Silence. Ferraris, gull wings, cobras, real stuff. Over a hundred million dollars worth by the look of it.
Dead silence. Then a scoff. You hittin’ the sauce, Clara.
No, she said, holding her ground. I’ve got proof. I brought photos.
She walked to the table and laid out a series of printed pictures. Each car shimmered beneath the fluorescence, rich red, deep black, ocean blue, chrome like mirrors, engines like sculptures. The room shifted.
Someone whispered, that can’t be real. It is, Clara said, and I’m not selling them. I want to open a museum right here in Blue Hollow.
We’ve all driven past that garage for years thinking it was dead, but it’s not. It’s history. And if we do this right, it could put this town back on the map.
The room stayed quiet for a beat too long. Then the mayor’s secretary, a woman named Denise, crossed her arms. Sounds like a fairy tale.
You expect people to just line up and pay money to look at some old cars? Not just look. Clara said, experience, stories, restoration classes, school field trips, maybe a diner next door. A place where people can learn and feel something real again.
A place we can be proud of. Someone muttered, can’t afford pride when the roof’s fallen in. Clara swallowed hard.
That’s why I need help. I can turn a wrench. But I don’t know the first thing about museums, or foundations, or taxes.
I need people who this place can be more than it was. People who want to be part of something that matters. A pause.
Then Richie stood up, wheezing as he did. My daddy taught me to drive in a 49 Ford. He said, ain’t seen one since I buried him.
