Under the Hood: A Mechanic Romance

The engine made a sound like a dying animal and then went silent.

I coasted my 1969 Mustang to the side of the road, or what passed for a road in this part of rural Virginia, and sat there for a long moment, staring at the dashboard like it might offer me an explanation. The temperature gauge was buried in the red. Steam was rising from under the hood. And I was approximately forty miles from the nearest AAA-approved service station.

This was supposed to be a simple weekend trip. Drive out to the cabin my father had left me, assess the property, decide whether to sell it or keep it. Instead, I was stranded on a back road with no cell service, no idea what was wrong with my car, and no plan beyond "wait for someone to drive by."

I'm Ethan Moore. Professor of English literature at Georgetown. Forty-two years old, recently divorced (second time), and apparently incapable of maintaining either relationships or vintage automobiles.

A truck appeared on the horizon after about twenty minutes. Pickup, old but well-maintained, the kind of vehicle that suggested practical rather than flashy. It slowed as it approached, and a man leaned out the window.

"Need a hand?"

He was roughly my age, maybe a few years younger. Dark hair under a worn baseball cap. Face that had seen sun and work and not much pretension. When he climbed out of the truck, I saw he was built solid, broad shoulders, forearms roped with muscle, hands that looked like they knew what they were doing.

"The engine overheated. I don't know what happened."

"Pop the hood. Let me take a look."

I did. He leaned in, examined things I couldn't name, made hmm noises that could have meant anything. After a minute, he straightened up and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Blown head gasket, probably. Maybe worse. You're not driving this anywhere today."

"There's a service station about forty miles south, "

"I know. That's where you're going. But your car's coming with me." He extended his hand. "Sam Tucker. I run the garage in Millbrook, about five miles back. I can tow you in, take a real look at her."

"Ethan Moore."

His grip was firm, callused. Something flickered in his eyes, curiosity, maybe, but he let go quickly.

"Nice Mustang. My dad had one just like it."

"This was my father's too. Left it to me when he passed."

"Then we'll take good care of her. Hop in the truck. I'll call my guy to come with the flatbed."

Tucker's Garage was a converted barn on the edge of a town so small it barely registered. Two bays, hand-painted sign, a waiting area that consisted of three mismatched chairs and a coffee pot that had probably been there since the Reagan administration.

I settled in for what I assumed would be a few hours of waiting. Instead, I ended up spending three days.

"Worse than I thought," Sam told me that first afternoon, emerging from under my car with grease on his face and bad news in his expression. "Head gasket's gone. Water pump's shot. And honestly, whoever was maintaining this thing before should be ashamed of themselves."

"That would be me."

"No offense."

"None taken. I don't know much about cars."

"You own a '69 Mustang and you don't know about cars?"

"I teach poetry. Different skill set."

He laughed at that, genuine, surprised. "Poetry, huh? What kind?"

"All kinds. Currently teaching a seminar on the Romantics. Keats, Shelley, Byron."

"I know who Byron is."

"Most people don't."

"Most people didn't have a mom who was an English teacher." He wiped his hands on a rag that looked like it had never been clean. "Look, I've got to order parts. They'll be here day after tomorrow at the earliest. There's a motel about a mile down the road, nothing fancy but it's clean. Unless you've got somewhere to be?"

I thought about the cabin, sitting empty like it had for years. About my apartment in DC, equally empty. About how there was literally no one expecting me anywhere.