all the work we have backing up right now.” His eyes move pointedly around the shop. Not sure if she catches it, but that was Wyatt for “be thankful I fit you in today.”
“And my alternatives are…?” she trails off the question, waiting for Wyatt to fill in the rest.
“Sell her to someone who wants to put the work in. Scrap her for parts, but that’s a shame considering the condition the rest of her is in. You’ve kept her up well.” Wyatt shrugs a shoulder. “Or tow her to another shop, fifty or a hundred miles away—though the nearest one I’d recommend is about two hundred miles or so—and see if they’ll lie to you and sell you something cheaper that’ll get you just far enough away from them before you break down again.”
“Have you considered writing self-help books?” Amelia asks with surprising grit for someone who’s a good foot shorter and close to a hundred pounds lighter than the man she’s staring down. “If so, I wanna throw a title in the suggestion box.”
Wyatt huffs out some sort of amused breath, and she takes it as encouragement.
