Page 58 of When There Was You
“You’re writing a feature on Hamilton Restorations. It’s a car restoration business. Family owned, small town vibe, storied past, known clientele—celebrities, dignitaries, etcetera. It’s a haul, down south, middle of nowhere. But I think you’ll give this the right touch. You’re into cars, if memory serves.”
Pride surges again as I lap up his flattery. “Sure am. This is absolutely in my wheelhouse.” My lips stretch into a smile as an old fire flickers. Cars?Hell yeah. I can’t wait to dig in.
I don’t miss Tanya’s pen smacking her pad with force, but I can’t bother with her passive-aggressive tantrums. I’ve got a great article—a feature—on the horizon, and a New Year edition to think about.
Back at my desk,I review the assignment brief, then phone my provided contact.
“Hamilton Restorations.” The man’s voice is sandpaper rough, which makes him sound old.
“This is Jacqui Hall fromVirginia Now.May I speak with Gus Hamilton?”
“You got him.”
“Hello, Mr. Hamilton. I’m?—”
“Call me Gus,” he clarifies, his definitive Southern accent emerging with every word.
“Thank you,” I say, underling his first name in my notepad. “I’ll be writing the article about your business for the magazine, and I’d like to schedule an interview at yourearliest convenience. You can show me what you do and the kinds of vehicles you restore, and share your history, mission, and whatever else to tell the Hamilton Restorations story.”
“Sounds agreeable.”
“I understand your son works with you as well?”
“That’s right. Between the two of us, we can cover everything you need.” Despite his gruff tone, he seems more than amenable to meet. “I only have one condition. I want to see the article before it prints. I’ve been misquoted in the past by journalist types, but I’ve known Don for years and he assured me this wouldn’t be a problem. He promised to send a crack reporter.” The way his cadence emphasizes the wordcrackalmost makes me jump.
Am I a crack reporter? If he knows Don, I hope Gus isn’t in the womanizing douchebag camp with him. And why the hell wasn’t I given a heads-up on this?
“I’ll make certain you’re satisfied with the outcome. We should plan on a few hours. I’ve got time available this week if that works.”
There’s a pause. “Friday. And if you show up before lunchtime, my wife will probably try to feed you.”
A pleased chuckle leaves my lips. “She sounds like a lovely woman.”
“The best.”
His adoration for her touches a soft spot. We finalize the time, and I jot everything in my notepad then head to the library to do more research on the four stories I’m juggling.
It takesninety minutes to drive to Hampton Springs, and once I hit state and county roads, it’s downright scenic. I pass modest homes, acres of farmland, and vast woodlands, occasionally cruising through tiny towns with little else than weathered gas stations, walk-up custard stands,and small, independent grocery stores. It’s a slice of Americana, one I’ve rarely glimpsed.
A sign comes into view, and I slow. Two chains hanging from a fancy wrought iron post hold a metal oval painted teal. The words “Hamilton Restorations” curve overtop a classic car with “Est. 1956” curving below in black. A white border brings it all together. Classy.
I turn into the driveway. A farmhouse gleams in the late summer sunshine with its white paint and black shutters, the front wrapped with a welcoming porch. A towering oak shades the house, and the abundant garden adds another dose of charm. I find the business farther down, housed in a vast, stately garage next to other outbuildings, the same oval sign—only bigger—mounted to the main building. A fenced parking area houses a smattering of vehicles in all stages of disrepair.
I park by the office next to a pristine Dodge Power Wagon, collect my satchel, and hop out. When I walk around the truck, my gaze catches and fixates on the first muscle car I’ve seen since leaving home. A Plymouth Barracuda, black as night, probably a late-60s model. Let the salivating begin.
The office door swings open, and an older gentleman greets me with a wave as a large, yellow Labrador squeezes by him and beelines for me, barking excitedly. The dog sidles up alongside and I offer my hand. Once I pass his sniff test, I venture a scratch on his head and am rewarded with tail wags and a lolling tongue.
“That’s Hemi, and he’s harmless,” the man says. My lips lift at the name. “I’m Gus Hamilton,” he adds, voice just as raspy as it sounded on the phone. “Also harmless.”
I straighten and shake his proffered hand. He’s noticeably tall, his brunette hair flecked with gray and his eyes a vivid cerulean blue.
“Jacqui Hall. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Quite a place you’ve got here.”
He gazes in the distance, humming in agreement. “Eighty-three acres. Our family’s lived here a century. And that old farmhouse has reared a lot of Hamiltons.”
