Sunday shirt.
“Quite a machine!”
Shocked to no longer have the back of the barn to himself, George twirled on his heels and found himself face-to-face with a middle-aged woman. Her deep red hair set off her yellow print dress. Her eyes were almost the same shade of blue as the pattern in the blue willow plate she carried in her right hand. Yet what defined her was her smile. It was anything but forced, displaying a perfect set of white teeth framed by plump red lips. Three decades earlier she probably drew admirers from five counties away, and she was still attractive enough to have eyes follow her every move.
“I’m Janie Timmons,” she announced as she closed the last few feet between them. “I don’t think I know you.”
“George Hall.”
“Nice to have you at the sale and auction,” she quickly replied. “What brings you out today? Anything special you’re looking for?”
“I read about it and decided to come over and see what you had.” A tinge of guilt swept through him as he realized he’d just told a lie. What had kept him from admitting that he was here for the Packard?
“Well,” Timmons explained, “Miss Watling collected a great number of really unique treasures. There is some amazing stuff here, and the best part is that the proceeds of this sale are all going to charity. Her European antiques are being auctioned in a few minutes. Other things, like this car, will just be sold for the best offer we can get by the time that auction is over. I wanted to auction the car, but her final will, drawn up just days before she died, said the Packard had to be sold, not auctioned. I have no idea why. Anyway, when it comes to things like this sedan or that lawn mower over there, I can assure you, every offer will be considered. By the way, if you’ve got cash, later on tonight we’re going to auction off her jewelry and art. There will be some really rare things that will come up then.”
George turned his head back toward the Packard. On the passenger side of the windshield was piece of paper with the price in block letters. He was so disappointed by the figure, he didn’t even turn back toward Timmons as he noted, “So you’re asking nine hundred for the car?”
Timmons nodded. “It is really worth that. It only has about six thousand miles and runs like new. You check it out, crawl underneath it, sit in the driver’s seat, pop the hood, and after you’ve done all that, then make your offer. There’s no minimum. At the end of the day it might just stand up.” She smiled, turned, and walked back toward the main part of the barn.
George nodded as he gently ran his hand up the Packard’s long hood. It was certainly worth the asking price, but sadly that was a lot steeper than he could afford. So for the moment he could admire this piece of rolling art and dream of a day when he could own something like it.
Strolling to the driver’s door, he opened it and slid in. Resting his hands on the brown banjo-style steering wheel, he studied the gray horn button and its green-and-red Packard emblem. Then he noted the round speedometer that went all the way up to one hundred and twenty miles per hour. His Chevy was lucky to hit forty. The Packard’s four gauges, indicating engine temperature, generator charging, gas level, and oil pressure, were set in two round dials on each side of the speedometer. To the far right, built into the glove box, was a clock. The choke, throttle, and light switches were in the center of the car’s chocolate-colored dash. The radio was between them. He noted the added switches for the Tripp lights and optional heater.
He smiled as he placed his hand on the floor-mounted shifter. The round Bakelite knob perfectly fit in his palm. He pushed the clutch and shifted the car’s gearbox into reverse, down to first, up and over to second and down to third. He then ran his fingers over the gray cloth that covered the seat and door panels. The material felt like rich
“Quite a machine!”
Shocked to no longer have the back of the barn to himself, George twirled on his heels and found himself face-to-face with a middle-aged woman. Her deep red hair set off her yellow print dress. Her eyes were almost the same shade of blue as the pattern in the blue willow plate she carried in her right hand. Yet what defined her was her smile. It was anything but forced, displaying a perfect set of white teeth framed by plump red lips. Three decades earlier she probably drew admirers from five counties away, and she was still attractive enough to have eyes follow her every move.
“I’m Janie Timmons,” she announced as she closed the last few feet between them. “I don’t think I know you.”
“George Hall.”
“Nice to have you at the sale and auction,” she quickly replied. “What brings you out today? Anything special you’re looking for?”
“I read about it and decided to come over and see what you had.” A tinge of guilt swept through him as he realized he’d just told a lie. What had kept him from admitting that he was here for the Packard?
“Well,” Timmons explained, “Miss Watling collected a great number of really unique treasures. There is some amazing stuff here, and the best part is that the proceeds of this sale are all going to charity. Her European antiques are being auctioned in a few minutes. Other things, like this car, will just be sold for the best offer we can get by the time that auction is over. I wanted to auction the car, but her final will, drawn up just days before she died, said the Packard had to be sold, not auctioned. I have no idea why. Anyway, when it comes to things like this sedan or that lawn mower over there, I can assure you, every offer will be considered. By the way, if you’ve got cash, later on tonight we’re going to auction off her jewelry and art. There will be some really rare things that will come up then.”
George turned his head back toward the Packard. On the passenger side of the windshield was piece of paper with the price in block letters. He was so disappointed by the figure, he didn’t even turn back toward Timmons as he noted, “So you’re asking nine hundred for the car?”
Timmons nodded. “It is really worth that. It only has about six thousand miles and runs like new. You check it out, crawl underneath it, sit in the driver’s seat, pop the hood, and after you’ve done all that, then make your offer. There’s no minimum. At the end of the day it might just stand up.” She smiled, turned, and walked back toward the main part of the barn.
George nodded as he gently ran his hand up the Packard’s long hood. It was certainly worth the asking price, but sadly that was a lot steeper than he could afford. So for the moment he could admire this piece of rolling art and dream of a day when he could own something like it.
Strolling to the driver’s door, he opened it and slid in. Resting his hands on the brown banjo-style steering wheel, he studied the gray horn button and its green-and-red Packard emblem. Then he noted the round speedometer that went all the way up to one hundred and twenty miles per hour. His Chevy was lucky to hit forty. The Packard’s four gauges, indicating engine temperature, generator charging, gas level, and oil pressure, were set in two round dials on each side of the speedometer. To the far right, built into the glove box, was a clock. The choke, throttle, and light switches were in the center of the car’s chocolate-colored dash. The radio was between them. He noted the added switches for the Tripp lights and optional heater.
He smiled as he placed his hand on the floor-mounted shifter. The round Bakelite knob perfectly fit in his palm. He pushed the clutch and shifted the car’s gearbox into reverse, down to first, up and over to second and down to third. He then ran his fingers over the gray cloth that covered the seat and door panels. The material felt like rich
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