Summer of '65 (Bishop Family Book 1)

by Brooke St. James

  "You really helped us out of a bind, man." He shook Michael's hand and gestured into the room. "They're almost done in here. They'll be filtering out before too long." He pointed at Michael's table. "I'll have somebody finish up with your table. You can go home, and we'll finish cleaning everything up. Thanks again. I'll take your check by the garage next week."

  Richie looked at Michael and then his uncle. "I was just asking Michael if he would stick around to show some people his motorcycle. I guess I'll just tell Stephen Meyers he can check out Michael's bike some other time."

  "What'd Stephen Meyers say about it?" Ross asked, knowing how powerful his family was.

  "A couple of the guys at my table were talking about Michael's bike, and I told them they could probably take a look at it." He held out his hands. "I didn't tell them you were the one who built it or anything. I just told them I knew someone who had a Bishop in the parking lot, and they said they wanted to see it. Pretty much that whole end of the table said they wanted to see it."

  "Might not be a bad idea to stick around and show it to them," Ross said with a shrug.

  "I don't mind sticking around," Michael said, knowing he wanted to see the girl. "Richie said they're curious, so I'll stay to let them check it out. I would say they could come see it at my shop, but something tells me they might not ever set foot in there."

  "Ya think?" Richie asked with a laugh.

  Richie's uncle Ross laughed as well. "Their loss," he said, throwing his hands in the air as he walked away.

  "I can help with some of the cleaning while I wait," Michael said.

  Ross shrugged. "We'd sure appreciate your help, but please don't feel like you have to."

  Michael smiled and nodded at Ross as if to tell him he'd be right there.

  "I'll tell those guys you're staying just long enough to let them see the bike," Richie said. "I don't want you to have to stick around unless they're serious about going out there to take a look. I'll see what they say and let you know."

  Michael thought that was a good plan and went to clear any remaining dishes from his table as Richie took off to do the same. Michael glanced at the girl in white and realized she was looking at him. He smiled at her, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a shy smile just before she turned to look away.

  ***

  Michael was helping Ross load containers into his van a half-hour later when Richie came up from behind them.

  "I've been looking all over for you," Richie said with his hands up as he walked.

  Ross had a radio on in the van. He had it tuned to a station that was broadcasting a Rhythm and blues show, and Michael smiled at the way Richie's footfall matched the beat of the music.

  "I've been looking all over for you in there," Richie repeated.

  Michael smiled. "We're out here."

  "I thought you had left."

  "He's been out here helping me do man stuff," Ross said in an overly deep voice. He reached out to tousle Richie's hair as he approached. Richie dodged his uncle's attempts, but he still took a comb out of his back pocket and ran it through his hair just for good measure.

  "They're ready," Richie said, looking at Michael with an excited grin. "They're coming right now."

  Michael knew exactly who Richie was referring to. "Who's ready?" he asked just to push Richie's buttons.

  "Stephen Meyers, and Bobby and them. I think there's about five guys wanted to come see it if that's okay."

  Michael nodded. He wanted to say it wasn't the guys he was worried about, but instead he just smiled and kept quiet.

  "Thanks again," Ross said, looking straight at Michael. He held out his hand and stared Michael in the eyes as if really trying to convey his sincere appreciation. "Seriously, man, I know you didn't have to do this tonight, and I hope you know how much I appreciate it."

  "It was no problem," Michael said, shaking the other man's hand. The three men heard sounds of talking and laughing and the shifting of gravel underfoot as a group of about eight or ten people came around the back of the banquet hall. Michael, Richie, and Ross were standing at the rear of the building near the staff entrance—an area those other people usually didn’t visit.

  "I've got to finish up inside," Ross said, patting Richie on the shoulder as he turned to walk inside. "Thanks again to both of you," he said from over his shoulder. His radio still played in the background.

  "Hey ya, guys!" Richie called to the group of people who were walking around the building. He gave an over-exaggerated wave, and Michael just stood there feeling entertained by how excitable Richie was. "Over here!" Richie said. He looked at Michael with a nervous smile. "They're coming."

  Michael smiled. "Yep," he said.

  "These kind of people usually don't talk to me," Richie said. "Stephen's dad owns about half of Memphis, and Mr. Woods practically owns the other half. That's Mr. Woods all the way on the left. I can't believe he came out here. I thought it was gonna just be Stephen and Bobby and them. I didn't know their dads were gonna come."

  "It's fine," Michael said. He smiled calmly, but it was slightly forced. He usually had no problems maintaining composure, but this was more difficult, and not because the men who were approaching apparently owned most of Memphis. Michael didn't care about that. Okay maybe he cared a little. He knew he had to be cordial. For the sake of his business, he knew he shouldn't make enemies. It wasn't the men who made Michael nervous, though.

  It was the girl.

  She was walking with the group of people, and the closer they got, the harder it was for Michael not to stare straight at her. Richie babbled in Michael's ear while the group approached, and Michael did his best to look like he was paying attention to what his friend was saying. The group had to walk another thirty or so feet before approaching the area where the guys were standing.

  "Right here!" Richie said, pointing at Michael's motorcycle, which was sitting there, right out in the open. Michael watched as the group of curious onlookers gathered around.

  Ross had left his radio playing, and there was definitely a feeling of rebellion in the air even though there was nothing going on other than standing around looking at a motorcycle. Michael could tell they all thought they were doing something wrong just by looking at it.

  "I heard they're pretty fast," was the first thing that was said once everyone had the chance to stare at it for a few seconds.

  Michael looked at the guy who said it and smiled. "I can't complain," he said.

  "Is it yours?" one of the other men asked.

  Michael nodded. "Yes sir."

  "Did you buy it straight from the guy who took over Mr. Morrow's shop?" another man asked.

  "He is the guy who took over Mr. Morrow's shop."

  Michael's head whipped around to stare at the girl who said it.

  It was the one in white.

  Ivy Lewis.

  The most off-limits one of them all.

  She was standing there, staring at him with those big brown eyes. Michael desperately wanted to know more about her.

  He could tell by the look on her face that she regretted speaking up now that everyone's eyes were on her, but she smiled and shrugged innocently. "Am I right?" she asked, turning the attention back to Michael.

  Chapter 4

  "The lady's right," Mr. Bishop said, staring straight at me after I made the unexpected comment. "I took over Mr. Morrow's body shop."

  "So you built this?" Stephen asked in an impressed tone. He stooped down to look at it.

  "Yes, I did. I'm Michael Bishop." He stepped forward and offered a hand to Stephen who stood and shook it like the southern gentleman he was. Stephen was wearing a suit and tie, and Michael had on the after-hours version of waiter's attire. His white dress shirt was rolled at the sleeves. The first two buttons of his collar were unbuttoned, revealing so much of his neck that I could see his undershirt even though it was low-cut. I fought the urge to stare at him, making myself blink and look away.

  All of the other men standing arou
nd began introducing themselves to Michael and firing off questions about the motorcycle. It was a beautiful machine, and normally, I wouldn't have been too shy to show my interest and ask a question about it, but was still reeling from my outburst, and I couldn't think of anything to say. Besides, everyone else was asking enough questions as it was. Michael answered ten or fifteen questions about the motorcycle and his building process, and I just stood there and listened.

  He seemed confident, like he fully expected his company to be as big as Harley Davidson one day. He was well spoken, and I could tell that Mr. Woods went into the conversation expecting not to like him, but changed his mind (even if ever so slightly) by the end of it all.

  If Michael Bishop could charm Mr. Woods, you can just imagine the effect he had on me—the girl who was smitten with him from the start and also from a distance. Michael Bishop answered everyone's questions, glancing around like he was at ease with the interrogation and not anxious at all. He was completely comfortable with who he was in spite of the general feeling of suspicion and superiority emanating from some of the people in my group. It was amazing.

  Michael looked at me several times through the whole conversation even though I remained quiet. He glanced at me regularly during the whole exchange, and each time, I felt as though my heart could just leap out of my chest. Even in the dark and from ten feet away, his eyes were breathtaking. He gave me feelings I'd never had before—feelings like I'd do just about anything to be next to him.

  I was lost in thought about it when I felt Stephen's arm wrap around my shoulders. He had come to stand next to me, and he put his arm around me as if it was a natural thing to do. I, in turn, easily shrugged out of his grasp like that was also natural.

  I stepped to the side, giving Stephen a cautious glance before looking at Michael again. He was looking at me when I turned, and I felt rush of hot blood go to my face. I was embarrassed that Stephen would do that when we were not even together. He was giving Michael the complete wrong impression, and he was doing it on purpose. I felt a wave of cold sweats with the rush of annoyance, and I dug in my purse for an elastic band.

  "I'm hot," I said to Alice who was standing next to me. "I need to get this hair off my neck."

  I proceeded to gather my hair into a ponytail. It had been teased, so it took a little on the spot smoothing, but I managed to get it all back. I instantly felt about ten degrees cooler, and I let out a sigh as I smiled and refocused again on the conversation. Bobby was saying something about his cousin who had a motorcycle, and I glanced at him for a second before turning to find Michael.

  He was staring straight at me—just unabashedly standing there, staring. The corner of his mouth rose slowly in an easy grin once he realized he had my attention. The wave of anticipation that hit me was so great my stomach dropped. I felt weak in the knees.

  "Do you think you could beat it?" Bobby asked. He used a louder tone than he had before, which made me think it wasn't the first time he asked the question.

  "What's that?" Michael asked, reluctantly turning to face Bobby.

  "My cousin's sportster," Bobby said. "Do you think you could beat it with this thing."

  "Probably." Michael said. "I haven't met your cousin or seen his wheels, but probably."

  "Do you like to race?" Bobby asked. It was a loaded question considering our present company, but Michael gave him an easy smile. He didn't care who was standing around.

  "I love everything about motorcycles," Michael said. "And that includes going fast on them."

  "I think your love for it shows in your work," Mr. Woods said diplomatically. "I can't believe you fabricated these parts," he added, reaching out to touch the gas tank. There was a silver logo on it. It was a simple, bold image of a hand grasping a motorcycle's handgrip. It said Bishop Motorcycles in a fancy block print. It was a great design, and I couldn’t help but get caught up with a feeling similar to pride at the fact that this guy had something so neat and important with his name on it. I loved the motorcycle itself, and I adored the fact that Michael was so unashamed about building and riding it.

  I was more impressed by Michael Bishop than I had ever been of anyone else in my whole entire life. He was handsome, but it wasn't just his looks that appealed to me. I agreed with the things he said and loved the way he carried himself.

  "You guys are welcome to come to the shop," Michael said. This comment may have been directed at the gentleman checking out his bike, but he was looking directly at me when he said it.

  "Do you have bikes like this for sale at Mr. Morrow's shop?" Bobby asked.

  Michael seemed as though he was tempted to remind Bobby that it wasn't Mr. Morrow's shop anymore, but he held his tongue, smiling and nodding to answer Bobby's question. "I take custom orders, but I do have a few on the floor that are ready to go."

  Mr. Woods may not have been the motorcycle type per se, but he was a businessman, and I could see his wheels turning as he looked back and forth from Michael to the motorcycle with his eyebrows furrowed.

  A blues song played on the radio, and I watched Michael spare a glance at the guys who were all still looking at his bike. He had an unapologetic look on his face—the expression of a leader—of someone who honestly didn't care what these men thought of his choice to move to Memphis and build motorcycles.

  Just then, we heard my brother's footsteps as he came jogging around the back of the building. "When did y'all come out here?" he asked breathlessly as he came to stand in the circle that had formed around the front half of Michael's motorcycle. He stared at it for a second before looking at me. "Mom and Dad are leaving," he said. He instantly glanced down at the motorcycle again, focusing on it intently. "Who's is this? I thought y'all were gonna wait for me to come out here. I didn't know where y'all were."

  "It's mine," Michael said.

  Jacob smiled at Michael, but he didn't have the chance to say anything because just then my father came around the corner.

  "Ivy, Jacob, let's go!" he yelled.

  I glanced around at the group. Some people were looking at me, some were looking at my brother, and some were still looking at the motorcycle. Stephen smiled and stuck out his hand as if he had everything under control. "I'll tell your dad I'll give you guys a ride home," he said in a reassuring tone.

  I didn't want a ride home from Stephen, but I also didn't want to leave right then with my dad. Michael looked at me, and I panicked and felt the need to explain. "I had to leave my car in Nashville," I said. "It's been making a funny noise and my dad didn't trust it on the interstate."

  "What kind of noise?" Michael asked, regarding me with sweet concern.

  I shrugged. "A screeching sound. We dropped it off at a mechanic on our way out of town. I'm sure he'll figure out what's wrong. I'm not worried about it other than it means I'm stuck without a car all summer while I'm here."

  "I'll talk to your dad. I'll give you a ride home," Stephen said.

  "Let's ride home with Stephen," Alice said, elbowing me. She leaned over and whispered in my ear. "We can hang out with them for a little while, and by the time we're done, my brother will be finished with my car and we can get on with our plans for tonight." She wiggled her eyebrows.

  I smiled and shrugged her off because I didn't want any of the people standing around (except for maybe Michael Bishop) to hear that she and I had plans for later that evening.

  Stephen walked toward my father. Presumably, he was making arrangements for us to ride home with him. My brother, who was offended by missing out on the action, went to stand right next to Michael while the other men said a few things amongst themselves.

  Mr. Woods told Michael it was nice meeting him, before he and the older men in the group began making their way back to the front of the building. This left Bobby and Jacob standing there with Alice and me. Our waiter was there, too. He had been standing next to Michael the whole time.

  The song Hound Dog came on the radio, only it was Big Mama Thornton's version, and I bit the inside
of my cheek to keep myself from singing along. It was a song I knew forward and backward, and I loved belting it out like Big Mama Thornton did. I had an affinity for blues music. I loved and respected the music of a woman named Rosetta Tharpe, and I had developed a style of singing and playing that channeled a lot of her influence.

  I did some singing with the choir at my parent's church, but everyone there pretty much considered me to be a pianist and not a singer. Honestly, for years, I considered myself to be that as well. It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I figured out I was a singer. I found my voice and my style with blues music, and every Friday for the past six months, I had been going to a small blues club in Nashville where I played a set from 8-9pm.

  I had plans to go to one such blues club with Alice that evening.

  Alice and I were the only ones in present company who knew about these plans, though, and I wanted to keep it that way. All of my friends in Nashville had seen that side of me, but no one in Memphis really had, and I had no idea what they would think. I had no idea how Alice would react, actually.

  "I took care of it," Stephen said, walking back toward the group with a satisfied look on his face.

  "What are the chances we can stop by Van's on the way home?" my brother asked.

  "What do you need to go to Van's for?" Alice asked. "You just ate a three-course meal."

  "I know, but it's Saturday night," Jacob said. "Everybody's gonna be over there."

  Alice rolled her eyes at my brother, but she wanted to go as badly as he did, and we all knew it. She was just giving him a hard time. It was obvious by the way Stephen smiled that he wanted to go as well. I knew we would stop by Van's on the way home even though none of us were hungry.

  The guy who owned the catering company came outside, putting a few remaining things into his van and turning off his stereo. He started talking to our waiter (whose name I learned was Richie). It seemed as though they were closing up the banquet hall getting ready to leave.

  "You wanna get out of here?" Stephen asked. I turned to find that he was looking at me.