Red Truck Rendezvous Page 6

  “Just don’t take it for granted,” Carlos spoke, his dark eyes serious. He reached for a slice of the buttery, crumb topped cake holding it in his hand as his eyes held his brother. “Even if something is meant to be, you can always throw it away. Don’t talk yourself out of life. It’s not all about work and success. Having someone to talk to, someone who shares your hopes and dreams, is important too. You have to take the chances where you are and see how they play out. You never know, you might just find that everything you have ever wished for is right there at your fingertips.”

  “You sound like a poet,” Pablo chuckled, finishing his coffee cake and downing the last of his coffee. “Better watch out, or Jamie will have you writing her love poems.” With his last word, Pablo stood, grabbed his lunch pail from the counter, and headed out the door. He had work to do, and no matter what Gram said, or Carlos believed, he and Portia were too different ever to find common ground.

  Chapter 14

  Pablo spent the next two days buried beneath, driveshafts, fender panels, and bumpers. He sanded Sweetie to a dull orange color, patched holes, blasted away years of rust, and sent the wheel rims to be painted and new whitewall tires put back on. He had the truck nearly ready for paint by the time the big flatbed trundled up the road, followed by the silver Mustang.

  The sound of the truck sent a strange wave of joy coursing through Pablo, and a bright smile broke across his face when Portia started directing the tow driver to put the new acquisition at the side of the barn.

  “That’ll be fine,” he said, hurrying outside. “I’ll have easy access to whatever I need out here.”

  The driver lifted his bed, adjusting the chains and lowering the sad-looking truck to the dusty side yard.

  “She doesn’t look like much,” Portia said before Pablo could speak, “but I looked at the engine, and it isn’t in bad shape, at least from the outside.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” Pablo waved as the tow truck driver left then walked around to look at the spare truck Portia had purchased. The body was a disaster, the blue paint so faded as to make the thing look like a specter that might be blown away by the wind. “We won’t get much from the body.”

  “The door handle works though,” Portia beamed, rushing to pull open the front door and hopping onto a seat that was more spring than leather. “See?” Portia slammed the door shut in a shower of rust, a bright grin on her pink lips.

  Something warm and fuzzy ran across Portia’s sandal, and she screamed, yanking the door open and jumping into Pablo’s arms, as sickly shivers raced across her skin.

  “What’s wrong?” Pablo pulled her close, looking for any signs of danger. It wouldn’t be the first time a mechanic or some other unfortunate soul had found a nest of snakes in an old car.

  “Mouse,” Portia flinched again, settling into Pablo’s arms. “I do not like creepy crawlies on my person.”

  Pablo’s deep chuckle ruffled the hair by her ear, and Portia snuggled closer for a totally different reason. She didn’t care if he was ‘just’ a mechanic, she liked him very much.

  Pablo tightened his grip around Portia. She felt so right in his arms. She smelled of vanilla and sunshine, and all things good. He knew that in another week, maybe two, she would be gone leaving him behind, but for now, he could enjoy her company. He had never thought much about his future. He had always been content to do the things he loved and take life a step at a time. Even if this thing was fleeting, why not embrace it while he could.

  “So the door handle works,” he leaned in, whispering in Portia’s ear.

  “Umm,” she hummed in his ear, he was probably getting greasy handprints on her back again, but she didn’t care.

  The sound of a car approaching, made them pull apart and Portia watched the delivery truck drop off a large package as the spell was broken.

  “Come on, pop the hood,” Pablo said. “I’m sure you scared the mouse more than it scared you.”

  “What do you think?” she asked a moment later as they stared down at the engine, while Pablo held the hood upright with both arms.

  “It looks promising, but only time will tell. Here,” Pablo handed her a screwdriver, lowering the hood. “help me take this hood cover off, and we’ll start taking it part.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Because I’m paying you to do it.” Portia scowled at the man. Surely he couldn’t expect her to work on her own truck.

  Pablo grinned. “Yes, but the sooner we get finished, the sooner you’ll be able to hit the road again.”

  A flash of something raced across Portia’s face, and Pablo could tell he had hurt her feelings. He had only been teasing, but perhaps the mark had hit too close to home.

  “Never mind,” he said softly. “I’ll get to this, come see what I’ve accomplished while you were out getting this old ghost. You’ll be happy.” Gently he took her hand in his, squeezing it as he led her back into the garage.

  “What have you done!” Portia dropped his hand, reaching for her face. “It’s just a shell. You’ve taken everything.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” Pablo said. “The wheels and tires will be back tomorrow. The bumpers, grill, and hubcaps are being re-chromed, and the engine is all but in.”

  Portia stood horror-struck at what used to be her Sweetie. The paint was all but gone, ground to an anemic orange powder. The whole frame sat up on the lift, pale, broken, and empty. “I should never have hired you,” she wailed. “I should have listened to my Daddy.”

  Before Pablo could explain, she spun on her heel and fled to the waiting convertible. He could only hope that she would calm down with a drive, and he prayed that she didn’t have an accident in her state of upset.

  He had talked and talked to her, explaining the process of stripping and restoring any old vehicle. He had been one of the best at the shop he worked at for years before striking out on his own.

  Pablo had always been intuitive when it came to cars. He had been a natural at making modifications, adjustments, and alterations to make each custom ride pop.

  Slowly he turned back to the old truck, his heart heavy. “Well, Sweetie, we’ll just have to show her,” he said, giving the hood a pat that rang hollow in the empty barn, and his empty heart.

  Chapter 15

  For the next three days, Pablo ate, slept, and lived at the garage, pouring all of his hurt and anger into putting the classic truck back together. As soon as the wheels and tires arrived and were back on, Pablo shipped the body to his old workplace to have it painted. He had called in several favors to get the job done fast, and was left owing a few more before the call came in that Sweetie was ready.

  While waiting on the excruciatingly slow paint process, where layers of primer and paint were built up, dried, and repeated, before a final clear coat and polish could be applied, Pablo tore down the damaged transmission.

  “Pablo,” Jake Owings called walking into the shop. “I’ve got your truck?”

  Pablo looked up, surprised by his old work buddy's arrival. He had been so focused on finishing the last details of the transmission he hadn’t heard the truck pull up.

  “Let’s see.” The handsome mechanic stood, heading out into the bright sunshine to see the rebirth of an old soul.

  ***

  Portia was moping, and she knew it. After the horror of her poor truck, a mere specter of its perky, previous manifestation, she had fled to the comfort of her pristine camper. She had been so sure she wanted the old truck rebuilt, but now she feared every trace of Sweetie’s personality had been eradicated by Pablo’s cruel hand.

  Folding her legs under her, she grabbed an ornament pillow hugging it close. The silly pineapple always made her smile, but now it did little to lift her spirits. Why hadn’t she simply had Pablo patch up the engine and carried on her merry way? Now everything was changed, and there was no way to put it back the way it had been.

  “Stop being a baby,” Portia grumbled at herself, lowering
her chin to the pillow. “You started this, and now you’ll have to finish it.” Emotions tumbled through her as she tried to rein them in. Her disappointment in the way the restoration had gone, her attraction to Pablo, her hurt at what he had done to her truck. It was all a mess, and just trying to sort it out made her tired. She would deal with it tomorrow. Right now, she needed some comfort food and a large coffee. She knew she could wander up to the Old Inn and grab a bite there, but she didn’t want to risk running into Pablo. There was no telling what she would say or do if she saw him.

  “Looks like it’s mac-n-cheese for me,” she said, her voice hollow in the confines of the lonely rig. A deep and weighty emptiness filled the tiny camper, plunging Portia into despair. “And ice-cream,” she shouted trying to chase the uneasy feeling away.

  ***

  Pablo returned to the workbench, his eyes gritty from checking and double-checking his work. The engine was ready, the truck was wrapped, to protect the new shiny paint job, and he was prepared to put this whole mess behind him. He would put the engine in tonight and finish up tomorrow after a few hours of sleep.

  He had just lowered the engine into place when a car pulled up outside. He groaned, fearing it was Portia. He could see now that the woman would never believe in him. True, there was an attraction between them, perhaps a momentary pull created by a shared cause, but there was no hope for that future.

  “Pablo,” Carlo’s voice rolled into the old barn, and he sagged with relief.

  “Here,” he called back, never looking away from the engine mount he was bolting in place.

  “I brought supper.” Carlos walked around the edge of the truck, a large basket in each hand. “Gram made you something special.”

  “All that for me?” Pablo gaped, turning his head as he ratcheted the bolt home.

  “No, I’m under strict orders to have dinner with you and make sure you eat every bite.” The older Jimenez grinned, his swarthy face brightening. “It seems the women of the house are worried about you.”

  “Let me get this fastened down, and then I’ll eat. I’m starved anyway,” Pablo waved his ratchet at his brother, who carried the baskets to the now-empty workbench.

  “What can I do to help?” Carlos asked, rolling his sleeves up. “If two heads are better than one, then four hands should be better than best.”

  Pablo handed his brother another ratchet, with a grin as his stomach growled loudly. “I won’t say no.”

  “I hope you’re getting overtime for this,” Carlos shook a drumstick at his brother a few minutes later, as they munched their way through fresh, fried chicken, baked beans, macaroni salad, and a gallon of ice-tea. “It looks good. At least what I can see of it.”

  “It was a mess,” Pablo said, lifting another piece of chicken from his basket. “Everything I did had to be done to restore this beast.” He knew his voice sounded defensive, but it was how he felt. He had spent years working, studying, and learning to perfect his craft, and he took pride in a job well done.

  Like his brother before him, Pablo didn’t feel that manual labor was the realm of the drudge, but rather of the journeyman, craftsman, and artisan. Any job, well done and completed with pride, was worthy of respect.

  “We thought she was just in a hurry for you to get it done, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “She’s mad that I stripped the truck almost to the frame while she was gone. I think seeing her beloved truck that way, empty, and hollow, kind of shocked her.”

  “She thinks you messed up.”

  Pablo nodded, reaching for his mason jar full of tea. “I’m getting it finished and getting them both out of here as fast as I can.”

  Carlos didn’t say more, he sat with his brother, quietly enjoying his meal without a word. It had become apparent to all of the family that Pablo had started to develop feelings for the young woman in the quirky camper over the past five weeks. Even now, he could see the hurt in his younger brother’s eyes.

  “I’ll let you get back to it then,” Carlos finally said, gathering the plates and packaging of their picnic. “You’ll call if you need me?”

  “I’ll call,” Pablo promised. “And don’t forget you agreed to help me update the garage when this is done. I have a few ideas.”

  Carlos chuckled, lifting one basket in way of agreement as he walked from the garage.

  Chapter 16

  Pablo walked back to the workbench, downing the last of his jar of tea and flopping onto his stool. He was exhausted, but the major components of the truck were back together, the drive shaft reattached, and the hoses clamped down tight.

  Tomorrow, he would fill the fuel tank with gas, bleed the lines, and see if Sweetie still had the will to get up and go.

  Slouching wearily, Pablo placed the jar back on the bench, a glint of color catching his eye. The pretty red package his sister had delivered weeks ago sat, forlorn and lonely on the grimy bench.

  Grabbing the small box, he turned it in his hands, examining every inch of it. One corner was coming unglued, and the shimmery paper curled up in that spot. He wondered why Carlos had brought the box to him, deciding his nosey little sister had probably insisted, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  Turning the package again, Pablo remembered the miniature car ornament he had received nearly three years ago. The beautifully handcrafted wood-paneled low-rider truck, now hung above his nephew’s crib, a gift from Uncle Pab’o.

  Grasping the curled corner of the wrapping paper, Pablo pulled, peeling the box open and peering in. A frosty chill seemed to wash over him as the golden string presented itself to him. Something small and red reflected in the glare of his shop light, and Pablo shivered, wrapping his finger around the string and giving a tug.

  A cool breeze whipped through the breezeway of the former barn, swirling dust, leaves, and debris in its wake. Pablo looked toward the back door, blinking as he caught a hint of something red flicker from the corner of his eye.

  The young mechanic rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He was more tired than he realized. It was time for a bit of sleep, and then he would crank the engine on the old truck and put an end to this sad story.

  Walking to the driver’s door, he pulled the door open on silent hinges, stretching to reach the rearview mirror and slipped the golden thread in place. The tiny red truck ornament, with the Christmas tree in the back, seemed a fitting gift for Portia and her vintage vagabond home.

  Chapter 17

  After a few hours of sleep on the sofa in his office, Pablo grabbed a cold shower and pulled his last clean jumpsuit on over shorts and a tee-shirt.

  The night before, he had run through the final checklist on the truck, but he popped the hood and looked over the engine one more time. The moment of truth had come, and he climbed into the cab, slipping the key into the ignition and saying a prayer.

  Twisting the key, on a cold click, Pablo leaned his head against the rear window and closed his eyes. This wasn’t right, he knew that he had everything in place.

  Pumping the gas pedal twice, he twisted the key again, and the engine spluttered, then clicked over into a soft, steady thrum.

  Pablo punched the air, his heart pounding as he put the truck in reverse and slowly backed out of the garage, a moment later he was soaring over the road the new tires floating as if on a cloud.

  The truck was finished; he could deliver it to Portia and be done. It still hurt that she had believed he had ruined her classic truck, that she didn’t believe in him.

  Pablo had been working on cars since he was old enough to get a job at one of the local garages. He had worked hard, building a reputation as a dependable and able mechanic. He had dealt with demanding customers before, even had some who were never happy with anything, but this hurt because he had developed feelings for the pesky Portia. Perhaps he was just a lowly country mechanic, but he didn’t think a big city garage could have done a better job.

  Making the drive to the top of the hill, enjoying the s
mooth sound of the better than new truck, Pablo made a U-turn and headed toward home. It was time to take Sweetie back to Portia.

  Soothing his damaged pride with the knowledge of a job well done, Pablo rolled toward the Inn and a final good-bye.

  ***

  Portia had been sulking, and she knew it. She had bugged, bullied, and browbeaten Pablo into rebuilding her old truck, and then panicked when she had seen Sweetie stripped down to its bones. Portia knew she hadn’t been fair to Pablo, and now it was time to make amends.