Read Online Something To Dream On by Diane Rinella - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Rinella
Ads: Link
out.
Where did everything about me go wrong, and why can’t I wise up enough to fix it? Can’t there be a way to right my wrongs like Jensen did? Or am I destined to live the life of a drunk, bitchy, blow-up doll?
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, April 22
Houses like this still exist around here? I knew this was an old part of town, and that Lizetta said she lived in a farmhouse, but this is nothing like what I expected.
Bertha’s V8 engine and dual exhaust command the attention of two guys in a barn at the end of the driveway of Lizetta’s Victorian-era home. The two-story house has several peaked mini-roofs and a porch that wraps from the front all the way to the side. A huge lot sits behind it where dogs run freely and chickens are penned. Just a few blocks from here, the biker scene is alive and well among antique stores, a decades-old head shop, and a refurbished train station.
A robust guy of about sixty, with tied-back, salt and pepper hair and some serious scruff, comes out to greet me. If he were wearing something more intimidating than coveralls, I’d think that wrench in his hand might have my name on it. Then again, he’s got one of the toothiest smiles I’ve seen. “Now that’s a wicked engine! Nice wheels!”
I like this guy already.
Even though it looks perfectly clean, the guy wipes his hand on his leg before extending it. “Nice to meet you, Jensen. I’m Paul, Lizzie’s second dad.” That’s got a great sound to it. It’s so much better than stepdad.
A thinner (some would say gawky), male version of Lizetta comes out and introduces himself as Jimmy, Lizetta’s little brother. He can’t be younger by much.
“Good to meet you.” What is that weird snorting sound? Do I hear a pig? Forget what I am hearing, it’s the taillights on the car in the barn that are screaming at me. “Oh, I have got the check out this fifty-seven beauty.” My combat boots hightail it to the Larkspur Blue jewel. “Where did you get such pristine trim?” For each of its three years, Chevy refined the Bel Air body style, tweaking it into perfection. Though the Bel Airs have their differences, what it really comes down to is how the sharper fins and side trim’s flare make the fifty-seven the sexiest. The two bikes sitting in the corner, a Harley and an ancient Indian, aren’t bad either. That Indian is sixty, if it’s a day.
“My brother owns an electroplating shop up in Red Bluff,” Paul says. “They specialize in auto parts.”
“Man, you sure got the right model. The other two years can’t compare to the tail of the fifty-seven. The grill is better too. The grill on the fifty-six looks like it ate something bad.”
Paul smacks his hand on my shoulder. “You’re all right, kid. If you keep up like this, I’ll let Lizzie keep you.” Then he leans in and whispers his joke. “Remember those words. The part about me letting her is important, but not as important as her thinking she’s doing the dictating. Women like to think they are gracing us with their presence. You know what? They are. Remember that and you’ll be fine.” My shoulder then gets a squeeze to punctuate the life-lesson. I’m uncertain as to if I now feel like I have a dad again or a new best friend. All I know is this is someone I can appreciate. He’s just that warm and welcoming, much like the family I was once a part of.
The Bel Air isn’t the only thing in the barn that draws me toward it. In the corner, next to a sofa that looks like a pack of cats tried to drag a fish out of it, is a drum kit and a couple of Fender amps. What really grabs me are an old Stratocaster and a Gretsch White Falcon, known as “The Dream Guitar”. This one may be a little beat, but its gold trim and pick guard make up for the scratches. Seriously, the baby makes my heart go all a flutter like a twelve-year-old girl at a Beiber concert. “Whose Falcon?”
“Mine,” Jimmy and Paul answer in stereo. “Give her a shot,” comes out of
Where did everything about me go wrong, and why can’t I wise up enough to fix it? Can’t there be a way to right my wrongs like Jensen did? Or am I destined to live the life of a drunk, bitchy, blow-up doll?
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, April 22
Houses like this still exist around here? I knew this was an old part of town, and that Lizetta said she lived in a farmhouse, but this is nothing like what I expected.
Bertha’s V8 engine and dual exhaust command the attention of two guys in a barn at the end of the driveway of Lizetta’s Victorian-era home. The two-story house has several peaked mini-roofs and a porch that wraps from the front all the way to the side. A huge lot sits behind it where dogs run freely and chickens are penned. Just a few blocks from here, the biker scene is alive and well among antique stores, a decades-old head shop, and a refurbished train station.
A robust guy of about sixty, with tied-back, salt and pepper hair and some serious scruff, comes out to greet me. If he were wearing something more intimidating than coveralls, I’d think that wrench in his hand might have my name on it. Then again, he’s got one of the toothiest smiles I’ve seen. “Now that’s a wicked engine! Nice wheels!”
I like this guy already.
Even though it looks perfectly clean, the guy wipes his hand on his leg before extending it. “Nice to meet you, Jensen. I’m Paul, Lizzie’s second dad.” That’s got a great sound to it. It’s so much better than stepdad.
A thinner (some would say gawky), male version of Lizetta comes out and introduces himself as Jimmy, Lizetta’s little brother. He can’t be younger by much.
“Good to meet you.” What is that weird snorting sound? Do I hear a pig? Forget what I am hearing, it’s the taillights on the car in the barn that are screaming at me. “Oh, I have got the check out this fifty-seven beauty.” My combat boots hightail it to the Larkspur Blue jewel. “Where did you get such pristine trim?” For each of its three years, Chevy refined the Bel Air body style, tweaking it into perfection. Though the Bel Airs have their differences, what it really comes down to is how the sharper fins and side trim’s flare make the fifty-seven the sexiest. The two bikes sitting in the corner, a Harley and an ancient Indian, aren’t bad either. That Indian is sixty, if it’s a day.
“My brother owns an electroplating shop up in Red Bluff,” Paul says. “They specialize in auto parts.”
“Man, you sure got the right model. The other two years can’t compare to the tail of the fifty-seven. The grill is better too. The grill on the fifty-six looks like it ate something bad.”
Paul smacks his hand on my shoulder. “You’re all right, kid. If you keep up like this, I’ll let Lizzie keep you.” Then he leans in and whispers his joke. “Remember those words. The part about me letting her is important, but not as important as her thinking she’s doing the dictating. Women like to think they are gracing us with their presence. You know what? They are. Remember that and you’ll be fine.” My shoulder then gets a squeeze to punctuate the life-lesson. I’m uncertain as to if I now feel like I have a dad again or a new best friend. All I know is this is someone I can appreciate. He’s just that warm and welcoming, much like the family I was once a part of.
The Bel Air isn’t the only thing in the barn that draws me toward it. In the corner, next to a sofa that looks like a pack of cats tried to drag a fish out of it, is a drum kit and a couple of Fender amps. What really grabs me are an old Stratocaster and a Gretsch White Falcon, known as “The Dream Guitar”. This one may be a little beat, but its gold trim and pick guard make up for the scratches. Seriously, the baby makes my heart go all a flutter like a twelve-year-old girl at a Beiber concert. “Whose Falcon?”
“Mine,” Jimmy and Paul answer in stereo. “Give her a shot,” comes out of
Similar Books
