1
Laney
I’ve never been a diva. I’m a DIYer. A do-er, and it’s a fact that I’m proud of. Even if the rest of the Mills family isn’t quite on the same page with taking pride in your work—at least not the kind of work I do.
I’ve imagined, constructed, and overseen The Lace Garage from the bottom up, from drawing up the blueprints, to baking the muffins, to getting my hands greasy every shift that I work. I’m young, only twenty-eight, and former Springfield High Queen of Court, not to mention the prized only daughter of Robert and Brenda Mills. No one expected me to do what I do. Not from a family with high standing——and even higher expectations—in Springfield.
It’s not my fault that I only have male cousins. Nor is it my fault that I excelled in the life-skills courses they offered in high school, while the general subjects, like English and math, bored the hell out of me. But give me a recipe for a particularly hard cake to bake or, even better, a sick engine that needs some TLC, and I’m your man…er…woman.
My parents have always imagined me becoming a debutante, a weather girl, perhaps a television host on a chatty morning show where they discuss fashion and shoes. But I love cars. Cars are my passion. Muscle cars, vintage chrome, American Classics. Not only engine work. I also love racing, and I had such a reputation for winning back in high school that only those suckers who were new to town would fall for my hustle.
“Mack, you better go to lunch or you’ll throw Clem’s schedule off, and you know how grouchy he gets when he doesn’t eat!”
Mack and Clement were my two most trusty employees at The Lace Garage. Mack was huge, overweight, myopic, and the biggest teddy bear I’d ever known. He was dumb as dirt out of the garage, but when it came to motors, Mack was a savant. He could touch an engine, put his ear up to it while it ran, and diagnose the problem just from listening. He also had a heart of gold and was way too overprotective of me. I didn’t need a guard dog for the garage as long as Mack was around.
“Hey, Lane, I got into the groove and kind of spaced out on that Chevette. Good little muscle in those. Should have her running smooth as honey by the weekend.”
“Mr. Duncan will be thrilled. There’s sloppy joes in the kitchen and strawberry cake in the ice box.”
“Laney, I’ll get fat between you and my mom’s cooking. Sharon has me on salad again at home.”
“Shush. You’re a big man, Mack. Takes a lot to fill that vessel.”
Clem guffawed from underneath a Harley he was working on in the corner. Clem was as rough around the edges as Mack was soft. He was my first employee, and he’s as trustworthy as he is wiley. I knew he was an ex-con when I hired him, that he’d had his fair share of run-ins with the law when he was young and carefree. But now Clem supported two of his granddaughters, and he took the job seriously. He also knew his way around an engine like nobody’s business. I trusted him implicitly. Clem could bake too, but that was our little secret. His girls called him Granddad, and he picked them up every day from school.
“Save a piece of that strawberry cake for me, Mack, or I’ll put sugar in the gas tank of that Chevette you’ve been spending your whole life babying. How we supposed to make money if you give each job a whole week? It’s a car, for Christ’s sake!”
“And the Harley you’re working on, Clem, isn’t living and breathing?”
“I’m just gonna cover her ears so she can’t hear a word y’all are saying.”
There was nothing I loved more than being surrounded by gearheads.
The Lace Garage was a specialty shop. Sure, we repaired suburban housewives’ minivans, but what we were known for was custom work. We could refurbish engines from the 1950s, put hydraulics on your lowrider, custom rims, custom paint, all served up with a freshly baked cupcake. My shop was my pride and joy, but I couldn’t say the same for my parents. They wanted a daughter who wowed the Joneses at the country club, not one who dressed like Rosie the Riveter. I was tatted up, pierced, and big breasted. I dyed my hair jet black and wore the reddest of lipstick. I was never afraid of dirt or fights or going up a pants size for eating too many doughnuts. I was an anomaly, a tomboy, a nonconformist. But my business had been booming for the last five years, and I had a beautiful little robin’s egg blue bungalow to show for it. And my truck, my girl, the light of my life. A 1969 Land Rover Santana, painted mint green with red flames on the hood. A truck I’d traveled all the way to South America to accrue.