Page 49 of Resting Beach Face
After Declan finishedhis video chat with his family, I followed him to the attached garage, where he kept his aunt’s 1962 Ford F150 pickup truck.
I ran a hand over the faded pale blue body, admiring the curves of the antique beauty. The cab was smaller than modern trucks, more rounded in design. Chrome ran across the front of the grill, surrounding each pair of headlights. It was pretty damn sweet.
An antique truck like this would most likely never survive daily driving, but in a town like Swallow Cove, you didn’t need to put all that many miles on a vehicle.
“Hop in,” Declan said, reaching for his door handle.
The door stuck, and he had to try a second time, grunting as he tugged it open. I reached for my door, ready for a battle, but it swung open easily.
“Don’t say a word,” Declan said as I slid onto the bench seat beside him. “It’s old and finnicky, but it gets the job done.”
“Hey, I think it’s cool,” I said. “I’m a little surprised you haven’t bought something newer, though.”
I’d always seen Declan as a little uptight. The kind of guy who’d take his car in for oil changes like clockwork. Who’d spend days researching the gas mileage and features before choosing a car to buy.
“I don’t drive all that much,” Declan said. “When I do, it’s usually because I need to haul something. The truck is handy.” He paused. “Besides, I learned to drive on this truck.”
“No kidding?”
Declan turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. “Yep. I lived here for a year as a teenager.”
“How did I not know this?”
Declan worked the shifter, putting us into reverse.
“It was a long time ago.” He sent me a pointed look. “High school isn’t a recent memory for me.”
“It feels like a lifetime for me.”
“It sure does,” he agreed.
Declan hit the clutch with his left foot and seamlessly shifted into first, taking us down the bumpy path to the main road. From there, it was a few miles of curvy blacktop inland.
The store’s big red sign was visible as we rounded a corner and came up on the far side of The Grocery Spot—aka The G-Spot, as we had coined it.Dyck’s Hard, it read. The “ware” had faded away sometime ago, and the owner, Ray Dyck, said everyone found it so entertaining he decided to leave it. So now, we shopped at Dyck’s Hard when we needed tools or appliances.
Or wood.
Hard wood, that is.
I snickered as we entered through the sliding doors. Declan sighed. “You’re such a child.”
“Guilty.” I nudged him. “But it’s funny. Admit it.”
“Maybe the first time I saw it.”
“And the second and the third,” I teased.
“But not the twentieth,” he said firmly.
His lips twitched.
“Aha! I saw that.”
“Saw what?” he asked, pretending ignorance as he grabbed one of the utility carts with a big platform on the bottom and a small tray on top.
I poked the corner of his mouth. “Your lips twitched up. You were totally smiling.”
“That’s not a smile.”
