The Winton had only just moved on down the street when Betsy heard the now-familiar loud and breathy whistle of Lars’s Stanley. She looked around and saw it, wreathed in steam, rolling smoothly up Lake toward her. She waited until he pulled up beside her, all smiles, before noting the time. He was one minute, twelve seconds behind the leader.
“Beat ’em all,” he announced. “I told you the Stanley was a fast one. I bet number two won’t be here for-” He broke off, staring up the street at the Winton pulling up to the curb a little beyond the booth.
“Sorry,” said Betsy. But she was smiling.
“Oh, well, like they say, this isn’t a race,” said Lars, but his smile was now forced.
“How’d she run?” asked Betsy.
“Sweet as milk, and smooth as silk,” said Lars. “But I’m thinking I should’ve looked around for a 1914 model; they have condensers in them, so you don’t need to stop every thousand yards to take on water. Someone in St. Paul says he heard there’s a guy with one-”
“No, no!” said Betsy. “You don’t want to sell this one already! You just got it all restored!”
“Oh, I would never sell this one,” Lars replied. “But the 1914, with a condenser…” His eyes had gone dreamy. Then he shook himself. “Do I just go up and park behind that yellow car?”
“No, check in at the booth first. Mr. Smith will tell you where to park. And Lars, this time talk to Jill first before you buy another Stanley.” But she was talking to his back and he blew his whistle before she’d finished.
There was a half-hour gap before the rest of the cars started trickling in. The trickle grew quickly to a steady stream that as quickly diminished again to a trickle, until Betsy had checked off all but two cars. She was getting very warm standing out in the sun, and suspected her nose was getting sunburned. She wished she’d thought to wear a hat. And sunglasses.
A rust-brown two-seater came up the street, its engine going
The couple driving the car had also dressed in period costumes, he in a big off-white coat called a “duster,” a pinch-brim hat in a tiny, dark-check pattern. Goggles with thick rubber edges covered his eyes. There was a dab of grease on his cheek. She wore a duster with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a huge hat swathed in veils, and sunglasses.
“We’re number twenty, the Birminghams, Bill and Charlotte,” said the woman, who was on Betsy’s side of the car-like most of these antiques, the steering wheel was on the right. The man stared straight ahead, his gauntleted hands tightly gripping the wheel.
“How long do we have here before we start back?” asked Charlotte, pushing aside her veil so she could wipe her face with a handkerchief. Her face looked pale as well as sweaty-and no wonder, thought Betsy, swathed in fabric like that.
“They’re asking the drivers to stay at least an hour,” replied Betsy. “And just so you know, there’s a reporter from the
The driver shook his head and grunted, “No.”
The woman apologized. “He’s feeling cranky. Something’s wrong with the engine, we had trouble the whole trip. He needs to tinker with it, or we’ll never make the return. I’m going to get out here,” she said to him. “I’ve got to shed a layer or two or I’ll just die. Where do we park?” she asked Betsy.
“First you have to check in-up there, at the booth. Adam Smith will tell you where to park.”
The woman hesitated, then sighed. “Oh, all right, I’ll ride up with you,” she said, replying to an unvoiced complaint from Bill. Betsy smiled. Amusing how people who had been married for a long time could do things like that.
The woman resettled herself, and the little car went
The last car in, a red-orange model, was small and light. It was a real horseless carriage, looking far more like a frail little buggy than a car. It had no hood, just a low dashboard that curved back toward the driver’s shins. He was a slim young man in a tight-fitting cream-colored suit, a high-collared white shirt with a small black bow tie, and a straw boater atop his dark auburn hair. He wasn’t behind a steering wheel, but had one hand on a “tiller,” a curved silver pipe that ran up from under the dash. The dust-white wheels of his automobile were the right size for bicycles, with wire spokes. The vehicle came to a trembling halt beside Betsy, whose mouth was open in delight. Here, in person, was the car embroidered in the center of Mildred Feeney’s quilt, the car that was the very symbol of the Antique Car Club. Before she could check her list to see who was driving it, the driver smiled and said, “Owen Carpenter. Driving a 1902 Oldsmobile, single cylinder.”
Betsy made a checkmark beside Number Seven on her list, and wrote the time. She directed him to Adam Smith at the booth and stayed in place a minute to watch the Olds toddle down the street. Its little engine, located somewhere on the underside, sounded a very authoritative “Bap!” at brief intervals.
Then, her work done, Betsy walked slowly to the booth and past it, looking from side to side at the veterans. That Oldsmobile she had just checked in was the oldest in today’s run, having survived its first century, but by definition all the cars here were pioneers, and the oldest ones looked like the buggies and wagons they shared the roads with when they were young. Some had names anyone would recognize: Ford, Oldsmobile, Cadillac. Some were unfamiliar: Everett, Schacht, Brush. Most were brightly painted, orange, yellow, red, blue, brown, green, but some wore basic black. All were surprisingly tall, with a running board to step up on, then another step up to the seats, which themselves were more like upholstered chairs or sofas than modern car seats. They all had brass trim and most featured alertly upright windshields. All but the Olds had wooden spokes on their wheels.
Two men were poking under the hoods and one was on his back doing something to the undercarriage, paying tribute to the experimental nature of these engines and drive mechanisms, but the rest stood in gleaming perfection while people gathered to ask questions or take pictures. The Stanley was leaking steam from several sources, but Lars seemed unconcerned and was boasting to a trio of young men about his trip. He had a bad scald on the back of one hand.
Betsy shook her head, at him and at all the drivers. Seeing these old,
She gave the clipboard to Adam and went to see how things were going in Crewel World.
It was a huge relief to step out of the glare into the air-conditioned interior. Even better, there were a fair number of customers-a few, by their costumes, from the antique car group.
Godwin wasn’t in sight. Betsy raised an inquiring eyebrow at Shelly, who pointed with a sideways nod of her head toward the back of the shop. Betsy went into the little storeroom and heard the sound of weeping coming from the small rest room off it. She tapped lightly on the door. “Godwin?” she called.
“Oh, go away!”
“Why don’t you go home?”
“Because I haven’t got a home.”
“How long have you been in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re not doing us any good holed up like this.”
“I won’t ask you to pay me for the time.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Godwin, that’s not what I mean! Go over to Shelly’s house, you idiot!”
“I know what you mean. I just wish-”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I could stop feeling sorry for myself.”
“Here’s an idea. Come out of there and take a walk down Lake Street. You should see these wonderful old cars! They are so beautiful and exotic, just the sort of thing you’d love. And some of the people who ride in them are in period dress.” Godwin loved costume parties.
But he only said, “Uh-huh,” in a very disinterested voice.
“All right, then go down to the art fair. See if you can find Irene.” Irene Potter was sitting with Mark Duggan of Excelsior’s Water Street Gallery. Irene’s blizzard piece was supposed to be prominently featured, its price a breathtaking six thousand dollars. It was not expected to sell; this was Mr. Duggan’s way of introducing the art
