Free Onyx by Jacqueline; Briskin

effervescent delight Tom, too, saw the varied beauties of the landscape. On the walk here she had asked about the shop. He had told her that Trelinack, his brother Hugh, and five mechanics worked with him.
    â€œTell me about your family?” he asked.
    â€œFamily?”
    â€œI only know the Major.”
    â€œFather …” Sighing, she watched a lavender pigeon separate itself from the flock to sit alone on the parapet. “Father’s a brilliant scholar, a historian. He knows everything there is to know about Gothic architecture.”
    â€œAnd your mother?”
    â€œMama died when I was two. All I can remember about her is that she had warm, soft arms. She came from Florence. I never met her family. Father doesn’t like them.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe’s never really said, but I think it’s because they argue a lot with one another—and everybody else. About once or so a year we get a letter from Italy, asking for money.”
    It didn’t sound an impressive connection. Before Tom could question further, he noticed a man carrying a small boy on his shoulders step onto the deck.
    â€œHenry!” Tom exclaimed.
    â€œTom Bridger,” the man replied, his greeting smile pulled out of shape by the child’s hands. Setting him down, he took off his curl-brim bowler to Antonia. Wiry, of medium height, with a brown mustache and wavy brown hair parted neatly near the center, his one compelling feature was his eyes, a sharp, intense blue. “So this is what you do all day.”
    â€œI never thought I’d meet you here during working hours, Henry.”
    â€œI’ve been promising Edsel a treat for months.”
    â€œHello, Edsel,” Tom said. “Miss Dalzell, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. Edsel Ford. That old gentleman is his father.”
    The boy took off his cap, gravely extending his hand. Antonia knelt to shake it before she took the father’s hand. Tom was lifting the round-faced child to see over the parapet. “Look at that jam-up down there, Edsel. See? At Library and Farmer a horse swerved and his wagon got stuck. For twenty minutes nothing’s moved.”
    â€œOne day there’ll be no traffic problems,” said Henry Ford.
    â€œThe roads’ll be safer—and cleaner,” Tom said. “We won’t have runaways or—”
    â€œDad,” interrupted Edsel, his round face worried. “Not a single horse?”
    â€œWell, maybe a few,” his father replied.
    â€œNone,” Tom said firmly. He turned to Antonia. “In case you haven’t guessed it, Henry and I are in the same line.”
    â€œTom and me, Miss Dalzell, we intend putting the people of this country in motor carriages.”
    â€œAutomobiles,” Tom said, letting the French word roll in his mouth. “Ford and Bridger automobiles will be what you see down there.”
    He glanced over Edsel’s head, meeting Henry Ford’s blue gaze. The May sunlight was too real for their dream, the obstacles and impossibilities glittered like fool’s gold in their eyes. They both blinked. After a few moments Tom and Antonia said good-bye to the Fords and started down.
    As they descended the first flight Tom said carefully, “The Major’s serious about us not seeing each other.”
    â€œTom, I wish …”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh, it’s so stupid.”
    â€œStupid? You’re his niece, and I’m his mechanic.” Reaching the landing, they halted. They stood close enough for him to feel—or imagine he felt—the warmth emanating from her slight body. “But he’s not the point. Your father’s the one who counts. I’d like to meet him.”
    â€œYou can’t. He’s ill,” she said sharply. Outside the tall window, pigeons circled, casting odd shadows in the dust-streaked sunlight. “But I’ve told him all about you. When you came to