For once, the Merritt was free of traffic as Dave and I drove to Greenwich to meet our friends, the Tones. Our long-awaited plan to go to Williamsburg while their daughter, Maggie, was still at William & Mary had finally come to fruition.
Well, almost. Round about Norwalk, a cheery robo-text pinged in to say that our 8:00 p.m. Breeze Airways flight had been delayed until 9:30. When we arrived at Cathleen and Don’s house, the good folks at Breeze checked in again with news of a 12:40 departure. Since Budget Car Rental in Norfolk, VA closed at 12:30, this time was not going to work.
With the car rental a no-go, Don looked into Ubers, but oddly, no drivers were biting at the 2:30 a.m. drive from Norfolk to Williamsburg. Cathleen checked on the flight at its starting point in Vero Beach, and not only was it still on the ground, but it had been cancelled. The polite, patient gentleman who answered at Westchester Airport – a boon, certainly, that a human answered – admitted to noting the cancellation online, yet stated that on his end, the flight was still scheduled to depart.
Who to believe? What to do? What has become of the ease of flying the Friendly Skies?
On TV in the Tone living room, the golf course in Augusta, GA was lush, verdant, and celebratory as a young man in a lime green polo shirt won the Masters and was embraced by his aged grandmother and adorable wife. In Greenwich, however, the mood was pensive as we pondered our options.
Dave went to the bathroom, and Cathleen Googled Amtrak. There was a train at 12:30 from Stamford, but it would take 8 to 9 hours. Not appealing.
Wait. Bold idea. What if we drove? We’d arrive at 2:30 a.m., around the same time as the possibly-fictional flight would deliver us and our fellow We’ll-Never-Fly-Breeze-Again passengers. Let’s do it! Let’s drive!
When Dave joined us, he was surprised at the shift in focus from the means of travel to which car to take.
Our stalwart 2005 tank of a Volvo would be safe and willing but has logged 202,000 miles, and the trip to VA might be a push too far. The Tone’s son, PJ, would be remaining in Greenwich and needed the family car to get to school. We all felt the Tone truck would not be ideal. Hmmm. Perhaps, perhaps… Cathleen’s sister Meeghan would be willing to lend hers?
Have to say, I would not be excited about lending my car for a trip to Virginia. I like to think I’d ultimately agree, after much angst and reflection and guilt, to do such a favor, but… maybe not. Meeghan, however - wonderful, generous Meeghan - did not hesitate. “Hell yes!” she said when Cathleen called her. “It’s my gift to you.”
Within ten minutes, she pulled up in her snappy, spotless, streamlined beauty of a silver Audi. The absence of clutter was remarkable. No crumpled re-usable tote bags. No ice scrapers, umbrellas, or baby wipes. No Very Hungry Caterpillars or Beany baby ponies for snoozy grandchildren to hold. And absolutely no torn receipts, leaf detritus, or sand. Such a chic, grown-up car! And yeah, I would never have lent it, but as she handed Cathleen the keys, Meeghan was cheery and breezy in a way our flight would never be.
With hugs and “Are you sure’s?” burbling from our lips, we packed up and drove away. We were grateful to Meeghan and giddy at our youthful spontaneity, at our “Yes we can!” vibe even as the Universe tested our resolve. But our beloved Maggie Tone awaited us at William & Mary, and we were bound to get to her.
After a stop at Glenville Pizza for sustenance, Cathleen slipped behind the wheel to take the first shift, a shift that lasted four hours.
We said, “How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as the Merritt merged with 95 South.
“I’m good!” she replied.
“How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as we watched the blinking lights of aircraft approaching Newark Airport.
“Still good!”
“How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as we whizzed by my usual auto-pilot turn toward home onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
"I’m fine! In the zone!” she said, indefatigable and steady of hand, her gaze fixed on the stretch of highway before us.
Don wanted to get past DC and possibly Richmond before making a stop, but where the universal wish to stretch legs and pee was not compelling enough, ultimately, the need for gas was.
Dale City beckoned with broad well-lighted boulevards, a plethora of Chipotles and McDonalds, and the promise of food and fuel. At least, that’s what the signs on 95 said. Liars. For despite the presence of the aforementioned, everything was closed. A yellow Shell sign lured us in, the flirty, faithless tart, but spurned us with tanks that would not put out. Mobil, too, all bright and welcoming, proved to be closed and locked. Finally, thank heavens, we found an operational self-serve, but not a human in sight.
As for facilities, we would have welcomed a port-o-potty or even a secluded grove of trees, but no. A dumpster circled by a gray metal fence at the back of the lot had potential, but its moat of garbage was daunting. Desperate as we were, the shelter of two cars parked side by side under the glare of street-lights had to suffice. Despite the urge, it took supreme force of will to command the body to perform under such conditions, especially while giggling wildly at the prospect of some poor soul surveying the security camera tapes in the morning. So it was that Dale City joined Breeze Airways on our shit list.
Dave took over for the final leg, and we arrived at the Williamsburg Fairfield Inn right about the time our scheduled flight landed in Norfolk.
* * *
For Dave and me, this was our third visit to Williamsburg. We are consistent in our loves, for, while we live in a 1780’s house surrounded by wing back chairs, wrought iron fittings, beeswax candles, and the cozy scent of woodsmoke permeating beams and plank floors, our idea of a delightful getaway is to seek historic settings such as The Wayside in Sudbury, The Griswold in Essex, or … Virginia’s capital as it was in the 1780’s.
I’ve wondered if this is a past life comfort zone or something, because despite my suspicion that I was accused of being a witch in the seventeenth century and should have an aversion to that period, I love pewter, massive fireplaces, and the warmth of wood burnished by many hands. We were all looking forward to immersing ourselves in history, architecture, and craftmanship, but on this trip, beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired Maggie was the main attraction.
After breakfast at the inn, we walked into the parking lot and out to Meeghan’s car.
Wait a minute… what was that along the side? Oh no. Not just a scratch or scrape, but a dent. A significant dent. A dent we would have noticed if it had already been there. A dent Meeghan would have mentioned before we left.
But maybe not, right? Maybe we just hadn’t seen it? For the time being, best to tell ourselves this was an old injury and quell anxiety about revealing the damage to Meeghan.
Nonetheless, “I remember a white car parked next to us last night,” Cathleen said. “We’ll keep an eye out for it when we return this evening.” With only partial success, we shut Worry away for the time being and drove to William & Mary and Maggie.
Oh, to be a college kid again! I envied the piles of books by her bed, the posters on her walls, the collages of friends and campus parties, her excitement over courses and her a cappella singing group. When I was 20 and whining about work and exams, my dad said, “Lea. These are the best years of your life. Enjoy them.”
My response was predictable, “OMG Dad! That’s so depressing!” Maybe those years weren’t totally the best ones, but they were pretty darn close. And here was Maggie, in the midst of them, in a place steeped in American history. I envied her that too: why hadn’t I thought to look at William & Mary?
Despite the deceptive spring pastels of daffodils and cherry blossoms, it was cold, so we were well bundled as Maggie led our tour of historic red brick academic buildings, her sorority, and her favorites: the bar, the coffee and muffin place, and the piano practice room that was her refuge and saving grace during Covid. We stopped for samples at each, as well as the joy of a Maggie mini-concert.
We spent the next day in eighteenth century Williamsburg, visiting the tinsmith, milliner, blacksmith, and weaver. At King’s Arms Tavern, we drank ale and supped upon the house specialty of peanut soup, stew, and Welsh rarebit at a table set with white linen and pewter. At the museum, we admired artwork, figureheads, furniture, and a dollhouse.
All fascinating, but… I have written before about my love and the lessons of historic Williamsburg, and this account is about Maggie… and Meeghan’s car.
The joy of Maggie, her friends, and a few days of time travel were solid distractions, but inwardly, we’d been practicing our lines for when the time came to fess up to Meeghan. As we drew closer to Greenwich on our return trip, we tried out a variety of approaches:
“Sooo Meeghan, just before we left, we noticed this dent. When did you have the accident?”
Or, “Luckily, we’re all okay so you don’t have to worry, but…there’s this little dent…”
Or, “Let this be a lesson to you! Never lend your car to others!”
Or, “OMG! Why didn’t you mention this dent so we didn’t have to worry this whole time?”
Or, “We are so, so, so sorry, but there’s a dent in your car.”
Ugh. Poor Cathleen was in an anxious twist, and we just wanted to get the revelation over with.
Cathleen and Don’s son, PJ, was home when we arrived, and the round of hugs was barely complete when Cathleen blurted the news of the dent.
PJ gave her a look and shook his head. “Yeah, Mom. I know. It’s been there since, like, February? I told you about it. Jeez, you really don’t listen to me, do you?”
Sigh...
