Free The Storm by Shelley Thrasher

James?”
    What an old fuddy-duddy, she thought, though he did seem literate. But what pretentious language.
    â€œMy pleasure, sir. I hated to stay closed in on this beautiful afternoon, so I’m trying to get better acquainted with my new neighbors.”
    Of course Mrs. Russell was frowning. And the preacher leaped down the steps so fast he almost tripped. He stuck out his hand again and she shook it, gloveless this time. It was still sweaty. She wiped her hand on her skirt.
    â€œReverend, Mrs. Russell, I’m sorry to drop by so unexpectedly.”
    She sat in the porch swing and fumbled for something to say. “I see you’ve put your Overland up on blocks, Mr. James. Does it need to be worked on? Maybe I can help.”
    He turned red and spluttered. “No, it’s in perfectly fine running order. Drives like a winged chariot. It’s merely that—”
    â€œWe need new tires and sure can’t get ’em in wartime like this.” Mrs. Russell spit a stream of snuff into the side yard. “And the price of gasoline. Pshaw. Twenty-five cents a gallon is enough to harelip the mayor.”
    â€œI agree with you, ma’am. In Europe they’re predicting the gasoline shortage will decide the outcome of the War. It takes a ton of fuel to run just one tank.”
    â€œ Tank . Have you seen one of those mechanical elephants up close?” The machinery of war clearly fascinated Mr. James.
    â€œI volunteered in the mechanical division of the British Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps. In France and Belgium I worked on all types of vehicles and drove an ambulance. I know everything about anything you can steer.”
    Mr. James and the preacher looked shocked, like she was a freak, and Mrs. Russell scowled even more. “A woman should stay home and write encouraging letters to men like my youngest, Clyde. Or join the Red Cross and make him warm clothes. She doesn’t belong near the battlefield. Why, during the War Between the States—”
    â€œNow, Ma, hold your horses,” Mr. James said. “This is a new century, the era of the modern woman. We aim to stop all wars forever. The War to end all wars , that’s what President Wilson keeps promising. So if it takes a little assistance from a few brave individuals of the female persuasion like Miss Jacqueline here, I say hurrah for her.”
    â€œHumph,” Mrs. Russell responded and shoved a pinch of snuff under her lip. What a nasty habit.
    The Holy Joe appeared appalled. He probably believed women shouldn’t be anything but objects for him to lust after in secret.
    Mr. James seemed like a kid at a Fourth of July parade. And the little boy—Patrick—sat on the edge of the porch, swinging his legs, his expression mirroring his father’s.
    She pulled her faithful Brownie out of her pocket and held it out to Patrick. “May I take your picture?”
    His blush made his freckles stand out as he nodded, then stiffened.
    â€œIf you’ll lean back against that post and try to forget I’m here, I’ll take it when you least expect it.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He was still rigid.
    Mr. James jumped in. “Where did a fair young damsel such as yourself learn the mechanical arts, Miss Jacqueline?” He clearly didn’t intend to steer far from the subject.
    She was tired of repeating the same old story, especially to men. Most of them were fascinated, but threatened too. Hah. As if she could compete with them in any professional arena.
    â€œMy brothers love automobiles—always used to have one torn apart in their workshop,” she explained. “They put up with me underfoot, and I learned everything I could.”
    Mr. James pointed toward the shed and said, “My trustworthy vehicle. What can you tell me about it?”
    She smiled to herself. This should be easy. “It’s a 1914 Overland touring car, with a four-cylinder engine, poppet valves,