Page 7 of Shifting Sands

Brew

“She’s a beaut, Brew. I can’t believe you found one of these old girls,” the mechanic says as he circles the 1965 Corvette C2 Stringray racer.

“Well, Willis, I have a few connections,” I muse.

He chuckles. “I reckon you do, son. How is your granddad these days?” he asks as he wipes his hands on the greasy rag hanging from his belt.

“Still making deals and chasing women.”

“Same old Brewster. Tell him I said hello,” he says. “Now, as far as this one goes, you’re welcome to use the last bay on the right. You’ll find all the tools you need in there, and if there is anything you can’t find, I’m sure we can muster it up.”

“You’re going to help me, aren’t you?” I ask.

My grandfather discovered the Corvette at an international auction house. He and I share a passion for collecting classic race cars. He managed to acquire it before it even hit the auction block and gifted it to me for my birthday. It’s in decent shape, but I plan to restore it to its original glory.

Willis is an old friend of Brewster Sr. and owns the local garage on the island. He’s also a walking encyclopedia of mechanical knowledge. While I’m still a novice, Willis is an expert.

He glances at me and then at the car. “Sure, I’ll oversee things, but you’re going to do most of the work. How else are you gonna learn?”

I walk closer and extend my hand. “Deal.”

He snorts, but he places his withered, grease-stained hand in mine.

“Come on into my office, and we’ll get a list together of parts you need to order,” he says.

“Sounds good.”

I follow him to his office and take a seat at his beat-up desk. He pulls a dusty old catalog from the shelf behind him and starts to thumb through it until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Wouldn’t it be much easier to look it up on a computer?” I ask as he grabs a pencil and begins jotting down the part names and serial numbers.

“It’d be a lot easier for me if you made the list yourself, but here we are,” he grumbles.

It takes him an hour and ten minutes to compile a list of twenty items.

“Here, this is a good start,” he says as he folds the slip of paper and slides it across to me.

“Thanks. When I get to Whiskey Joe’s, I’ll send this to my assistant and have her get things rolling. I’ll call you when items arrive,” I say as I stand up.

He walks me out.

“You still driving this old thing?” he asks as we approach my truck.

“Yep. It’s another classic.”

I stopped by Whiskey Joe’s on my way home. The bar is only open from Wednesday to Sunday, so tonight, I have it all to myself.

I love it here.

The place has changed a lot over the past few years. It started off small, but thanks to renovations by my old high-school buddy Wade Lusk, who owns Lusk Contracting, the stage is now twice as large as it was originally, and the dance floor has been expanded as well. There are elevated tables and seating in roped-off sections on both the right and left sides of the stage. Pub-style high-top tables are scattered throughout the central area, along with regulation round tables that have either four- or six-person seating options. The large main bar serves as the focal point of the space.

A set of stairs to the right of the bar leads up to a loft that overlooks the dance floor. This loft features four pool tables, a few standing-only high-tops, and a smaller bar, offering limited selections of bottled or canned beers.

The open space beneath the loft has more casual seating, including large leather couches and a newly installed mechanical bull. A DJ booth is positioned between that space and the staircase, which is used on nights without live music and during band breaks.

After grabbing a beer from the cooler, I head to my office. When I click on the light, I’m greeted by a rainbow of Post-its scattered across the surface of my large mahogany desk and covering my computer screen.

Audrey.

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