trying to hide from her. A tarp covered most of the object, but she was afraid she knew what it was. They had gone against her wishes and bought her a car. The only question that remained was: What kind of vehicle had they purchased? The thought of what their collective minds would come up with made Skye shudder.
May took her place on Skye’s left. “Close your eyes.”
Skye was way ahead of her mother’s orders. The problem was: Could she bring herself to ever open them again?
Vince stood behind her and whispered in her ear, “It’s not as bad as it might seem at first.”
Skye heard the tarp being pulled off as Charlie yelled, “Ta-dah!”
She forced herself to look. Her mouth dropped open and little sounds came out, but no words. The car was bigger than Charlie’s Cadillac, painted a bright turquoise, and . . . and it had fins. She moaned.
Charlie took her hand and led her toward the vehicle. “I’ll bet you don’t know what a gem me and your daddy found for you.”
Skye shook her head, unable to produce a coherent utterance.
Jed declared, “This is a genuine 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air.”
When Skye still didn’t respond, May poked her in the side. “Your father has been working on this car for you since December. It was a wreck when Charlie discovered it in old man Gar’s barn.”
“I knew what a beauty was hidden beneath the rust and rags,” Charlie said, using his sleeve to wipe a smudge off the hood.
Jed relinquished his grip on Skye’s arm and popped open the hood. “See that? Everything’s like new. This’ll run forever. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
Skye peered at the engine. It was clean enough to eat from. She looked at Vince with raised brows. He shrugged and leaned against his Jeep.
“Here, sit behind the wheel.” Charlie opened the driver’s door, and May shoved Skye inside.
“Wow,” Skye finally managed to say. “This leather is so soft.” The front bench was mostly white with broad aqua stripes running down both edges, a double band down the middle. The seat was wide and comfortable.
“Take it for a spin,” Charlie urged, handing her the keys.
“It’s really big and bright. People will talk.”
Charlie stuck his thumbs in his red suspenders and puffed out his chest. “If you ain’t makin’ waves, you ain’t kickin’ hard enough.”
“Ah, well.” Skye located the ignition and slid the key in the slot. “Vince, why don’t you come with me?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
Skye handed Charlie her house keys. “You guys go in and have some coffee or something. We’ll be right back.”
The car was so big that it took her a while to get used to driving it, and instead of talking she concentrated on keeping it between the lines of the road. When she reached a straight stretch, she said, “How in the world did they come up with this? And why didn’t you warn me?”
Vince laughed. “They’re getting too smart. They didn’t tell me until this morning. Mom and Dad came over after eight o’clock Mass. They know you always go at ten.” He put his arm across the back of the seat. “Mom was driving their car, and Dad had this one. They told me to meet them at your place at eleven. Charlie was already there when I arrived.”
“What am I going to do?” Skye searched for a place to turn the huge car around.
“What
Skye pounded the wheel and almost ran the Bel Air into the ditch. “But I want to pick out my own car. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never chosen my own vehicle.”
“So?” Vince was not as into independence as Skye was. He was happy to have Jed mow the lawn in front of his shop once a week, and he was thrilled that May brought him lunch every day.
“It’s not right that they spend so much of their money on us,” Skye said. As they drove down Basin Street, people waved at them as if they were royalty.
Vince had perfected the princely motion and was waving back. “Hey, we get it all when they die anyway. At least when they give us presents, they get to share our pleasure.”
Skye narrowed her eyes. They were almost back at her cottage. “What do you get out of all this?” Vince was too eager for her to accept this gift. He had to have an ulterior motive. Besides, their parents would never spend this kind of money on her without also getting Vince something nearly as valuable.
Vince looked straight ahead. “They promised me a new set of drums.”
“I thought you quit playing in high school.”
“I always kept a set to mess around on, but these are the best you can buy.”
Skye turned the Chevrolet into her drive, and cut the ignition. “It’s not like they wouldn’t buy you the drums if I turned down this car.”
Vince hopped out and headed inside. “That’s not the point. The point is, how can you say to Dad, ‘Sorry, I don’t want the gift you worked four months restoring’? And how can you say to Charlie, ‘I don’t want the car you found for me.’ He gave old man Gar’s son the secret location of his favorite fishing spot to get this car for you.”
Skye pursed her lips. “This is my new car, isn’t it?”
Vince nodded as he opened the cottage door for her.
She turned and took another look at the Bel Air. “Well, I always wanted a convertible.”
Monday morning brought the April showers made famous in the poem. Skye scowled into her closet. What to wear, what to wear—the age-old question that haunted women of every age, shape, and profession.
She felt in the mood for black, but would that be fair to the kids? Pastels were out in this weather. The sage-green outfit she’d bought last spring on sale at T.J. Maxx would be perfect.
After feeding Bingo and herself breakfast, Skye donned her tan trench coat, grabbed her purse, and ran for the Bel Air. It was nice to have her own transportation again. And she felt better now that she had convinced her folks and Charlie to accept the check from the insurance company, when it came.
Still, this was hardly the Miata she had pictured herself buzzing around town in. She just hoped the roof would stay up. It had a tendency to fall down whenever she hit a bump, and the only way to raise it again was to pull over and tug on it by hand.
The elementary school was already humming when she arrived. Teachers were discussing the weather and whether they should plan to have recess inside or outside today. The kids were talking about their weekends. And the phone was ringing with parents calling to ask questions they could have answered for themselves if they read the weekly newsletter.
Skye signed in unnoticed, grabbed the messages from her box, and headed toward her office. Since she had lasted a second year in the job, the elementary school had been forced to ante up the space they had promised her when she was first hired.
It had been given grudgingly, was not much bigger than a voting booth, and outside the door, in the hallway, was the milk cooler that had occupied that room before Skye’s tenancy. It rattled and shrieked, scaring many of the kids Skye was trying to work with. But, she was quick to remind herself, at least she had a private office all to herself—except on Tuesday and Thursday mornings when the speech therapist used it.
Skye hung her coat behind the door, celebrating another small victory. It had taken months to hound the custodian into putting up that hook. She stowed her purse in the desk drawer and opened her appointment book. Her morning schedule included observing a first grader, therapy sessions with two second graders, and testing a kindergartner.
She grabbed the first grader’s file and made her way to the classroom. Twenty minutes later, she was noting the number of times the child had left his seat without permission when there was a knock on the classroom door. It was Fern Otte, the secretary, who motioned to Skye.
Grabbing her pad and pencil, Skye left the room as unobtrusively as possible. Several kids whispered good- bye and waved to her, undoing her effort.
As soon as the classroom door closed behind Skye, Fern whispered, “Hurry, there’s a problem in Mrs. Kennedy’s room.”
“What’s wrong?” Skye followed the secretary.
“I can’t explain. Hurry.”
