Page 3 of Dash to Me
“Okay, genius, show me your grand vision for these, because this is what I’m thinking.” Atlas picks up a glass vase, turning it in his hands. “I think the key is simplicity. A single type of flower could make a statement.”
“Bold,” I agree, picking up a slender stem with a burst of purple petals at the end. “Compromise.”
“White roses for elegance. Complemented by lavender for a bit of color and fragrance.” Atlas adds them to the vase and then nods to the workers.
“Perfect.” I glance in his direction, trying to stop the smile on my face. He has always had a way of helping me.
“Looks like we make a good team.”
“Seems so.”
Atlas follows around and helps me complete tasks, which normally I wouldn’t want help, but it’s him. After he left Lawson Ridge, I never imagined I’d see him again. But here he is. Is it wrong for me to want to soak it up?
My fingers smooth the last tablecloth into place, eyes scanning for any crease or crinkle. Atlas, on the other side of the reception hall, adjusts a chair with a satisfying slide across the polished wood floor.
“Okay, I think that’s it,” Atlas calls out.
“Let me just check the back tables one more time.” I walk between the rows, gaze flicking over each setting, but found no fault.
Finally satisfied, I return to where Atlas stands. The tables gleam under the glow of the string of lights above. Each centerpiece, now a harmonious blend of flowers, brings a touch of the outside world into the elegant venue.
Atlas shifts his weight, the motion subtle but deliberate, as if he is aligning himself with the fading daylight.
“Looks like we’re done here.”
“Seems so,” he replies, his eyes not leaving my face.
I lift my eyes to meet his. In that glance, a thousand conversations pass—laughter over scattered place cards, folded napkins, shared anecdotes.
“Atlas...” I start, but the sentence trails off, unfinished.
He nods, understanding, needing no words. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
ATLAS
I pause,my hand hovering over the half-assembled carburetor on the workbench. The persistent ring of my phone slices through the garage. I wipe my hands on a greasy rag before fishing the device from my pocket, squinting at the caller ID that read “Dad.”
“Hey.”
“I’ve made a decision. It’s time for me to step down from the business.”
The words land like a wrench thrown into the gears of my thoughts. I lean against the sturdy frame of the classic Mustang I’ve been restoring since my teenager years, my other hand unconsciously tracing the lines of the hood.
“Retire?” My mind races. Images of my father, the pillar of Lawson Ridge’s business community, always poised behind the mahogany desk that seems more a throne than a piece of furniture.
“Yes, son. And I want you to take over.”
My father has never been a man of many words or overt displays of affection, but his expectations always loom large.
“Me? But Dad, the company...”
“You have the vision and the drive,” he insists. “You understand this town, its people. You’re what it needs.”
My heart hammers as I glance around the garage. It’s been my safe place since I was a teenager. The Lockwood name is known across Texas and it comes with it’s own set of expectations.
“Think it over. This is your legacy, son.”
The line clicks dead, leaving me with the echo of possibility and the scent of motor oil as my only companions. My loyalty to family wars with the desire to carve out my own path, and in that moment, I stand at the crossroads of my future.
