Page 49 of Courting Danger

Chapter 14

Ocean

“Holy shit, isn’t that a Tin Woody?” Ocean asked as they passed yet another gleaming car in a long line of beautiful classic machines and bikes.

“Yup, ‘42 I think,” Pope said, one arm draped over Ocean’s shoulders while they studied the vehicle.

Roan stood on his other side, the pair bracketed in by Pope and Danger, which Ocean was grateful for, since it seemed like the whole town had turned out today, in addition to the visitors steadily flooding in from up and down the coast.

“Not bad,” a weathered, wrinkled, white-haired gentleman said as he hobbled over with the help of a walking stick. “She’s a ‘41.”

“Why do they call them a Tin Woody?” Roan asked.

The old man’s face lit up, even as he chuckled and gestured to the car. “Wooden body and a steel frame. Back then, they used a tin alloy in the steel. The wood part is self-explanatory.”

“That’s kind of amazing,” Roan replied.

“It is, isn’t it,” the old man said. “A rolling showpiece. Holds up better than aluminum and plastic.”

“You can say that again,” Pope declared. “She’s a thing of beauty.”

“First new car my father bought,” the old man said, pride radiating in every word. “We used to wake up every Sunday to polish it before we loaded up for church. Kept on with that tradition too, right up until the Sunday before he passed. He’d have been right pleased that you boys knew what she was and almost got the year right.”

“My grandfather had one,” Pope replied. “Never got to see it in person though, but he’s got pictures all over the wall of his study. He loved that car.”

The man shuffled a few steps closer and pushed his glasses higher on his nose as he studied Pope. “Shoot, you’re talking about Samson McMasters, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Pope replied.

The old man chuckled and nodded. “He was by here earlier and sat a spell, chatting about these old girls. I’ve still got to make my way to the old creamery building and see Flaming Betty. I can’t believe he finally found her. My pops used to tell stories about her midnight runs and how many wrecked police cars she left in her wake.”

Pope nodded. “Was raised on those stories.”

“I bet you were.”

“You let your grandpappy know I’ll be up there before the day is through,” the old man said. “This bum knee of mine doesn’t let me get around the way I used to.”

“If you need a lift anywhere, just flag down one of the boys driving the golf carts, and they’ll take you anywhere you need to go,” Pope said.

“What are they charging for that?” The old man asked, stroking his stubby whiskers.

“Not one darn penny,” Pope replied, making the old man smile.

“Well, in that case, I think I’ll snag the next one passing through here,” he said.

“And if we see one, we’ll send them your way,” Pope replied.

“Much obliged,” the man said before they continued on the path they’d been traveling, past rows of cars that, for the most part, had all existed before Ocean had been born.

Every last one of them was polished to a high shine the way Pope’s had been when he’d parked it among the row of cars that morning. They took their time admiring them all until Ocean’s eyes caught sight of the lettering on the side of an old stone building, broken, sun-bleached, but still clear enough to make out.

“What’s a creamery?” Ocean asked.

“Was just about to ask that,” Roan said.

“This one is now the historical society,” Pope explained, “but in its heyday, they brought milk here from the dairy farms to pasteurize and turn into other dairy products. Ice cream, butter, yogurt, cheese, all that stuff. The front had a shop where you could go in and buy what you needed, but the back was where they processed everything.”

“Cool,” Roan replied. “Guess everything happens in huge factories now.”