Pawing Through the Past (4 page)

6

“Are you really going to buy a truck?” Fair Haristeen asked his ex-wife as he picked up his mail the next morning.

“Gonna try.”

“She’s taking a two-hour lunch to visit Art Bushey.” Miranda helpfully supplied him with information.

“Serious.” He rubbed his chin.

“She cruises the lot at night, looking at trucks, but this is the first time she’s going over in the day,”
Mrs. Murphy told Fair, who pulled a metal foil wrapper out of his pocket and gave it to her.

“Here, Houdini, open this.” His deep voice rumbled.

Mrs. Murphy surreptitiously looked around. Pewter, asleep in the mail cart, remained unaware of the gift which Murphy inspected and then tore open. The aroma of moist fish tidbits caused one chartreuse eye to open down in the mail cart.

“Don’t you have anything for me?”
Tucker implored.

Fair reached into his other pocket, bringing forth a foil packet with a plum-colored edging marked Mouth-Watering Dog Divine Treats. He pulled open the pouch, spilling the contents on the floor.

“Thank you!”
Tucker gobbled up the round meat treats.

Pewter, on her back, rolled over. She crawled out of the cart to join Mrs. Murphy, who wasn’t wildly happy about it but she wasn’t selfish either.

“Are you going to add a small-animal practice to your equine practice?” Mrs. Hogendobber laughed.

“No. I get freebies from feed companies. Which reminds me, I’ve got a bag of rich alfalfa cubes. I’m wondering if you’d help me, Harry? If I give you a feed schedule, three cubes per day along with your standard timothy, will you keep weight charts for me?”

“Sure,” Harry happily agreed.

“You don’t put your horses on a scale, do you?” Mrs. Hogendobber, not a horse person, inquired. “That would be awfully difficult, wouldn’t it?”

“Miranda, the easiest way to keep track of gain is a tape mea-sure. Just the kind you’d buy from the five-and-dime.”

“Except there are no more five-and-dimes.” Miranda wrinkled her forehead. “When I think of the times I ran into Woolworth’s with a quarter as a child and thought I was rich . . .”

“You were.” Fair smiled, which only made him more handsome. He strongly resembled the young Gary Cooper.

At six feet four inches, with blond hair, a strong jaw, kind eyes, and broad shoulders, Fair was a man women noticed. And they usually smiled when they noticed.

“Those were the days.” The older woman rolled up the blue nylon belts used to hold large quantities of mail. “Do you know, Fair Haristeen, that this year is my fiftieth high-school reunion. I have to pinch myself to realize it.”

“You don’t look a day over thirty-nine and no one in Crozet can hold a candle to your gardening powers.”

She smiled broadly. “Better not say that in front of Mim.”

“If I had three gardeners I’d be on the garden tour, too.” He tossed catalogues in the garbage can. “You do it by yourself.”

“Thank you.” She was mightily pleased.

“Almost lunch hour.” Harry flicked two letters into Susan Tucker’s mailbox.

Fair glanced at the clock. “Want me to go with you to Art’s?”

“Why, you think I can’t make a deal?”

“No. I think you’ll cry if you part with that heap out back.”

“I will not.” Color came to her cheeks.

“Okay.” He winked at Miranda when Harry couldn’t see him, walked to the door, then turned. “I’ll drop the alfalfa cubes off tonight.”

“I don’t know if I want to talk to you. I can’t believe you think I’d cry over a truck.”

“Uh-huh.” He pushed open the door and walked into the breezy air. It felt more like late September than the tail end of August.

“He gets my goat,” Harry mumbled as she rolled up lingerie catalogues and slid them in Little Mim’s mailbox. “Why does she get all these underwear wishing books?”

“Because she’s wishing,” Miranda answered.

Little Mim, divorced a few years back, was lonesome, lonesome and carrying a torch for Harry’s neighbor, Blair Bainbridge.

“Oh.” Harry blinked. She never thought of stuff like that.

“It’s noon. Are you going to the Ford dealer, or not?”

“I’m going. I said I was going. I know none of you think I can count beans, much less make a deal.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Harry, calm yourself. I think you have a good head for figures. I admire your frugality. After all, I’m still driving my husband’s Falcon and how many years has my poor George been called to heaven? Really now, I’m on your side.”

Harry regretted her crabby moment. “I know you are, Miranda. I don’t know what made me cross.”

“Your ex.”

She shrugged. “I think I can do better without the three musketeers. Mind letting them work through lunch hour?”

“Take me?”
Tucker wagged her nonexistent tail.

“I’m staying right here.”
Pewter put one paw on the collapsed foil packet.

“I’ll stay, too. Good luck, Mom.”

Twenty minutes later Harry rolled down Pantops Mountain, for she’d driven down on I-64, turning left on Route 250 at the Shadwell exit. The Ford dealership, spanking blue and white, covered the north side of the road just before the river. In the old days there had been a covered bridge over the Rivanna River, called Free Bridge, since there was no toll to use it. A big storm would find horse and buggies lined up in the bridge waiting for the worst to blow over. Today such chance encounters and sensible acceptance of Nature’s agenda had been pushed aside. People thought they could drive through anything. The covered bridge gave way to a two-lane buttressed bridge, which in turn gave way to a four-lane soulless piece of engineering. People zoomed across the river with never a thought for stopping and looking down or having a juicy chat with a friend while the thunder boomed overhead.

Harry pulled in front of the plate-glass windows at the older part of the Ford building.

Art Bushey walked out to see her. “Hi, beautiful. Did I ever tell you, I have a thing for postmistresses. I like that word ‘mistress.’ Just gives me chills.”

“Pervert.” Harry punched him, then hugged him.

“Knew you were coming. Half of Crozet called me, including your ex-husband. Still loves you, Harry. But hey, men fall all over you.”

“You are so full of it.”

“Love hearing it, though, don’t you? You’re a good-looking woman. I want good-looking women driving Ford trucks.” He ducked his head into the 1978 truck to look at the speedometer. “How many times has this thing turned over?”

“Over two hundred thousand.”

“We build ’em good, don’t we?” He patted the nose of the blue truck. “Come on, let me show you what I’ve got, and Harry, don’t panic about the money just yet. Let me show you what’s here. You drive them. I’ll work something out. I want your money, now, don’t misunderstand me. I love money. But Busheys, Minors, and Hepworths”—he mentioned her mother’s maiden name—“go back a long way. I remember when your father bought this truck.”

“I do, too. His first new truck. You still had your mustache.” Harry recalled the flush on her father’s lean face when he told his wife and daughter he’d bought a brand-new truck.

“Come on.” He opened the door to a red half-ton 4 x 4. “Thinking about growing my mustache back.”

“I guess you were expecting me—got the plates on and everything.” She smiled. “About the mustache: do it. Makes you look dangerous.”

Art liked that. “They’re all ready for you and I’ve got two used ones for you to look at as well.”

She hopped in the cab, turned the motor over as he clicked on his seat belt in the passenger seat.

“Now this truck is maxed out. AC over here, tape deck and CD, speakers everywhere, captain’s chairs—nice on the back—plush interior, which your cats will enjoy. Cats are fussy.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to disappoint them.” Harry hit the accelerator, they backed out, and in a minute they were heading toward Keswick. “Jeez, this thing drives like a car.”

They roared down the road and as she touched the brakes, the machine glided to a smooth stop.

By the time they returned to the dealership she was amazed at how the truck felt. One by one they got into the different trucks, different trim packages.

After an hour of driving new and two very nice used trucks they repaired to Art’s office. “What do you think?”

“I’m scared of the cost,” she forthrightly replied.

He punched in a mess of numbers. “Look.” He yanked out the computer printout. “I can get you an F250 HD 4 by 4 for twenty thousand, four hundred and seventy-eight dollars. That’s stripped and doesn’t figure in your trade-in, which I will know in a minute because while we were out cruising, one of my guys was going over your truck.”

“It’s in good shape.”

“I know that. You take care of everything, including yourself.” He pointed to figures on the right-hand column. “Add in your tags, title transfer, documentation service—and I don’t know whether you want the extended service plan or not but figure another five hundred. Hold that number in your head. Round numbers are easier to remember. If you buy this now, I can give you a six-hundred-dollar rebate. That expires September fifteenth. Don’t ask me why. Ford makes those decisions and the dealer has nothing to say about it. Good for you, though. But here”—he punched in some more numbers—“I can get you the XLT package for another fifteen hundred. If you buy things piecemeal like the tape deck and AC it doesn’t make sense. I know this sounds crazy but if you spend money you can save money on the payments. I’m figuring you’ll finance for five years. Look, I can get you the bells and whistles—” He pointed to a figure on the bottom of a new page he pulled out of the computer.

Her eyes grew large. “But that’s almost four thousand more dollars.”

“It is. But if we spread it over the five years it means about another thirty in your payment schedule. And Harry, this isn’t the final figure. Aren’t you going to badger me about the price?”

“Uh . . .”

The phone rang. “Yeah,” Art said. “Great.” He punched the button. “One thousand five hundred dollars on your 1978. And here’s what I’ll sell you the F250 HD 4 by 4 for.” He scrawled numbers.

“That’s almost twenty percent less.” She scooted to the edge of her seat.

“That’s right. You’re paying what I pay plus the paperwork. What color do you want?”

“Red.”

“What interior?”

“Beige.”

He pointed to a red truck sitting on the lot. “You got it. Now Harry, I know you don’t make a lot of money. I also know you’ll drive this truck for twenty years. Why don’t you take the truck home? If you don’t like it, bring it back but don’t go telling everyone what the cost is or everyone will want the same deal and then I’d go broke.”

“Art?”

“Hey.” He threw up his hands. “Like I said, I’ve got a thing for postmistresses. Go on, get out of here before Miranda calls and says she’s overloaded.”

Harry drove the new machine along I-64 feeling certain that everyone on the highway was admiring the beautiful truck. She’d done her sums at home and knew she could carry, with care, about four hundred and fourteen dollars a month.

When she drove to the front of the post office instead of the back, Miranda, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Market—in picking up his mail—ran out.

“Wow!” Market whistled.

“Open the door!”
Mrs. Murphy excitedly demanded, and as the door swung open for everyone to see the plush interior, the cat jumped up on the floor and then on the seat.

“O-o-o.” She dug her claws in the upholstery just a tiny bit.

Within seconds, Pewter sat next to her.
“Snuggly.”
She patted at the divider between the two seats, a console with trays, cup holders, all manner of niceties to make the truck a little office.
“Even a place to store catnip.”

“I want to see!”
The dog whined as the humans opened the door on the other side.

“Here.” Harry picked up Tucker, a heavy child, putting her on the seat after wiping off her paws.

“Neat.”
The dog smiled.

“Not bad.”
Pewter squeezed next to Tucker.

“Did you buy it?” Miranda eagerly asked.

“I think I did. I have to call my banker. I didn’t give Art a firm yes.”

“You can put the fifth wheel in the back—haul your horses. The old half-ton was straining,” Market counseled.

“What saved me was I only hauled one at a time.” Harry laughed because it did make life that much harder not being able to take two horses in her two-horse trailer.

Chris Sharpton drove up and parked. “
This
is new.”

Harry smiled. “I haven’t bought it yet.”

“BoomBoom called me”—Chris pulled her mailbox key out of her purse—“asking me to come up with more ideas for the ‘welcoming committee.’ That’s what she’s calling you guys now. I told her I wouldn’t mind but I hoped you wouldn’t mind. After all, it’s your reunion and your committee.”

“’Course, I don’t mind.”

Chris smiled. “The Boom is getting desperate—not so much about the work for this thing but because she wants to make certain that
she
is
perfect
by homecoming—head to toe.”

“Big surprise,” Harry giggled.

“Can we meet tomorrow night?” Chris walked into the post office as Harry nodded yes.

Later that night, Harry turned off the lights in the barn, walked across to the house, and burst into tears. She’d lived with her old truck for so many years she couldn’t imagine living without it.

No sooner had she walked into the house than Tucker barked,
“Intruder!”

Harry walked back outside.

Fair was driving her old 1978 blue truck, followed by Art Bushey in a new silver Jeep.

“Hi,” she said as they both got out of their vehicles.

“Here’s your truck.” Fair handed her the keys.

“Huh?” She was confused.

“Fair put up the down payment on the F250 so you don’t have to trade in your dad’s truck.” Art crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the silver Jeep. “I told him he’s nuts. You still aren’t going to take him back but he did it anyway.”

“Art, you’re awful.” She burst out laughing as the cats hopped into the bed of the old blue truck. The vantage point was better.