Jack walked me back to my car. I didn’t say much en route, I’d finally run out of steam. My rusty CV2 looked about to collapse under the strain of age and hard work. It hadn’t been washed in weeks and was covered in a fine layer of dust. Bad Dog circled it then lifted a contemptuous leg on a rear tire.
I scowled, then turned to glare at Jack.
“Hmm.” He looked at the car again.
“It works for me,” I said, my stiff posture betraying my irritation.
“Looks as though that car’s been working for you for a very long time.” He gave the hood a little thump with his fist. “Damn good little workhorse, always was, or so I heard. Never owned one personally.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing, but then people like you probably run around in silver BMW convertibles, or red Ferraris.”
“Just goes to show how little you know about ‘people like me.’ Besides, don’t you know it’s bad to make generalizations?”
He opened the car door; it groaned and when I switched on the engine it trembled like a tired old mare.
I wound the window down. “So what do you drive?”
“Certainly not a BMW, or a Ferrari.”
“How about a red Corvette?”
He laughed. “Red’s right. A Ford F350 quad-cab pickup. I’m a working man. Like you I need to haul stuff, only in my case it’s boat stuff, not the marketing.”
I shoved my hair back with an impatient hand and pushed my sunglasses on top of my head. I doubted Jack Farrar thought there was a beauty lurking under all that hair. I was a mess. He slammed the car door. The catch was loose and, like everything else, it rattled.
“Are you sure this thing is safe?”
“It’s been safe for more than six years, no reason it shouldn’t be now.”
“Good feminine reasoning.”
“Good masculine answer.” My exasperated sigh made him laugh.
“You take dates out in that Ford pickup?” I asked.
“Depends. But my other car’s a Porsche.”
“Hah!” I gave a triumphant snort. “I knew it.”
“An old Porsche, but it’s built for speed and I guess I’m a speedster at heart.”
I put on the sunglasses and leaned out the window, looking up at him. “I don’t know why you’re doing what you’re doing, Jack Farrar,” I said, suddenly humble, “but…thank you.”
“Truth be told, I don’t exactly know why either.” He grinned at me. “There’s just something about you, I guess.”
I backed the car out of the tight parking spot, made a quick U-turn and bounced off down the narrow street, and he lifted his arm in a goodbye wave.