“Sort of.” I had been, yes. Until Alan told my mother that every penny in my savings account should be used to pay for my legal defense. I don’t like where this line of questioning is going to lead, so I nod toward his Chevelle. “This is beautiful. What’s going wrong?”
He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I put a new Holley carburetor on her, and I can’t seem to get it adjusted.”
I lean in for a closer look. The engine is spotless. I bet this guy takes better care of this car than he does of his wife. “Yeah? What’s it doing?”
“The idle is all wrong, and I was looking for speed, but now it’s gone sluggish. I’ve been tinkering with it for two weeks, and I was telling Frank I was ready to give in and take it to a shop, but that feels like cheating.” The men chuckle.
I can already see the problem, but I need to hear it to be sure. “Can I turn it on?”
He hesitates, and I can see him trying to figure out whether letting me turn the key is a good idea. “Sure. Keys are in it.”
The interior is as stunning as the outside. You can smell the leather of the seats. The engine roars when I turn the ignition, and I listen, breaking down the sounds coming from under the hood. He’s right about the idle. After a minute, I can smell burning fuel, and I turn it off.
John is watching me expectantly, and there’s a light of challenge in his eyes. “What do you think?”
“I think your Holley is too big.”
He chuckles again, but it sounds strained. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s a seven-fifty, right? I think it’s too big. When you were talking, I thought maybe it was the choke, but then I got a listen. I bet you’d do better with a six-fifty. I could probably get it to run a little better, but—”
“Wait a minute.” The smile is completely gone. “I just put that in. All it needs is some tuning.”
He reminds me more of Alan every minute. “You wanted my opinion. I gave it to you.”
“You’re telling me to get a whole new carburetor?” He looks like I told him to eat a fistful of sand.
“Well. Yeah. You’re drowning your engine. Like I said, I can try to adjust it—”
“No. It’s okay.” He looks pissed, but I can’t tell whether it’s at himself or at me. “I’ll have the mechanic look at it tomorrow.”
I bristle. I can feel the familiar tension crawl across my shoulders, travel up my neck, and settle into my jaw.
Frank is watching this interaction, and his expression has lost the good humor, too. “Nothing wrong with a second opinion, right, Murph?”
“Sure.” I shrug, but it feels forced.
A little girl’s voice speaks from somewhere, sounding tinny. “Papi? Papi? Can I get up?”
Melonhead pulls a baby monitor from his pocket. “I’ve got to get back inside, John.” He claps his friend on the shoulder. “At least you’ve got some ideas when you call the shop tomorrow, eh?”
“Yeah. Sure.” John’s jaw seems tight, too. “Thanks for your help, kid.”
He might as well be saying Thanks for nothing.
Before I can say anything, Melonhead waves me along. “Come on, Murph. I’ll get you some lemonade.”
It’s bizarre to be inside his house. The aged brick front and beige siding look like every other house on this street, but the interior is open, with few walls, and very neat and tidy.
“Just let me get Marisol,” he says, leaving me in the living room.
The fireplace doesn’t have a mantel but is instead surrounded by varying shades of gray stone. A collage of photos hang in silver frames above it. Most of the pictures are of a baby girl who must be a younger Marisol, but one picture features a younger Melonhead with a beautiful woman hanging her arms around his neck.
From their expressions in the photograph, you can tell that time stops when they look at each other.
“Declan!” A little girl shrieks with excitement, and then I have almost no warning before she tackles my legs. “You came to play with me!”
If only girls my own age would react this way when I walk into a room. “Sure,” I say. “We can play the lemonade game.”
Her nose wrinkles. “The lemonade game?”
“Yes. I drink some, and then you drink some, and then you win.”
She giggles. “I like this game.”
Melonhead is watching us. “You’re very kind to her.”
“I figure I can’t piss her off by telling her she spent five hundred bucks on a worthless upgrade.”
“‘Piss me off’?” she parrots. “What’s ‘piss me off’?”
Her father’s face darkens, and I wince, chagrined. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Come sit down.”
When Marisol is settled with crayons and we’re sitting with sweaty glasses on the table between us, Melonhead gives me a leveled look. “Do you really think he needs a new carburetor?”
I shrug and take a sip from the glass. “I know he does.”
Melonhead nods. “Before you got here, he said he might have made a mistake. I think he was hoping you’d tell him he was wrong.”
My eyebrows go way up. “So he knew?”
“I don’t think he wanted to admit it to himself. He tinkers with that thing every weekend, but he’s just a hobbyist.” He pauses. “You could really hear the problem?”
I trace lines in the condensation along the glass. “It’s not a big deal when you’re used to it. I’m out of practice, but his was pretty obvious.”
“You said your dad was a mechanic?”