Mustang Sally
Miranda wasn’t looking for romance . . . but her Mustang, Sally, changed all that!
From Miranda’s vantage under the car, she spied her Aunt Estelle’s shoes before hearing her voice.
“Miranda, what are you doing under there?”
She slid the creeper out and grabbed a rag. “I’m changing Sally’s oil.”
Her father had taught her how to care for cars when she was a teenager, right after he told her the cherry red 1968 Mustang would be hers someday.
“If you’d stayed with Mark, he could be doing that.”
“Dad always said my life partner should love what I love. I didn’t mind that Mark didn’t love ballet, but he didn’t love Sally. He wanted me to trade her for something economical.”
“It is a V- 8, dear. What kind of mileage do you get?”
She hoped he wouldn’t notice her blushing
Miranda taught ballet in her home and only drove the Mustang on weekends, just enough to give it the “regular exercise” her father said it needed.
“I don’t even know. The gas gauge has been stuck at halffull for weeks. I just top it off occasionally.”
“So you haven’t found Bud’s Garage yet?” her aunt said.
Miranda sighed. Her father took Sally there for repairs and talked about his friend Bud, the master mechanic. But she’d never asked the garage’s location and now couldn’t find them in the phonebook or on the Internet.
“No. I think Bud must have closed up shop.”
“I just came by to give you a list of what I need from the supermarket,” her aunt said. “No sense in us both wasting gas.”
Miranda’s trunk was full of food and pink paint for the dance studio when the engine started sputtering. How long had it been since she’d fi lled the tank? Too long, she realized, as the car coasted to a stop in front of Al’s Auto Services. A man emerged from an open bay.
She jumped out. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t a gas station. But maybe you could help me?”
“I can give you a couple gallons,” he said. Then his gaze went from her to Sally and back again. He grinned. “We’ve been expecting you. You’re Miranda, right? The ballerina?”
She looked again at the rusting sign. This wasn’t Bud’s garage, and this young man with sandy curls wasn’t Bud. “I am. But how did you know that?”
“Your dad showed us photos when he brought Sally for tuneups. His other beauty, he’d say. I was sorry to hear he’d passed.” “Thank you.” He reached out his grease-stained hand to shake, then thought better of it. “I’m Tom Hillman, Bud’s son. George said he was leaving the car to you.”
“It’s too bad he never got around to telling me that Bud’s Garage and Al’s Auto Services were one and the same.”
“Dad kept the name when he bought the place in ’76. But . . . so you’re here by accident?”
“Sally’s been telling me she’s half-full for weeks, but she decided to run out today in front of your garage. It’s like she wanted me to find you.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice her blushing, but with the way he was looking at her, he couldn’t miss it. “Your garage, I mean.”
“Yes. Talk about lucky accidents.” He cleared his throat. “The gas tank probably needs a new float. Come back Monday, and my brother will fi x you up.” “Your brother?” “He owns the place now that Dad is retired. I help out on weekends so he can spend time with his family.”
Miranda understood the implication—tom didn’t have one.
He headed over to the garage and returned with a gas can. “I teach industrial arts at the high school. I love cars, but I love teaching more.”
He loved cars? And teaching? Miranda smiled. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house. But if you want to repay me, how about bringing Sally over to the school? Giving her a tune-up would be great practice for my seniors. Under my supervision, of course.”
A free tune-up and an excuse to see Tom again? “It’s a deal.”
She drove away with a happy wave.
Aunt Estelle was waiting on her front porch. “What took you so long?” she said.
“I found Bud’s Garage. You won’t believe it, but Sally has HPS.” “Do you mean GPS?” Miranda shook her head. “HPS. Heavenly Positioning System.”