Sunk and Found

Lisa lowered herself into the shotgun position of the pristine Ford Mustang, her heartbeat keeping a wild cadence of incredulity and awe. The rich leather seats, the dashboard gleaming like a well-polished heirloom, the potent fragrance of untouched machinery all swirled around her like a summer whirlwind through a field of magnolia blossoms. Perhaps it was the sheer unexpectedness of the gift, a stark contrast to the customary religious tokens she received from her family. This Mustang, this embodiment of American prowess, was devoid of familial ritual, yet brimming with promise and excitement.

"George, I ain't sure I can accept this," Lisa murmured, her voice scarcely louder than a butterfly's wingbeat. She cast a sidelong glance at the man who had evolved to be more than just a neighbor. A man who bore enough years to be her father, yet viewed her as an equal. His eyes sparkled with a mix of joviality and a paternal-like pride. "Seriously, George," she reiterated, ensuring her voice carried the gravity of her sentiment, "this is too extravagant."

He shrugged, his face unfolding into a grin as guileless as a Georgia peach basking in summer's embrace. "You've been hankering to kick up some dust, to loosen the hold of this Hiawassee homestead, ain't ya?" George drawled out in his smooth Southern timbre, his gaze, sharp as an eagle, tracing back to the serpentine road ahead. "Well, now you've got the steed. Now you’ve got the wings."

"But, George, I ain't ever driven anything worth more than a couple of grand!" Lisa blurted out, her words cascading rapidly and urgently, like wildflowers tossed about in a spring wind.

"Really?" George's eyes shimmered with mock surprise. "Well, sugar, we’ll just have to remedy that, now won't we? I can guide you, be your beacon. We'll start around Lake Murray. It's as peaceful as a Sunday morning sermon, just the ticket for a gal getting her first taste of a high-class automobile."

A hush unfurled between them until Lisa's stern expression melted into a warm grin. Her thoughts drifted to her father, and how he had urged her to forsake the driver's seat after a harrowing accident that had shattered his body and nearly claimed his life. He returned to the road about a year later, yet persisted in persuading her to avoid driving unless necessary. Those memories felt distant now, far enough, safe enough, she reasoned. "Alright, George," she relented. "Let's stir up some dust. I reckon I'm game."

"As we're hittin' the road, sweetie, don't forget, you're holdin' the reins," George advised, his voice as steady and firm as an ancient live oak standing tall against a tempest. "This here Mustang's your workhorse, not your master. Now, lightly step on that gas pedal, easy as Sunday mornin'."

“I ain’t saying I haven’t steered a car before, George. Just that…”

“Well, honey, you might as well think of this as your first rodeo.”

The car came alive beneath her hands and an immediate wave of pride washed over Lisa. She was doing it. She was taking the reins of her own steed.

The route around Lake Murray proved an apt training ground for a novice Mustang driver. To one side, the lake's tranquil waters shimmered under the lazy sun; on the other, the verdant canvas of pines painted a classic Southern portrait. This picturesque scene, chosen by George, served as the backdrop for Lisa's foray into what he considered authentic driving. His approach, characterized by a mix of paternal pride and patient mentorship, made this more than just an ordinary drive.

As the fresh-off-the-lot Ford Mustang purred quietly beneath them, Lisa's hands rested lightly on the wheel, while George navigated her, patient as a saint, along the winding country roads. The sun started its descent, splashing the lake with splashes of gold and pink, a sight of beauty that could only be painted by a Southern sundown.

Suddenly, a figure on the road ahead drew their eyes. A man sporting a rough and tumble beard, leaning on a staff, ambled across, his pace steady as molasses. Lisa couldn't help but let out a laugh at the sight. "Looky there, George," she chortled, "Might be ol' Moses himself, tardy to his gig of partin' Lake Murrray."

George gave a deep belly laugh at Lisa's jest. "Got yourself a right funny bone, ain't ya?" he asked, his eyes creasing up in amusement. "Your kinfolk, they're Jewish, ain't they?"

Lisa nodded in affirmation, taken aback by his astute observation. "Yeah, we are. How'd you piece that together? I thought I'd been pretty successful in keeping that under wraps throughout our conversations up until now."

George just shrugged, his eyes dancing with a hint of a secret. "Your little quip 'bout Moses got my gears turnin'," he confessed. "Always had a hankerin' for puttin' a body's past together, ain't been wrong yet. Got a sweet spot for history, like a puzzle waiting to be pieced. Intriguing, don't ya reckon?"

His question lingered in the air like the hint of winter in a fall breeze. Lisa's grip on the steering wheel tightened, her knuckles bleaching as white as churned buttermilk. "Uh, yeah. It’s right interesting… The past," she responded, her voice shaky, a sharp departure from the earlier light-hearted banter.

No sooner had the words slipped out than she jerked the wheel to starboard, and her foot clamped down on the gas. George's eyes went as wide as a harvest moon as the car charged toward the lake, the calm evening turning into a whirlwind of disarray. The last thing he could recall was the terror etched on Lisa's face, before the world was swallowed by the cold, murky waters of Lake Murrray.

The Mustang plunged quick-like into the water, their bodies caught up in an uncanny underwater dance. Lisa and George's eyes met, shared panic etched in their gazes. Their breaths escaped in bubbles, each one valuable as it slipped away.

Desperate, George scrabbled at his seatbelt, his movements lethargic in the water. He caught sight of Lisa doing the same, fear warping her features. At last, the seatbelts gave way, and they swam for the surface, pushing against the downward drag of the sinking car.

They breached the surface, sucking in lungfuls of air, the cool evening wind prickling their drenched skin. They glanced at each other, then back at the trail of bubbles marking the Mustang's watery grave. A cocktail of shock, fear, and lingering adrenaline kept them buoyant as they swam to the nearby bank.

Once they scrambled onto the shore, wheezing and shivering, George managed to turn his gaze to Lisa. Her eyes were saucer-wide, her lips moving without a sound. "I'm... I'm sorry," she finally breathed out, her voice hardly more than a whisper. The sinking car, the brush with death, and the guilt merged into one crushing wave. “I sure wish this was my ol' beater. It'd do it some good if it was. Now, I ain’t sure what to say. I ain't never sunk a whole car before, let alone a new'un. What did you say the make was?”

“She was a Ford Mustang,” George replied in a parched tone.

“Reckon they're insured, right?”

“Only if you’re behind the wheel.”

“I can work and pay you back. I can do that.”

“How much you pull in as a writer?” George inquired.

“Not much but…”

“I reckon that'll barely cover hauling it out of the lake. Anyhow, I don’t want you fretting over it. It was meant to be a gift and I reckon I let your thoughts wander and didn't watch you close enough driving a car you ain't familiar with… this is on me. Let's let bygones be bygones and hightail it out of here. I'll ring up my insurance once we get home, sounds fair?”

In silence, they began their slog towards George's homestead, a good two miles yonder, their clothes clinging to them, sodden and weighty. Lisa was shivering, torn between the cold and the shock. Barely able to utter a word on their trek, she found it hard to follow George’s sparse conversation. She simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other, until, after what felt like an eternity but was probably closer to an hour, they arrived at his house, leaving the swallowed car in its watery grave.

The homestead was a picture of Southern grace, with a welcoming wraparound porch and a front garden kept as tidy as a Sunday suit. Inside, George led Lisa to a guest room. He handed her a towel and a bundle of clothes, carrying a faint trace of sage and a womanly perfume. "These belonged to my wife," he clarified. “I reckon I mentioned she left a few months back, but I don't know if I told ya she left plenty of her clothes behind. Leastways, the ones she didn't have no use for anymore."

As she changed, Lisa's eyes roamed around the room. It was tastefully adorned, with sprinkles of femininity here and there. On a dresser sat a picture frame housing two strapping young lads, both handsome and bearing a striking likeness to George. The label on the frame read 'Benjamin & Ian.'

Stepping out of the guest room in dry clothes, Lisa found George in the kitchen whipping up some cocoa for her. "Your sons," she began, gesturing back towards the guest room, "They're in the picture in there. Look like sharp cookies."

George looked up, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Oh, Benjamin and Ian? They got their wits from their ma," he confessed. He ladled the beverage into two mugs and handed one to Lisa.

Nursing their mugs, they settled into the living room, the home's coziness driving out the lingering cold from their bodies. "What came to pass, George?" Lisa asked, her gaze landing on another photo of George and his wife, their grins reflecting happier days. "If it's alright to ask, I mean."

George took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah, it's alright," he murmured. Gina and I were hitched for thirty-five years. We had a good run. But in the end, we drifted. Different hankerings, different dreams. Found ourselves bickering more than we were laughing. Wasn't helping either of us."

His gaze shifted to Lisa, his eyes brimming with a cocktail of regret and acceptance. "Parting ways this late in life ain't what we had in mind. But life don't always play nice with plans, does it? The key is, we're trying to stay civil, for our boys' sake."

The room descended into quietude, save for the faint murmur of the house settling. Lisa regarded George, a fresh understanding blooming. Beneath the jovial exterior was a man wrestling with the pangs of a marriage concluded and a life rerouted, all while attempting to keep up a brave front.

"Appreciate you sharing," Lisa said, reaching out to hold his hand, offering a morsel of comfort. 

Then came a ring on the phone that George chose to answer out on the porch. He stepped back in a few minutes later, brandishing his phone. "They're fixin' to have me present when they haul the car out," he elucidated, donning a jacket and a hat before heading back towards the front door. He tossed Lisa an apologetic grin. "I'll be back directly."

He took off in haste, leaving Lisa all by her lonesome in his house. She meandered around, taking in the family pictures lining the walls, the neat piles of books in the living room, and the plants tenderly looked after on the windowsills. This was George's life, she thought, her heart moved by the genuine warmth and familiarity that permeated the house.

The doorbell roused her from her musings. She went to open up, expecting perhaps a neighbor or a package delivery. Instead, she found herself eyeball to eyeball with a woman who bore a striking resemblance to an older, more weary version of the woman in George's wedding photo.

"Gina?" Lisa queried, a hint of surprise in her voice.

The woman nodded, looking equally nonplussed. "And you are?"

"I'm Lisa. I'm a friend of George's. He's... not around at present," Lisa explained. She could see Gina's eyes darting around the room, taking in her damp clothes hung up to dry, the mugs of cocoa half-drunk, the casual familiarity of the scene.

"You're more than just pals, ain't ya?" Gina inquired, her voice trembling a touch. "I should've known. He's already movin' on, ain't he?"

"No, Gina," Lisa cut in, scrambling to dissolve the conflict. "George and I, we just crossed paths a few days ago. At a coffee spot. We're just acquaintances. Nothin' more. I just ended up sinkin' the car that he... the car... I mean, it took a dive, so we needed to swap out our soaked clothes and…

It was clear from Gina's eyes that she wasn't buying what Lisa was saying.

Before Lisa could muster another word, Gina spun around, leaving her standing solitary. Lisa remained fixed in place, her eyes tracking the retreating form of the older woman until she vanished from view.

By evening, George pulled up at the house again, pulling in another brand-spanking-new Ford Mustang. Lisa, who'd been perched on the porch, leapt up in surprise.

"George, you got it fixed already?" she queried, staring at the car in disbelief.

George shook his head, laughing heartily. "No, Lisa. Mendin' a car ain't as swift as switchin' a porch light. This here's a borrowed beauty. Got the day to figure if it's a keeper or not."

Lisa bit her lip, guilt flooding her once again. "I'm sorry 'bout the car, George," she said, her voice laden with remorse.

George gave a carefree shrug, his grin as steady as ever. "Automobiles come and go, Lisa. What matters is you're safe and sound. We could've met our maker in that lake. Reckon it's a nudge from the cosmos, a sign to remember what's worth our holler. Kinship. Folks sharing moments. We sure ain't gonna forget our little escapade, now are we?"

His laid-back demeanor shifted when Lisa told him about Gina's visit. His face dropped, and he grew quiet, his mind seemingly grappling with the news. The air around them tensed up, and for the first time since their adventure started, Lisa felt ill at ease.

"I reckon... I reckon I oughta bunk at a hotel tonight, George," Lisa said, shattering the silence.

“But why? No! You should stay…”

“I'm feelin' a bit... I've had my fill for one day. Need a spell alone.”

George peered deep into Lisa's eyes, not pushing back. He just gave a nod, acknowledging her need for some breathing space. He offered to chauffeur her to the hotel, the journey a far cry from their earlier wild ride. Lisa could sense the tension threading the air between them, and she put forth her best effort to lighten the mood. She shot a glance at the shiny new Mustang, gifting him a small, amicable smile.

"It's a splendid car you've got there, George," she remarked. "I'd bet you're keepin' it."

George just nodded, his focus on the road. When they got to the hotel, he helped her with her luggage and said his goodbyes, promising to check in with her in the morning. 

As he drove away, Lisa sat on the edge of the hotel bed, twirling a pen in her hand. She looked at the blank notebook in front of her, the words refusing to form. Her mind was filled with the events of the day – the sinking Mustang, George's broken marriage, Gina's accusing eyes. She felt like a storm had swept through her life, leaving her dazed and disoriented. 

She reached for her phone, the screen illuminating her face in the dimly lit room. She dialed her father's number, her heart heavy. As she listened to the familiar rings, she realized how much she missed the simplicity of her old life, her family, her home.

"Lisa?" Her father's voice echoed through the phone, a comforting balm to her turbulent emotions.

"Hey, Daddy," she began, injecting a joviality into her tone that she didn't quite feel. "How are you faring? Have you been keeping up with your medication?"

There was a pause before he replied, "We've been better, pumpkin. Your momma and I, we miss you. It's been a while since you visited."

His words hit her harder than she had anticipated. She blinked back tears, her throat tightening. "I know, Daddy," she responded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I promise I'll visit soon. I just need to fix something in my car."

She heard her father let out a sigh. "Are you still getting around in that old clunker? Have you thought about investing in a new vehicle? They say the latest models are far safer."

Lisa chuckled. "I don't believe in new cars, Daddy," she said. "They're trouble.”

She could almost see her father's puzzled expression at her words. "Alright, pumpkin," he said. "We'll be waiting."

She ended the call, her mind filled with a newfound determination. She realized then that her place was not here, meddling in George's complicated life. Her place was back home, among the people who loved her, who needed her.

She would go home, fix her car, and maybe even find the inspiration she'd been lacking for her first children novel. And perhaps, in time, she'd be able to reconnect with George, on terms that didn't involve sinking cars or complicated relationships. Maybe they'd find a way to preserve their friendship, while also respecting the old ties that bound him to Gina.

For now, though, she would focus on the journey ahead, driving down the familiar southern roads in her old car. She scribbled down these thoughts in her notebook, the words flowing easily now. The storm had passed, and now, she was ready to face the dawn.