Food is delicious, as it always is when Molly makes it, and afterward I'm thinking about working on the car, that constant itch I need to scratch, and Molly stops me from even going outside.  "You may be a bundle of nervous energy," she says, "but I'm not.  And you aren't allowed to use heavy machinery without my supervision, you know that."

What she says is more or less true, except for the heavy machinery part.  Glen jumps in to help her--they're getting along quite well, I must say--with, "It's pretty late, Lexi.  We'll do better work in the morning."  I give him an eyebrow, and he adds, "You don't want to build the car and then have to redo the wiring because you did it at three in the morning."

Curse his voice of reason, indeed.  I look at Margaret, but she's not going to help me, either.  She shrugs.  I stall, tumbling my last meatball around on the plate, but I'm just stalling.  "I get my old bedroom," I say finally.  I like that being ordered around by Molly and my friends rarely makes me feel like I'm being ordered around.

Morning comes; I awake with the dawn and begin unloading the Tahoe.  Glen's up not long after that, and he helps.  We pull down the silver-gray body I picked out last night, close the doors, turn on the oil heater, and then run over to the party store for coffee (for Glen), juice (for me) and day-old donuts, every mechanic's breakfast of champions. 

Of course, it's one of the coldest days of the year so far, so the chill is positively evil, but Bert's old oil burner chases it back somewhat.  Once it's above forty-five in the garage, we can work without gloves.  With the body up on jackstands, the wiring goes easily.  Bert's old chainfall is still in the rafters, and comes in handy when it comes time to drop the engine into its nest under the hood, and that's what we're doing when Molly pokes her head into the garage, looking quite cute in a salmon-colored anorak with a fur-lined hood that would be destroyed if I asked Molly to help, which I don't intend to.  We both know this. 

"You know, it never occurred to me to wonder how the motor got under the hood of my car," she says.  "Now I know."

"This isn't exactly standard procedure," Glen says.  He's at the business end of the chainfall, holding it steady while I squeeze my lovely hand-built V8 over the empty engine compartment.

"How long have you been working?" Molly asks.  I can't tell if she's surprised at how early we're up, or at how much work we've done, or both.

"Four hours," Glen says.  That's good; I had no idea.  It must be almost ten.  He starts explaining about the engine installation procedure.  "Usually, there's at least a semblance of a factory, and lots of machines to help lift things."  He's talking casually, and trying not to let her see how hard he's working.  A V8 is not a light object.  It's charming, in a way, and I bite off a nasty comment about how I used to have a factory with all the tools he's talking about.  

"It doesn't look like it's going to fit."

"That's what she said," I say.  Molly grimaces slightly; she hates that game, but Cygnet and I have been inflicting it on her for a decade nonetheless. 

"If HP Lovecraft designed a swingset," she says, spreading her arms toward our makeshift engine hoist like a game show hostess, "do you think it would look like this?"

"Too clean," Glen says.

"Not enough sharp edges," I add.  I pat the engine, and Glen lets the back drop down several inches toward me.

"Don't worry," Molly says.  "I've already dialed 9 and 1."  That' makes all of us laugh, and it's a nice moment.  "Seriously, though, is there any way I can help?"

"Make sure there's nothing dangly about to get caught or pinched," I tell her.  I nod to Glen and the engine begins to descend, angling slowly into the waiting car.  I'm glad he's here to help, not only because I couldn't do it myself, but because he's a better mechanic than I am.  Glen's methodical and careful where I tend to be impatient and sloppy.  It's hard to go slow; I want to get Ren's car to him, I want it done.  Glen doesn't know it, but he's keeping me safe and making sure I do a good job.

I can tell Molly's averting her eyes from my end of the engine, because if it slips, I'll be squashed like a bug.  She says, "So, Glen, I take it you've done this before?"

"Once or twice," he says through gritted teeth.  "Assembling a new car is nothing.  They're a lot dirtier when they're old.  And, for the record, I usually use a real engine hoist."

"Tosspot," I say offhandedly.

"How many cars have you built?  Or rebuilt?  Whatever."

"Seven," is the reply.  "Two of which I still own."

"I'd ask you what they were, but the names would mean nothing to me."

"They'd mean something to me," I say, glancing at the two of them quickly.  Molly's all about Glen right now.  I don't think I've seen her like this since she divorced Rich.

"A '59 TR3A, prepped for vintage, and an Austin-Healey 100 with Le Mans modifications," Glen says proudly.

I translate for Molly.  "You'll like the 100, because it's cute and tiny, and hate the TR for noise, dust, and only-one-seat reasons.  Neither of them is big enough to make out in, but both are highly stylish and break down a lot."

"Thank you for interpreting."  Molly turns to Glen.  "Do I get to ride in one of them?"

"I'd be honored.  As soon as the roads are clear."

I start singing the theme to The Love Boat.  Can't help myself.

"Watch it, bitch," Molly warns.  "There are hammers in here."  Glen blushes, looking from her to me and then at the car. 

"What's the story with the garage?" he asks.  "I take it this is the only cache of bodies in white you have?"

"Aren't you too busy to talk?  How can you interview at a time like this?"

"Curiosity knows no physical restraint," he says.  "I take it the old Ford pickup belongs to your father?"

"That is the Grizzle of which I spoke, you are correct."  I get to babbling with Grizzle stories, of which there are many.  It's good to see him.  Even sitting on four flats, he looks purposeful, the way he used to when I sometimes got to drive him in high school, faded red paint, worn knobby off-road tires and the cool flare-side bed that Bert welded up himself, with extra cargo boxes and retro double side-mounted spares.  All of that stuff has a story, and I start just summing them up and before I'm half done the engine is in, nestled snugly into the car's engine bay as if shrink-fitted.  It's not all at once, of course; another hour has magically melted away.  But it doesn't seem like it was that long.

"That's just fantastic," Molly says.

"Wait until it starts up," Glen tells her.  "That's always the magic moment for me; seeing that after all of the work, she actually runs."

"We require pizza," I announce, in my Announcement Voice.  "I'll bet I can get all of the motor mounts snugged down before someone can finish ordering."

"You're on," Glen replies.  Molly hands him her cellphone, and he dials. 

After he orders, we go inside for a while, long enough to wash our hands, but we eat in the garage.  The house is too warm, after all that work.  We sit on the garage floor (Molly finds a folding chair) and eat pizza, sitting in front of the car as if it were a fourth member of our little circle.  Margaret's going to be annoyed that she didn't get to cook for "the kids," but we'll make it up to her at dinner time. 

"What are you going to name it?" Glen asks me.

"You can't name it until it runs," I tell him.  "Those are the rules.  You don't name a baby before it can walk, do you?"

"Um, actually most people do, Lex," Molly says, playing straightman for me, which makes me incredibly happy.

"Well, that's just silly."  After pizza is done, I get monosyllabic again, which Molly also understands, and we install the exhaust and suspension components.  This job's easier and quicker, because it's all Tab A, Slot B work, and the only thing that makes it difficult is giggling because of all the jokes Molly makes about Glen and I working on our backs.  That done, it's time to drop the car onto its newly-installed wheels and I get a powerful, imperative sense that it's time to be alone.

It's the noble thing to do, after all.  It's my gift to Ren, and I'm not ready to share the whole project yet.  Of no small importance is also the fact that the more whole the car gets, the more I miss Ren, and my crying jags bother Molly and I feel one coming on.  It would probably bother Glen, too, and I don't want to look miserable in front of my friends when I'm not, really.  I'm certainly no more miserable than usual, anyway.  In fact, I'm better, it's been a nice morning and I feel good.  I just feel like crying, too. 

I decide on the direct approach.  "It's time for me to work alone," I tell them shortly after the tires have touched the floor for the first time.  Molly looks at me with tilted head and says my name.  "I'm serious.  It's time to work alone.  I need to be alone with the car, because I'm going to cry a lot this afternoon and I want to do it alone."

"Someone can stay with you," Glen says gently.  "We don't mind."

"I do," I tell him.  I wish they'd just take the opportunity to go off and get to know each other better; I can tell both of them are champing at the bit to do so, even if they aren't quite aware of it yet.  "Building a car out of my tears is a delicate process, and I can't have any distractions.  And I know you can both find things to do in the metro Detroit area.  So go."  I wave my hands at them, shooing them toward the door.  "Come back tomorrow, when all it'll need is an alignment, and we can have breakfast."

Glen looks at Molly, then back at me.  "I can run to the office," he says, checking his watch.  The day's already dying, skidding toward four pm.  "I'll be back," he adds.  "We have more to talk about."

"Of course we do."  He's got that interview to finish, after all.  Whatever he's going to do with it.  Molly looks a question at me.  "I'm beyond suicide attempts," I tell her, perhaps a bit nastily, but I know she can take it.  "I just have to work by myself for a while.  Go and play."

"I'm only seventy percent satisfied," she says.

I make a face of irritation.  I hate it when she's stubborn.  "Then I guess I'm going to have to be happy with a C--hey, is that the phone?"  There's another distant jingle from the recesses of the garage.  "It is the phone!  No one ever calls this phone!  I'll bet it's an obscene phone call. You want to take it, Glen?"

He smiles and goes to the ancient black rotary phone that Bert nailed to the wall in 1986.  "No, thanks.  I thought you gave the number to Nikki?"

Oh, he's right.  I brush dust off and amble over to the phone.  I take a breath, snatch it from its hook and snap, "Ghostbusters, whaddya want?" with my best Brooklyn accent.  Molly cracks up.

"Lexi?  It's me, it's Nikki."  Her voice is almost unrecognizable at first; full of anger and pain and something like exhaustion.

No more time to be silly.  "You don't sound the least little bit all right."

"I'm fucking pissed off.  Something's happened.  I need a ride."

"Are you at your hotel?"

"Yes."

Dammit, fuck fuck fuck.  I'm not going to finish Ren's car tonight.  "If you were to call a taxi, I'd be there before it arrived," I say, and hang up.  Glen and Molly are looking at me, with questions in their eyes.  "Glen darling, I need to air up Grizzle's tires and get him jumped, would you mind having a look at his carb while I drag the air tank out?  Timmy's fallen down the well again."

"Do you want to borrow my rental?" Molly asks.

"I have a funny feeling it'll get bent.  I should take something that doesn't have a damage deposit.  But I'll cheerfully borrow some volts from your rentabattery to jump-start Grizzle."

"You're going to miss dinner, aren't you?"

"I'll stop for a taco," I say.