there were no other cars in sight.
“Yes, sir, you are,” said Betsy. She pointed with her pen at the booth. “Please check in with Adam Smith. He’ll tell you where to park.”
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 diddle-diddle-hick-diddle . It was a Maxwell with black leather seats and black trim, the top half of its windshield folded down. The car’s wax finish shimmered in the bright sunlight as the engine idled unevenly.
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. Goggleswith 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 Excelsior Bay Times here, asking to interview some of you.”
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
“Yes, sir, you are,” said Betsy. She pointed with her pen at the booth. “Please check in with Adam Smith. He’ll tell you where to park.”
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 diddle-diddle-hick-diddle . It was a Maxwell with black leather seats and black trim, the top half of its windshield folded down. The car’s wax finish shimmered in the bright sunlight as the engine idled unevenly.
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. Goggleswith 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 Excelsior Bay Times here, asking to interview some of you.”
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
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