Restoring Harmony Part 8

"Do you mind if I look around the house?" I asked them.

"Why not?" Grandpa said. "Maybe you'll find the family silver and save the day!"

"I'm pretty sure that must've gone first," I said. I actually was was hoping to find something he'd overlooked, though. "I just wanted to check out your house. It's so huge." hoping to find something he'd overlooked, though. "I just wanted to check out your house. It's so huge."

Grandpa's thin mouth widened into a big smile. "Four thousand twenty-two square feet."

"What?"

"The house," he said. "That's how big it is."

"Amazing."

What in the world did two people need four thousand square feet for?

After searching the whole upstairs and coming up empty, I went downstairs. At the bottom, you could go one way to the front door, the other way to the living room, or straight ahead to a door that looked different from the others. It was metal, for one thing. Maybe it led outside?

I tried the k.n.o.b, and the door opened on silent hinges. I stepped out into the most amazing room of all. An almost entirely empty three-car garage. Smack in the middle of it sat a car like I'd never seen before. Well, maybe in the movies that we watched on the computer, but only the really, really old ones from last century.

The car was painted a shimmery blue-green with silvery trim. The back and front windows curved in a way that gla.s.s usually doesn't, and something that looked like a streaking silver bird sat on the hood, glimmering in the bit of light that came through the garage windows.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Grandpa asked from behind me, making me jump.

"What kind of car is it?"

"A nineteen-fifty-nine Studebaker Lark."

"Wow. That's almost a hundred years old."

"Eighty-two, actually."

"It's gorgeous."

"Yep. And don't even ask about selling it. I've already tried. No one has money for collector cars."

We stared at it, me taking it in, Grandpa reliving his days out on the open road. His shoulders straightened and he seemed to shed twenty years. I imagined him grinning as he drove along, people stopping to turn and stare admiringly.

"Get in, Molly." He opened the pa.s.senger door and I slid inside, and then he walked around and got behind the wheel. "There's nothing quite like a Studie."

The bench seat was covered with stiff fabric and trimmed with vinyl. The interior was painted a deeper blue-green, the dials and k.n.o.bs were glittering chrome, and it smelled of a past I couldn't quite imagine. "It's so clean and new looking," I said.

"Yeah . . . well, I can't let her rot here."

"What do you mean?"

He caressed the dashboard. "I take care of this sweetheart."

I gave him a quizzical look. "Do you think the government will release oil to the public again or something?" I asked.

"What do you think I am? An idiot? Of course they won't. Besides, she doesn't run on gas anymore."

"She doesn't?"

"In 2015, I had her converted to electric, and then in 2027, I upgraded her to a Super Seven Solar battery."

My heart leapt! "We could drive her back to Canada!" I said, bouncing in my seat, making the car rock.

"Stop jumping around! We can't drive her to Canada."

"Why not?"

He glared at me. "Mostly because your grandmother and I aren't going anywhere, but also because her battery's dead."

"But you said it was solar. Can't we charge it?"

"You can only charge them so many times and then they're no good."

I knew all about that because of the Solar Fone.

"This one's a goner," he said. "I'll show you."

We got out of the car and walked to the front. His skinny, undernourished arms shook under the weight of the heavy hood, but he managed to hold it with one hand and prop it up with a little rod. Instead of an engine, there was a gaping hole, a handful of wires, and a small square battery. "See that?" He pointed to the end where the wires were still hooked up. "It's black. That means it's dead beyond hope."

"Maybe we could get a new one."

"And pay for it how?"

"Well, what do you polish the car for," I asked, "if you're never going to drive it again?"

He sighed. "Something to do, I guess. Retirement's kind of boring."

"You know"-I was scheming now-"if you came to Canada with me, there's lots to do. There'd be work on the farm, or fishing, or you could even be a doctor again."

"Molly, I have been stubborn all my life, and to be perfectly honest, it's worked out pretty well. But I am am sorry about one thing." sorry about one thing."

"What?" I asked.

"I hate that I pa.s.sed on that trait to your mother and then she pa.s.sed it on to you."

"But-"

"I am not sure how to make this any more clear to you," he said. "We're staying here."

"But my mom needs you. And she wants to see Grandma."

He pulled the brace out from the hood and let it slam. "Do you not understand what a trip like that would do to Katharine? She's not well, Molly." He ran his hands through the little hair he had left. "How can you ask me to take that chance?" He pushed past me and headed for the house.

15.

July 16th-Gardening is not a single act, but a series of experiences.

-Katherine Gordon

FOR TWO DAYS, I'D BEEN WEEDING IN THE GARDEN from dawn until about noon. Mr. Edwards hadn't said much, except to ask me to please stop calling him mister.

"I was just being adverse when I said that," he told me. "Call me Doug."

We didn't talk much, even when he weeded right next to me, but I had Brandy to keep me company. She was a chatterbox, and I liked it because it kept me from worrying about Mom, wondering about Katie's wedding plans, and hoping someone had taken over my garden ch.o.r.es so that we'd have a good harvest this year. It also kept me from worrying whether I'd ever figure out how to get enough money for train tickets.

When the sun was right overhead, I stood up and stretched. Brandy had been following me like a shadow all morning, but Michael had spent his time in the shade, playing with a box of dirt and a bunch of slimy worms.

"Hey, Brandy, guess what?" I said.

She jumped up, bouncing around like a puppy. "What? What? What?"

"I have reeeeeeallly itchy fingers."

"You do?" she asked, her blue eyes growing wide. "How come? Did you get bit by a mosquito?"

"Noooo," I said, taking her grubby hand and leading her over to the deck. "They're itching to play the fiddle! Let's have some music!" I tickled her with wiggling fingers, and she squealed.

"Yay! Can I play the fiddle too? Can I?" she asked.

"I think I need someone to dance dance!" I said, nixing that idea.

I'd left Jewels on the deck in the shade, and I unpacked her from her case. She was still close to in tune from my morning practice session, but the E string had definitely slipped. "This is a dancing song," I said, making the adjustment and running the bow over the string. "Can you move your feet like this?" I tapped my bare foot on the deck.

"Yes!"

"How about you, Michael?" I called.

He looked up from his worms, uncertain about whether he wanted to come over or not, but he stayed put. I can't really dance and play at the same time, but I am able to do the steps if I'm sitting, so I plopped down into one of the deck chairs. My feet were still sore, but getting a lot better.

A second later, I was in tune and ready to go. Quick, sharp movements across the strings sent the notes flying into the air. One foot kept time and the other did the steps while Brandy jumped and bounced around on the deck, her bare feet slapping against the warm wood.

As soon as I'd started to play for real, Michael had dropped his worms and come right up to me. But he didn't dance. Instead, he stood there, about two feet away, staring at my fingers and the bow, his eyes wide and his mouth in a little O. O. Brandy tried to pull him away, but he was frozen in front of me. I knew exactly how he felt. There was nothing like a fiddle! Brandy tried to pull him away, but he was frozen in front of me. I knew exactly how he felt. There was nothing like a fiddle!

Brandy danced herself around, squealing with laughter. "Faster!" I yelled, picking up the tempo. She spun and jumped up and down. "Now, slower!" I changed to a waltz. She didn't know how to waltz any more than she knew how to dance a reel, but it was fun watching her change her steps and move slowly to the timing of the music. I'd been playing for about fifteen minutes when she collapsed in a heap of giggles onto the deck, panting.

"Too hot," she gasped.

When Michael realized I was finished, he walked silently back to his dirt and started digging again. About half an hour before that, Doug had disappeared down to the creek with a pair of rusty shears, and now he came up through the garden to us.

"I have to go to the market," he said.

"What about the kids?" I asked.

"They're fine. They know not to go anywhere."

"You're joking, right?" He wouldn't leave them there alone, would he?

"We always stay home by ourselves," Brandy said. "I take good care of Michael. Don't I, Uncle?"

"You sure do," he said. He ruffled her tangled brown hair and she beamed at him.

I didn't know what to do. I considered taking them back with me, but I had to hand-wash all our clothes and hang them out to dry, and then Grandpa and I had to try to find some firewood somewhere. Brandy and Michael were his kids, after all. He should know if they'd be okay or not.

"Well . . . all right," I said. "See you guys tomorrow."

When I got down to the end of the yard, I saw that Doug had cut the blackberry bushes back away from the fence, leaving an easy path into my grandparents' yard. Sitting in the gra.s.s was a large, neat pile of produce too. Doug hadn't said much about my help, so it was nice to see he actually did appreciate me.

It was a balancing act carrying the squash, lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, spinach, and Jewels, but I managed. Grandpa was dozing in the shade, and I hated to wake him up, but I didn't know where Grandma was and I needed someone to open the door.

"Hey, Grandpa," I said. "Look what Doug gave us."

"What? Huh?" He sat up and adjusted his gla.s.ses.

"Could you open the French doors for me?"

"Sure."

He pulled himself up off the blanket he'd spread on the lawn and led the way up the steps. It took a second for our eyes to adjust to the dimness of the cool, dark living room, and when it did, we were both too surprised to speak.

Sitting on the couch chatting away with my grandma was the guy who had walked with me to Pioneer Square and brought me the root beer at the market.

"Hi, Handsome Molly," he said, smiling.

16.

GRANDPA STEPPED FORWARD TOWARDS THE GUY.

"Who are you?" he demanded.