The temperature had risen ten degrees in the little while Betsy had been gone. Used to the dry heat of southern California, she was disconcerted by how warm seventy-eight humid degrees could be. Her favorite pant suit, cotton khaki with touches of lace, was too much clothing for this weather even with its short sleeves. She could feel it wilting as she walked to the booth.
One of the women was saying to the man, “… a ’14 Hupmobile, he wants fifteen thousand for it.” She had a phone to her ear, but she was talking to the man.
The man replied, “In running condition?”
“He says it is.” She shrugged, showing doubt. “I haven’t seen it.” The phone made a faint sound, and she replied into it, “Yes, standing by.”
Betsy said, “Do you mean there really was a car called a Hupmobile? I’ve heard that name, but I thought it was a joke.”
The man looked at her. “No, it was founded by brothers named Hupp in 1908 and they made cars until 1940. The early ones are collector’s items.”
The woman said, “It’s a Hupmobile on the back of the old ten-dollar bills. Take a look sometime.”
“I’ll do that,” promised Betsy. “Is fifteen thousand dollars a lot of money for a Hupmobile? I mean, I would have thought so a few months ago, until a friend paid seventeen thousand for a Stanley Steamer.”
The man said, “Was it Dr. Fine’s?”
“How did-” Then Betsy smiled. “Oh, you must have been bidding on it, too.”
But he shook his head. “I like rarities, but I wouldn’t own a steamer on a bet. It’s just that the world of antique cars, especially the crowd that drives them as opposed to just shows them-is very small. I’m Adam Smith, by the way, and this is Lucille Ziegfield, called Ceil.” He bent his head sideways toward the woman standing beside him. Still listening to her cell phone, she nodded at Betsy.
“How do you do?” said Betsy. “This is so interesting and exciting! I had no idea there were people who did this. I’m wondering what makes a person decide to get into these old cars. My friend who bought the Stanley is totally focused on the thing, hardly talks about anything else. That’s typical of him, but is that typical of antique car owners?”
Ceil, still listening but apparently to dead air, said, “He has just the one?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then he’s not typical. Most of the people who get into this hobby wind up with several, sometimes several dozen. It’s not a hobby, it’s a sickness. My husband owns seven, all Packards. And not all antiques-the latest model he owns is from 1954.”
Betsy wasn’t sure whether to smile or offer condolences. What would Lars be like with half a dozen Stanleys? “Judging from the time Lars spends working on his one, I don’t see where anyone would find the time to build up a collection,” Betsy said.
Adam said, “Well, usually one of them is hogging most of the attention. The owner works on it until it’s fixed or he can’t stand looking at it anymore, and goes on to another.”
“A CASITA,” nodded Betsy.
“ ‘Casita’?”
“In needlework, sometimes one project demands all the attention until it turns into a CASITA, you CAn’t Stand IT Anymore. So you go on to something else.”
Adam nodding, laughed. “Who would have thought antique cars and needlework would have something in common?”
“I never even thought ordinary people could own antique cars,” said Betsy. “I mean, I thought they were all in museums. Well, except Jay Leno, I know he owns some. But I certainly didn’t know there were clubs of people who drive them.”
Ceil said into her phone, “Well, that’s politics,” folded up her phone, and said to Adam, “The Studebaker the governor was riding in broke down on Selby, so he got out and went home.”
“Damn!” muttered Adam, snapping his fingers.
Ceil continued to Betsy, “It’s mostly men who get into this. It’s not just the money-it takes a working knowledge of machinery, lots of heavy lifting, and a willingness to get really dirty. You’ll see some fellow coming out of a shed in the evening with greasy clothes and disgusting fingernails, and only on second look realize he’s the richest man in town.”
“Who’s the richest man in town?” asked a new voice, and Betsy turned to see Joe Mickels standing close behind her, an expression of deep suspicion on his face. A short, bandy-legged man, he had a wide, thin mouth under a great beak of a nose flanked by large white sideburns. He was in, for him, casual summer wear: light blue suit, white canvas shoes, white shirt, light blue necktie. Joe was the richest man in Excelsior, though he didn’t want that fact generally known. He had dated Betsy for a short while earlier in the year, and had, in what he considered a tender moment, confided his financial status. Now that the brief romance was over, he constantly suspected her of talking about him, sharing the facts of his wealth with all and sundry.
“I have no idea,” replied Betsy coldly. “We were talking about wealthy men who behave like garage mechanics around their antique automobiles.”
“How old does a car have to be before it’s an antique?” asked Joe.
Adam replied, “Well, for this year’s run it’s 1912 or earlier.”
“Well, then, I’ve got an antique car.”
Betsy had seen Joe’s car. It was an immaculate 1969 Lincoln, old but hardly an antique. She frowned at him, and he twinkled at her as if telling her to watch him at work. He said to Adam, “She’s seen my Lincoln, but I also have a 1909 McIntyre.”
“I didn’t know that!” said Betsy.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” said Joe, twinkling more broadly, and continued to Adam, “My grandfather bought it new, then my uncle owned it, then my brother, and now it’s mine.”
“Does it run?” asked Adam, and Betsy heard a slight change in Adam’s voice. Though he was trying to sound casual, it seemed he was very interested in Joe’s reply.
“Oh, yes, I started it up last Thursday. It’s up on blocks, because it’s got these funny big wheels, like wagon wheels, that used to have hard rubber around the rims, but they’re worn right down to the metal. But it runs. I cranked her up and ran her for fifteen minutes, then shut her down again. I start her up once a month spring, summer, and fall, run her long enough to circulate the oil and water, then in November I drain the radiator, crankcase, and gas tank, and fill it all up again in the spring, and recharge the battery. That’s what my uncle did. I used to help him when I was a boy. I understand some of these old cars are valuable, so I mean to keep her in running order.”
“I wish I’d known you had an old car,” said Betsy.
“Then I don’t see why you didn’t ask me,” said Joe indifferently, turning a shoulder to her as he focused on Adam. “Of course, I couldn’t have taken her for a ride, not without tires, and I don’t know where to buy them.”
“I could probably give you a source,” said Adam. “If you’re interested.”
“Well, I don’t know. The old car’s useless, really. I was just keeping her out of sentiment. My Uncle Frank learned to drive with that car, and he used to give me and my cousins rides in it in the summer days of my youth. I think he’d halfway forgotten he had it, and my brother never drove it at all. I found it in an old barn a few years ago and had it moved to a heated shed, because I remembered a magazine article from somewhere that said some of them are valuable to collectors. I don’t know if she’s of any real value, since she’s a McIntyre, and I never heard of that brand, not like the Maxwell, or a Cadillac or a Model T.”
“How much of it is original?” asked Adam.
Joe shrugged. “All of it. The engine, chassis, transmission, even the paint job, though it looks a little scabby in places. Original wheels, original seat covers, original glass in the windows. And everything works, except the headlights. My uncle wouldn’t drive it at night because the lights were so weak, and now they won’t light at all.”
“What kind of headlights?”
“Big ’uns, made of brass. There’s no lightbulbs in ’em, but I don’t know who took ’ em out.” He scratched an earnest eyebrow to hide the wink he gave Betsy from under his hand.
Adam said, “If they’re original, the lights are acetylene, not electric. That kind doesn’t use bulbs.”
“Acetylene? You mean like a welding torch?”
Adam nodded. “I’d kind of like to see that car.”
“Sure, but it’s not for sale.”
“Who said anything about buying it? I saw one at a show a few years ago, where they asked me to judge. I didn’t like the instruments on the dashboard-they were reproductions-and I’d like to see a set of originals.”
Joe produced a business card from an inside pocket. “Give me a call sometime. I’ll be glad to show it to you.” He walked away.
Ceil snorted softly. “Of course you’re not interested in a 1909 McIntyre with all original parts!”
Adam shrugged, eyebrows raised in a show of innocence. “Well, now you mention it, I do know a couple of people who might pay good money to buy that car-from me.” He looked at the card, pulled out his wallet, and slid it into a pocket.
“If you manage to pry that vehicle out of Joe Mickels’s hands for a nickel less than it’s worth, you’re a better man than most!” she said, laughing.
Betsy decided not to warn Adam after all that Joe’s apparently fortuitous appearance at the booth was, in all likelihood, the first move in a plan to sell his McIntyre for at the very least what it was worth. Joe never parted with anything for less than its true value. Moreover, she doubted that sentimental story of it being handed down three generations. Joe? Sentimental? Ha!
There was the sprightly sound of “Fu¨r Elise,” and Ceil, still smiling, pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Excelsior,” she said into it. “Ah!” She checked her watch. “Thanks!” she added, and disconnected. “The Winton just came onto Minnetonka Boulevard. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Not the Stanley?” asked Betsy.
“Why the Stanley?” replied the woman.
“Well, I just thought, because Stanleys are so fast.”
The woman laughed. “Yes, for about twenty-five miles. Then they have to stop for water. Every blinking twenty-five miles they have to stop for water. And of course, if they blow a gasket, or the pilot light goes out, or they run out of steam, then the delays really mount up.”
Betsy flashed on Lars laughing as he chuffed around the table in Crewel World, calling “Get a horse!” to imaginary internal combustion cars. Apparently the laugh was not entirely his alone.
She had her clipboard ready when a soft-yellow car with brown fenders came up the street. It didn’t look like a car from the teens, but more like something out of an early-thirties movie, with its sleek modeling, long hood, and deeply purring motor. A solidly built, prosperous-looking man in a cream suit was driving, and a very pretty woman wearing a cloche hat sat beside him. They both smiled at Betsy as the car pulled up.
“Number ten,” he announced, and Betsy checked off Number Ten, a 1912 Winton, on her list, noting the time beside it.
“Are we the first?” asked the man, though that was obviously the case; there were no other cars in sight.
“Yes, sir, you are,” said Betsy. She pointed with her pen at the booth. “Please check in with Adam Smith. He’ll tell you where to park.”
The Winton had only just moved on down the street when Betsy heard the now-familiar loud and breathy whistle of Lars’s Stanley. She looked around and saw it, wreathed in steam, rolling smoothly up Lake toward her. She waited until he pulled up beside her, all smiles, before noting the time. He was one minute, twelve seconds behind the leader.
“Beat ’em all,” he announced. “I told you the Stanley was a fast one. I bet number two won’t be here for-” He broke off, staring up the street at the Winton pulling up to the curb a little beyond the booth.
“Sorry,” said Betsy. But she was smiling.
“Oh, well, like they say, this isn’t a race,” said Lars, but his smile was now forced.
“How’d she run?” asked Betsy.
“Sweet as milk, and smooth as silk,” said Lars. “But I’m thinking I should’ve looked around for a 1914 model; they have condensers in them, so you don’t need to stop every thousand yards to take on water. Someone in St. Paul says he heard there’s a guy with one-”
“No, no!” said Betsy. “You don’t want to sell this one already! You just got it all restored!”
“Oh, I would never sell this one,” Lars replied. “But the 1914, with a condenser…” His eyes had gone dreamy. Then he shook himself. “Do I just go up and park behind that yellow car?”
“No, check in at the booth first. Mr. Smith will tell you where to park. And Lars, this time talk to Jill first before you buy another Stanley.” But she was talking to his back and he blew his whistle before she’d finished.
There was a half-hour gap before the rest of the cars started trickling in. The trickle grew quickly to a steady stream that as quickly diminished again to a trickle, until Betsy had checked off all but two cars. She was getting very warm standing out in the sun, and suspected her nose was getting sunburned. She wished she’d thought to wear a hat. And sunglasses.
A rust-brown two-seater came up the street, its engine going diddle-diddle-hick-diddle. It was a Maxwell with black leather seats and black trim, the top half of its windshield folded down. The car’s wax finish shimmered in the bright sunlight as the engine idled unevenly.
The couple driving the car had also dressed in period costumes, he in a big off-white coat called a “duster,” a pinch-brim hat in a tiny, dark-check pattern. Goggles with thick rubber edges covered his eyes. There was a dab of grease on his cheek. She wore a duster with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a huge hat swathed in veils, and sunglasses.
“We’re number twenty, the Birminghams, Bill and Charlotte,” said the woman, who was on Betsy’s side of the car-like most of these antiques, the steering wheel was on the right. The man stared straight ahead, his gauntleted hands tightly gripping the wheel.
“How long do we have here before we start back?” asked Charlotte, pushing aside her veil so she could wipe her face with a handkerchief. Her face looked pale as well as sweaty-and no wonder, thought Betsy, swathed in fabric like that.
“They’re asking the drivers to stay at least an hour,” replied Betsy. “And just so you know, there’s a reporter from the Excelsior Bay Times here, asking to interview some of you.”
The driver shook his head and grunted, “No.”
The woman apologized. “He’s feeling cranky. Something’s wrong with the engine, we had trouble the whole trip. He needs to tinker with it, or we’ll never make the return. I’m going to get out here,” she said to him. “I’ve got to shed a layer or two or I’ll just die. Where do we park?” she asked Betsy.
“First you have to check in-up there, at the booth. Adam Smith will tell you where to park.”
The woman hesitated, then sighed. “Oh, all right, I’ll ride up with you,” she said, replying to an unvoiced complaint from Bill. Betsy smiled. Amusing how people who had been married for a long time could do things like that.
The woman resettled herself, and the little car went diddle-hick-diddle up the street to the white booth.
The last car in, a red-orange model, was small and light. It was a real horseless carriage, looking far more like a frail little buggy than a car. It had no hood, just a low dashboard that curved back toward the driver’s shins. He was a slim young man in a tight-fitting cream-colored suit, a high-collared white shirt with a small black bow tie, and a straw boater atop his dark auburn hair. He wasn’t behind a steering wheel, but had one hand on a “tiller,” a curved silver pipe that ran up from under the dash. The dust-white wheels of his automobile were the right size for bicycles, with wire spokes. The vehicle came to a trembling halt beside Betsy, whose mouth was open in delight. Here, in person, was the car embroidered in the center of Mildred Feeney’s quilt, the car that was the very symbol of the Antique Car Club. Before she could check her list to see who was driving it, the driver smiled and said, “Owen Carpenter. Driving a 1902 Oldsmobile, single cylinder.”
Betsy made a checkmark beside Number Seven on her list, and wrote the time. She directed him to Adam Smith at the booth and stayed in place a minute to watch the Olds toddle down the street. Its little engine, located somewhere on the underside, sounded a very authoritative “Bap!” at brief intervals.
Then, her work done, Betsy walked slowly to the booth and past it, looking from side to side at the veterans. That Oldsmobile she had just checked in was the oldest in today’s run, having survived its first century, but by definition all the cars here were pioneers, and the oldest ones looked like the buggies and wagons they shared the roads with when they were young. Some had names anyone would recognize: Ford, Oldsmobile, Cadillac. Some were unfamiliar: Everett, Schacht, Brush. Most were brightly painted, orange, yellow, red, blue, brown, green, but some wore basic black. All were surprisingly tall, with a running board to step up on, then another step up to the seats, which themselves were more like upholstered chairs or sofas than modern car seats. They all had brass trim and most featured alertly upright windshields. All but the Olds had wooden spokes on their wheels.
Two men were poking under the hoods and one was on his back doing something to the undercarriage, paying tribute to the experimental nature of these engines and drive mechanisms, but the rest stood in gleaming perfection while people gathered to ask questions or take pictures. The Stanley was leaking steam from several sources, but Lars seemed unconcerned and was boasting to a trio of young men about his trip. He had a bad scald on the back of one hand.
Betsy shook her head, at him and at all the drivers. Seeing these old, old cars, and knowing they’d been driven here from St. Paul, was like finding that your great-grandfather was not only still around, but decked out in white flannel trousers and using a wooden racket, capable of the occasional game of tennis.
She gave the clipboard to Adam and went to see how things were going in Crewel World.
It was a huge relief to step out of the glare into the air-conditioned interior. Even better, there were a fair number of customers-a few, by their costumes, from the antique car group.
Godwin wasn’t in sight. Betsy raised an inquiring eyebrow at Shelly, who pointed with a sideways nod of her head toward the back of the shop. Betsy went into the little storeroom and heard the sound of weeping coming from the small rest room off it. She tapped lightly on the door. “Godwin?” she called.
“Oh, go away!”
“Why don’t you go home?”
“Because I haven’t got a home.”
“How long have you been in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re not doing us any good holed up like this.”
“I won’t ask you to pay me for the time.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Godwin, that’s not what I mean! Go over to Shelly’s house, you idiot!”
“I know what you mean. I just wish-”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I could stop feeling sorry for myself.”
“Here’s an idea. Come out of there and take a walk down Lake Street. You should see these wonderful old cars! They are so beautiful and exotic, just the sort of thing you’d love. And some of the people who ride in them are in period dress.” Godwin loved costume parties.
But he only said, “Uh-huh,” in a very disinterested voice.
“All right, then go down to the art fair. See if you can find Irene.” Irene Potter was sitting with Mark Duggan of Excelsior’s Water Street Gallery. Irene’s blizzard piece was supposed to be prominently featured, its price a breathtaking six thousand dollars. It was not expected to sell; this was Mr. Duggan’s way of introducing the art world to Irene. Irene had done several more pieces and been written up in the Excelsior Bay Times, and was behaving badly about being “discovered.”
“It’s too hot to be walking around in the sun,” said Godwin pettishly, though he’d been telling everyone that he was the first to see her potential as a Serious Artist.
“Well, then how about I take you and Shelly out to dinner tonight? It’ll probably be late, I don’t know how long I’ll be in St. Paul, but if you can wait, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
There was the sound of a nose being blown. “Well,” said Godwin in a voice not quite so disinterested, “how about Ichiban’s, that Japanese restaurant where they juggle choppers and cook your shrimp right in front of you?”
“Fine, if we can get in without a reservation. Because I really don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“We can call from Shelly’s before we leave,” suggested Godwin, giving up his struggle to sound sad.
“Fine.” Betsy went back out into the shop. Shelly was talking to a man trying to pick something for a birthday present. “All I know is, she pulls the cloth tight in a round wooden thing, and then sews all over it,” he was saying. And Caitlin was helping a woman put together the wools she needed for a needlepoint Christmas stocking.
A woman in an ankle-length white cotton dress trimmed in heavy lace was looking around and not finding whatever she was wanting. “May I help you?” asked Betsy.
The woman turned. “Oh, hello again!” She smiled at Betsy’s blank face and said, “You clocked us in just a few minutes ago. The 1910 Maxwell? I was wearing a big hat?”
“Oh!” said Betsy. “Yes, now I remember you! Wow, you went costumed all the way, didn’t you? First that big coat and hat, now this wonderful dress! Who do you get to make them for you?”
“The coat is a replica, but this dress and the hat are originals.” She did a professional model’s turn.
“They are?”
“Oh, yes. I collect antique clothes. I like to wear them, so it keeps me on my diet.” She laughed and brushed at the tiny bits of floss clinging to her skirts. “I’m also a stitcher, as you can see. Do you know if this store has the Santa of the Forest?”
“We did, but I sold the last one yesterday. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t come in for a week or two, probably.”
“ ‘We’? You work here?”
“Yes, ma’am. In fact, this is my shop. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”
“Well, how do you do? I’m Charlotte Birmingham. I’d be out there helping Bill with the Maxwell, but I don’t know one end of a wrench from another. I see you have knitting yarns as well. I used to knit, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed a great deal since my time.” She shook her head as she glanced around at the baskets of knitting yarn. “Back in my teens, there was embroidery floss and there was wool for crewel, and wool or acrylic for knitting.” She picked up a skein of silver-gray yarn of grossly varying thickness. “This is different. But what on earth can you make with it?”
“Look up there,” said Betsy, gesturing at a shawl suspended on strings from the ceiling. She had nearly broken her neck fastening that up there.
“Why, it’s lovely!” Charlotte exclaimed, and it was, all delicate open work, the uneven yarn making it look as if it were knit from fog. She reached up to feel the edge between a thumb and forefinger. “Oooooh, soft!”
“It’s surprisingly easy to work with,” said Betsy, who had also knit the shawl.
“Really?” said Charlotte. Then she glanced at the price tag on the yarn and hastily put it back in the basket. “Actually, I came in for some DMC 285. It’s a metallic, silver. I couldn’t find it at Michael’s.”
“My counted cross stitch materials are in the back. Come with me, I’ll show you.” The back third of Betsy’s shop was devoted solely to counted. It was set off from the front by a ceiling-high pair of box shelves. Charlotte went to a tall spinner rack of DMC floss, but Betsy said, “No, that metallic comes on a spool. Over here.”
A small rack in one of the “boxes” held spools of metallic floss. “Here it is,” said Betsy.
“Thank you. So long as we’re back here, do you have cashel?”
“Certainly. What color are you looking for?” Betsy didn’t have the enormous selection of fabric that Stitchville USA had, but she was proud to have a wide selection, rather than restricting her shop to Aida and linen.
A while later, Betsy rang up a substantial sale- Charlotte was like many stitchers. She couldn’t resist poking through the patterns and the rack of stitching accessories, and adding to her initial purchase.
And then, riffling the sale basket of painted needlepoint canvases next to the cash register, Charlotte found a painted canvas of a gray hen that would look “darling” made into a tea cozy, so then Betsy had to help her select the gray, taupe, white, yellow, and red yarns needed to complete the pattern. She added the customary free needle and needle threader to the bag.
“Are you from around here?” asked Betsy after Charlotte had paid for her additional selections. “We have a group that meets every Monday afternoon in the shop to stitch. They do all kinds of needlework so you can bring whatever you’re working on.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” said Charlotte wistfully. “But we live in Roseville, clear the other side of the Cities, which makes an awfully long drive.”
Reminded, Betsy checked her watch and made an exclamation. “We’d better get back out there. It’s almost time to start back to St. Paul.”
Charlotte said, “I’m not going to ride back in the Maxwell. It’s too hot, and the jiggle was making me sick.”
“ ‘Jiggle’?”
“It’s a two-cylinder and it jiggles all the time. Especially when it’s not running well. After a while you begin to think your stomach will never be right again.”
“Then how are you going to get home?”
“Oh, I’ll ask Ceil or Adam or Nancy if I can ride with them to St. Paul. I can help out in the booth until Bill gets back. Then I’ll help him put the Max into the trailer for the trip home.”
“Well, I’m supposed to go over there, too. Would you care to ride with me?” After all, Charlotte, who had come in looking for a two-dollar item, had just spent nearly seventy dollars.
“Why, thank you, I’d like that very much. Let me go tell Bill.”
They went out together and up the sidewalk to the brown car with a man leaning over the engine revealed by a rooked-up hood. He, too, had removed his duster, and had wrapped a towel around his waist to protect his immaculate white flannel trousers from the grease he was getting on his hands and on his fine linen shirt. Another towel, liberally smeared with grease, was draped over a fender. His head was well under the hood and he was muttering under his breath.
Charlotte came up behind him and said, “Bill, I’m riding to St. Paul with Betsy Devonshire here, one of the volunteers. All right?”
“Okay,” grunted Bill. Metal clanged on metal. “Ow.”
She bent over to murmur something to him, laughed softly at his unheard reply, touched him lightly on the top of his rump. “See you later,” she concluded, and went to open the passenger side door and haul out in one big armload a carpet bag with wooden handles, the duster she’d been wearing, and the big, well-wrapped hat.
“Let’s go see if Adam will keep these in the booth for me,” she said. “And maybe he has something for me to do.”
Adam sighed over the size of Charlotte ’s bundle, but found a corner for it. And he didn’t have anything for her to do, not at the moment. “But say, if you want to assist Betsy in recording the departure times, that would be nice. They are supposed to tie their banners on the left side, but some interpret that to mean the driver’s side, and if their steering wheel is on the right, they put it there; and some don’t read the instructions at all and put it on the back end or forget to put it on at all.”
Betsy said, “That’s right. I had to ask a lot of the drivers what their entry number was because it wasn’t where I could see it when they drove up.” One had had to get out of his car and dig it out of the wicker basket that served as a trunk, remarking he didn’t think it mattered until the actual run.
“If you’ll stand so the cars run between you,” said Adam, “one of you is bound to see the number.”
Betsy, remembering the wicker basket, asked, “Why does it matter? If it’s not a race, and they don’t get a medallion for finishing this run, who cares what time they leave here?”
“We need to keep track,” replied Adam. “So if someone doesn’t show up at the other end, we know to go looking for him.”
Ceil said, “They have special trucks that follow the route between New London and New Brighton, but they’re not here today. Someone could break down, and if we weren’t keeping track, they might not be missed until dark. Most of these cars shouldn’t be driven after dark.”
Betsy nodded. “I see.”
Ceil checked her watch. “The first arrivals can start back in about fifteen minutes. That will be the Winton and the Stanley.”
Betsy said, “Not the Steamer.”
Ceil asked, “Why not?”
“He lives here, he just wanted to see if the car could make it from St. Paul. Kind of a tryout for the big run.”
Adam asked, “His is the Steamer coming to the run, isn’t it?”
Betsy nodded, then said, “I haven’t seen the whole list of people signed up. Is there only one Steamer?”
Adam nodded. “Yes. Generally we get only one. The steam people have their own clubs. Their requirements and rules are different. Here, why don’t you sit inside the booth? It’s shade at least.”
“Thanks.” Betsy and Charlotte came in. The booth was roomy enough, even with the big quilt on its stand taking up most of the center. The booth had a board running around three sides of it that made a counter. Handouts about the Antique Car Club of Minnesota made stacks along it. There were also a few maps of the route stapled to a three-page turn-by-turn printed guide, for drivers who had lost or mislaid theirs. Postcards featuring pictures of antique cars were for sale. Mildred had taken up a post, her cash box on one side and the immense roll of double raffle tickets on the other. By the number of tickets dropped into a big, clear plastic jug, business had not been brisk, but she professed herself satisfied.
“Here, sit beside me,” she said to Betsy. “And you, too, of course,” she added to Charlotte.
Charlotte sat on Mildred’s other side. She picked up a corner of the quilt and said, “Oh, it’s embroidery, not appliqué. That’s so much more work, isn’t it? How many of you worked on that quilt?”
“It varies from year to year. Five of us did it this year. We start right after each run to work on next year’s. I hope you noticed that every car on it is a car that has actually been on the run. When we started out, we didn’t know much about antique cars. We got a book from the library and made photocopies of cars that we were interested in, and Mabel turned them into transfer patterns and put them on the squares, and we stitched them. The center square is always the emblem of the club-the Merry Oldsmobile.”
Betsy said, “Oh, like from the song,
“Yes, that’s the one,” said Mildred, with a little smile. “Though I think the theme of the run should be ‘Get Out and Get Under.’ You know,” she started to sing in a cracked soprano,
Betsy said, “I remember my grandmother singing that song!” She looked up the street. “Looks as if things haven’t changed much with those old machines.” The driver who’d been under his car earlier was still under it.
Adam put in, “That’s why the run isn’t a race. Just getting across the finish line is enough of a challenge, and anyone who makes it has earned his medallion. By the way,” he added, holding out a clipboard, “here comes the Winton.”
“Oops!” said Betsy, grabbing it. “Come on, Charlotte, time to get to work!”
The cars were spaced about three minutes apart-except when, as sometimes happened, a driver couldn’t get his started, and there was a wider gap while another car was waved into its place. This happened with Bill Birmingham’s Maxwell. A thin crowd stood on the sidewalks to cheer and clap as the gallant old veterans putt-putted, or whicky-daddled, or pop-humbled their way out of town. Bill finally got his Maxwell started after all the others had left. Charlotte blew kisses at the car, which despite Bill’s efforts still went diddle-diddle-hick-diddle down the road. “Happy trails, darling!” she called, then turned to Betsy. “Whew, am I glad I’m not going on that ride!”