Red Truck Rendezvous

could only hope that she would calm down with a drive, and he prayed that she didn’t have an accident in her state of upset.
He had talked and talked to her, explaining the process of stripping and restoring any old vehicle. He had been one of the best at the shop he worked at for years before striking out on his own.
Pablo had always been intuitive when it came to cars. He had been a natural at making modifications, adjustments, and alterations to make each custom ride pop.
Slowly he turned back to the old truck, his heart heavy. “Well, Sweetie, we’ll just have to show her,” he said, giving the hood a pat that rang hollow in the empty barn, and his empty heart.

Chapter 15
For the next three days, Pablo ate, slept, and lived at the garage, pouring all of his hurt and anger into putting the classic truck back together.  As soon as the wheels and tires arrived and were back on, Pablo shipped the body to his old workplace to have it painted. He had called in several favors to get the job done fast, and was left owing a few more before the call came in that Sweetie was ready.
While waiting on the excruciatingly slow paint process, where layers of primer and paint were built up, dried, and repeated, before a final clear coat and polish could be applied, Pablo tore down the damaged transmission.
“Pablo,” Jake Owings called walking into the shop. “I’ve got your truck?”
Pablo looked up, surprised by his old work buddy's arrival. He had been so focused on finishing the last details of the transmission he hadn’t heard the truck pull up.
“Let’s see.” The handsome mechanic stood, heading out into the bright sunshine to see the rebirth of an old soul.
***
Portia was moping, and she knew it. After the horror of her poor truck, a mere specter of its perky, previous manifestation, she had fled to the comfort of her pristine camper. She had been so sure she wanted the old truck rebuilt, but now she feared every trace of Sweetie’s personality had been eradicated by Pablo’s cruel hand.
Folding her legs under her, she grabbed an ornament pillow hugging it close. The silly pineapple always made her smile, but now it did little to lift her spirits. Why hadn’t she simply had Pablo patch up the engine and carried on her merry way? Now everything was changed, and there was no way to put it back the way it had been.
“Stop being a baby,” Portia grumbled at herself, lowering her chin to the pillow. “You started this, and now you’ll have to finish it.” Emotions tumbled through her as she tried to rein them in. Her disappointment in the way the restoration had gone, her attraction to Pablo, her hurt at what he had done to her truck. It was all a mess, and just trying to sort it out made her tired.  She would deal with it tomorrow. Right now, she needed some comfort food and a large coffee. She knew she could wander up to the Old Inn and grab a bite there, but she didn’t want to risk running into Pablo. There was no telling what she would say or do if she saw him.
“Looks like it’s mac-n-cheese for me,” she said, her voice hollow in the confines of the lonely rig. A deep and weighty emptiness filled the tiny camper, plunging Portia into despair. “And ice-cream,” she shouted trying to chase the uneasy feeling away.
***
Pablo returned to the workbench, his eyes gritty from checking and double-checking his work. The engine was ready, the truck was wrapped, to protect the new shiny paint job, and he was prepared to put this whole mess behind him. He would put the engine in tonight and finish up tomorrow after a few hours of sleep.
He had just lowered the engine into place when a car pulled up outside. He groaned, fearing it was Portia. He could see now that the woman would never believe in him. True, there was an attraction between them, perhaps a momentary pull created by a shared cause, but there was no hope for that future.
“Pablo,” Carlo’s voice rolled into the old barn, and he sagged with relief.
“Here,” he called back, never looking away from the engine mount he was bolting in place.
“I brought supper.” Carlos walked around the edge of the truck, a large basket in each hand. “Gram made you something special.”
“All that for me?” Pablo gaped, turning his head as he ratcheted the bolt home.
“No, I’m under strict orders to have dinner with you and make sure you eat every bite.” The older Jimenez grinned, his swarthy face brightening. “It seems the women of the house are worried about you.”
“Let me get this fastened down, and then I’ll eat. I’m starved anyway,” Pablo waved his ratchet at his brother, who carried the baskets to the now-empty workbench.
“What can I do to help?” Carlos asked, rolling his sleeves up. “If two heads are better than one, then four hands should be better than best.”
Pablo handed his brother another ratchet, with a grin as his stomach growled loudly. “I won’t say no.”
“I hope you’re getting overtime for this,” Carlos shook a drumstick at his brother a few minutes later, as they munched their way through fresh, fried chicken, baked beans, macaroni salad, and a gallon of ice-tea. “It looks good. At least what I can see of it.”
“It was a mess,” Pablo said, lifting another piece of chicken from his basket. “Everything I did had to be done to restore this beast.” He knew his voice sounded defensive, but it was how he felt. He had spent years working, studying, and learning to perfect his craft, and he took pride in a job well done.
Like his brother before him, Pablo didn’t feel that manual labor was the realm of the drudge, but rather of the journeyman, craftsman, and artisan. Any job, well done and completed with