Playing the Hand You're Dealt

by Trice Hickman

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"I can't wait to see what Trice Hickman does next!" --Mary Monroe "Trice Hickman is an amazing writer and storyteller!"  --Kimberla Lawson Roby Everyone in Emily Eloise Snow's Atlanta, Georgia, hometown knows her as a sweet young woman who always does what's right. But when Emily's beloved mother dies, her quiet life is shaken to its core, leaving her devastated--and ready for a fresh start. Encouraged by her bolder, wilder best friend, Samantha, Emily moves to Washington, D.C. Samantha is sure D.C. will bring Emily her heart's desire. But that's exactly what Emily is afraid of. . . Since she was eighteen, Emily has fought a fierce longing even Samantha doesn't know about--a love for a man that would break just about every rule she was taught to follow. Now, each step closer to D.C. is a step closer to him--and a sizzling, forbidden passion that could destroy not just her life as she knows it, but the image of the woman, and the friend, everyone believes her to be. . . "Another wonderful, emotionally-charged page-turner by Trice Hickman." –Urban Reviews "Will keep you guessing straight through to the explosive ending." –Victoria Christopher Murray "Unforgettable characters and a page-turning storyline."--Lutishia Lovely

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 431

Sample

What do you do when you know right from wrong, and you know that what you’re about to do is dead wrong, but you decide to do it anyway?

That was my predicament. My name is Emily Eloise Snow. It’s an old-fashioned name for a young woman, and I guess that’s the way my life had always been . . . something that wasn’t quite what it seemed.

Actually, I wasn’t surprised that I was stuck in this conundrum because Ms. Marabelle had predicted it several months ago, before I set out on this journey.

“Emily, you been waitin’ a mighty long spell, and now it’s time fo’ you to follow yo heart,” Ms. Marabelle had said to me in her low, raspy voice. “It ain’t gon’ be easy, and the road ahead’s gon’ be rough in some spots, but you got to ride it out ’cause love is waitin’ on you. You finally gon’ be happy, chile.”

Marabelle Jackson, by my estimation, was at least ninety years old, and the tiny, gray-haired woman’s mystical powers were well known and trusted in my small, tight-knit community. Ms. Marabelle had what people called the gift. She foretold things that eventually would come to pass. She forecasted floods, tornados, and other natural disasters months and sometimes years before they happened, and accurately predicted prosperity as well as devastation for those who sought her out for personal readings. I had always tried to stay as far away from Ms. Marabelle as was humanly possible. She scared me with her haunting prophecies and cryptic visions, not because they were astonishingly accurate, but more so because they were usually full of gloom and doom—at least for me.

Now that Ms. Marabelle had finally told me that something good would unfold in my life, her prediction was tainted by the promise of hardship on the horizon, a rough road ahead, and I knew exactly what that meant. Her words sent me into a free fall of emotions that haven’t stopped since they rang in my ears.

As I pondered my fate, I tried to concentrate on the road ahead because I was driving in unfamiliar territory, knowing that my final destination could very well be a place somewhere between virtual happiness and a living hell.

All my life, I had always tried to do the right things.

She’s so nice. You can always count on Emily. She’s a good girl. That was how people in my neighborhood, school, church, and hometown of Atlanta, Georgia, described me. Growing up, my mother used to say I was the kind of child that every parent wished for, smart, kind, obedient, and loving. As I matured, I grew into the kind of young woman who men wanted to take home to meet their mothers, and who mothers wanted their sons to marry. And as more years passed I became a responsible, levelheaded adult, dependable and solid in character—qualities that had been part blessing, part curse.

I tried to treat people with the same respect and courtesy I’d want in return because that was how I was raised. I put careful thought and consideration into my choices before I made them, and I pretty much played by the rules. But therein was my problem, presenting the troubling quandary that held me in its grip for the last few months. It was the delicate balance between exercising good judgment and throwing caution to the wind so I could finally have what I wanted, however risky it might be.

As I eased off the gas pedal, making a sharp right turn onto another busy street, my car sputtered and ambled along, just like my state of mind. I wasn’t good at city driving, but like many things in my life, it was something I’d have to get used to. So I continued my course, navigating through the congested streets of northwest Washington, DC, my stomach rumbling and turning with the thought of what awaited me once I reached the red brick colonial on Sixteenth Street.

I kept telling myself that I couldn’t give in to the warm sensation that had been keeping me up late at night because it was much too dangerous a proposition. But I couldn’t help it. With each mile I traveled, I inched closer and closer to the man who’d been holding my heart hostage for the past eleven years. He was what I both passionately loved and desperately feared.

It had been seven months since I’d last seen him, and unfortunately, that occasion had been one of great sorrow. I’d been in a haze, barely able to enjoy the sweetness his presence usually brought when he was near. I had searched for him among the small gathering of friends and visitors who surrounded me that sad, dreary weekend.

“God will see you through this, Emily,” mourners whispered to me in somber tones, offering hugs of condolence for the loss of my mother. I appreciated the kind words and genuine show of affection that friends and church members had offered, but I’d been much too numb to really absorb them. Those days whizzed by like blank flash cards. But when I looked up and saw him through the sea of faces gathered at the church, it was the first time in a week that I hadn’t felt dead, too. And even though our encounter was brief, as most of them had been over the years, it was, as always, meaningful.

After my mother’s funeral, my world moved slowly, limping along in a crooked groove. Losing her devastated me. I lost my father when I was ten years old. One evening he went to the corner store for a carton of milk, despite my mother repeatedly urging him not to go. “It’s too late to be out this time of night,” she had said. She told him that she and I could have toast and fruit for breakfast instead of the corn flakes we both loved to eat every morning.

But my father wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m gonna get my two favorite girls what they want,” he told my mother before heading out the door. He was standing at the counter, ready to make his purchase when two thugs shot and killed him for the $21.34 in his pocket. It was my indoctrination into shattered hopes and stolen dreams.

I was an only child, and both my parents had been as well. Mom and I were all each other had left. Even though I was blessed with a small but close circle of friends, nothing could replace the inviolable bond of maternal flesh and blood. To lose your mother, your first connection to the world, is a hard thing to wrap your mind around.

I thought about Mom and sighed as I came to a stoplight at yet another confusing intersection. “Where in the world am I?” I mumbled aloud, glancing down at my iPhone’s screen. The GPS app I’d downloaded had frozen yet again. I tried to gather my bearings as I recalled what my mother used to say whenever she got turned around in an unfamiliar part of town. “I’m not lost, I’m just exploring,” she would announce with conviction. I smiled, remembering her remarkable optimism. I could really use her help right now.

Although it had been seven months since I buried my mother, I still couldn’t believe she was gone. I had braced myself for her death because she’d been sick for so long, and because like other sad things in my life, Ms. Marabelle had predicted it. Mom battled multiple sclerosis until the degenerative disease eventually won the long war it had raged against her body. But when death finally came to claim her, I hadn’t expected the magnitude of grief and emptiness that followed.

Thank goodness I had my ace, my best friend, Samantha Baldwin. Samantha was the sister I’d never had, and she was a lifesaver. She comforted me and helped me to cope with the heartache and pain I suffered after Mom’s funeral. Samantha was also part of the reason why I was driving through a maze of Friday-afternoon rush-hour traffic, headed straight toward what could either make me whole or tear me into tiny pieces.

Samantha had talked me into moving here to DC, which was her hometown; Chocolate City, as she affectionately called it. She said that DC would be good for me, that it was the perfect elixir I needed to help me get on with my life and make a new start. “DC will bring you your heart’s desires,” she told me just a week ago when I was packing boxes.

I literally shook in my sandals when I heard my best friend’s words. I was petrified of what my new start could possibly bring, and I felt that way because I knew what Samantha didn’t. I knew deep down that if I got what I wanted, what my heart truly desired, it could not only change the course of my life as I had known it, it stood to disrupt the foundation of loyalty and trust on which we had built our rock-solid friendship and sisterhood.

The raw, naked truth was simple. What my heart truly desired was the man I had been in love with for the better part of my adult life—and that man just happened to be Samantha’s father.

I looked at my watch for what had to have been the one hundredth time in the last hour. Normally, I wasn’t a time-conscious person—far from it. But I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my best friend, Emily. I was busy all day, running errands and making sure I had everything in place to welcome her to her temporary home.

Emily was staying here with my parents until her contractor finished renovating her new home, which I prayed, for her sake, wouldn’t take much longer. Living under the same roof with my mother could make you want to slit your wrists. Let me tell you, that woman’s a certified trip! A little bit of her went a hell of a long way, and trust me, that was a generous assessment. But if anyone could put up with my mother’s bullshit, it was Emily. She had the patience of Job.

Actually, Mother probably won’t give Emily as hard a time as she gives everyone else, and that’s because Emily was one of the few people who just barely met her impossibly high standards—something I’d never be able to do. Mother was always telling me, “Emily is so responsible. Why can’t you be more like your friend?” When she made comments like that, I’d just laugh and tell her it was because I was too much like her. That usually pissed her off because deep down, she knew there was a little truth in my words. Ironically, we were more alike than either of us cared to admit; she was just more refined about her shit than I was. But honestly, the real difference between my mother and me was that she was a genuine phony, and I wasn’t. As you can tell, I’ve got issues with my mother, Brenda Justine Baldwin.

My mother and father married young, practically the day after they both graduated from Howard University. She claimed it was because they were so much in love that they didn’t want to wait. Puh-leeze! She could save that lie for someone who’d believe it. I did the math, and my brother’s birthday and their anniversary fell within five months of each other . . . and my brother wasn’t a preemie, okay?

Even though Mother had never worked at anybody’s job a single day of her life, she had the nerve to tell me about my “unacceptable” work habits. She volunteered at every museum in town, was a member of every bourgeois black women’s organization you could think of, and she acted like the elaborate parties she threw were the second coming of Christ. Oh, and did I mention that she was a drama queen for your ass? Some of the stunts she pulled could win her a Daytime Emmy. Seriously!

I was much closer to my father, Edward Curtis Baldwin. He was a great man, and I would say that even if he wasn’t my daddy. He was handsome, smart as hell, understanding, and fair. He was also a well-respected attorney who made a shitload of money. But it wasn’t about the paper for Daddy. The reward for him was going up against big corporations who didn’t give a damn about the little guy, and frying their asses in court. My father was cool as hell, too. Even though I had disappointed him on many occasions, he still had faith in me.

Emily had faith in me, too. That was one of the many reasons why I loved her like she was my blood, and why I had gotten up early this morning, which was a major feat for me, and driven all over the city buying special treats to make a customized gift basket to properly welcome her to town.

I started out at Whole Foods, filling my small shopping cart with some of Emily’s favorite herbal teas, fresh fruit, and snack bars. She was an avid reader, so after I checked off all the items on my shopping list, I headed across town to the bookstore and picked up a few novels by some of her favorite authors. And last but certainly not least on my agenda was my most important stop of the day—the Pleasure Palace, in Georgetown. That was my spot! You can never go wrong with gifts from a sex shop; after all, everybody’s got to get their freak on, right? I hand-picked an assortment of special goodies that I hoped Emily would be able to put to good use, ’cause truth be told, my friend needed a little spice in her life!

After I returned home, I took my time putting together the huge wicker basket, filling it with treats. I reached into the box that arrived from California yesterday and removed the Drippin’ Nectar all-natural bath and body products I had ordered, which were Emily’s favorites, and added the sweet-smelling jars of whipped shea body butter and sugar body scrub to the hefty basket. I wrapped it all in clear cellophane and topped it off with a silk turquoise bow, Emily’s favorite color. I walked down the hall and placed her welcome gift atop the large dresser in the guest room where she’ll be staying.

I returned to my old bedroom where I stayed when I was in town. I lived and worked in New York City, but the minute that Emily finally decided to move here to DC, I put in my paperwork for a transfer. Right now, she needed a good friend by her side, and hey, I was the best. I was also Lancôme’s best senior account manager in the area, and that’s why my regional director eagerly approved my request. In thirty days I’d be back in my city, Chocolate City, moving into my new condo. And the ironic part was that even though we hadn’t planned it, Emily and I would be living just ten minutes from each other.

As I stood in front of the mirror of my old dresser, lightly dabbing my forehead, nose, and chin with the honey-colored makeup in my compact, I thought about how much fun Emily and I were going to have now that we’d be in the same city again. We hadn’t lived near each other since we graduated from Spelman College eight years ago. And even though we talked on the phone nearly every day, it didn’t replace having the comfort of a best friend nearby.

I checked my watch again. It was nearly six o’clock, and Emily would be arriving any minute. Unlike me, the girl was a stickler for time. She was so damn punctual it was ridiculous, and if she said she was going to be somewhere at a certain time, you could bet cash money she’d be there.

Beep, beep, beep, my cell phone rang. I knew it had to be Emily, calling to let me know that she was on her way. I smiled with excitement, but when I looked at the caller ID, the corners of my mouth faded into a deep frown. There were only two people who could cause me to scowl in frustration: my mother, and the man on the other end of the line. “What the hell does he want?” I huffed aloud as I stared at the digits, which seemed to jump out at me.

I hesitated for a few seconds, trying to decide if I should pick up. Beep, beep, beep, my phone chimed again. “Dammit!” I moaned. I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding him, so I pressed the Talk button. “What do you want?” I said to Carl, hoping I sounded as pissed as I was at the moment.

“Why you always gotta step to a brothah wit’ a attitude ?” Carl snapped back at me.

I rolled my eyes so hard he probably felt it through the phone. I didn’t have much patience for his drama. “Carl, I don’t have time to fool with you today. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do before Emily gets here.”

“First off, watch your tone,” he piped up. “You always so hyper and shit. I was just callin’ to check on you and see how you been.”

“I’m fine,” I responded in a flat tone.

“You been in town three days, why you ain’t call a brothah?”

My eyebrows rose a notch. “How do you know how long I’ve been in town?”

“ ’Cause I just know.”

I didn’t like this one bit. I knew the type of things that Carl was capable of, and having me followed was just one of them. I was about to give him a piece of my mind when my son walked into the room. “Hold on,” I said to Carl, quickly putting my phone on mute.

“Is Auntie Emee here yet?” CJ asked.

I looked into my son’s hopeful eyes. He was so excited about seeing Emily. “No, CJ, but she’s on her way. Why don’t you go to your room and play until she gets here.”

CJ looked disappointed and anxious at the same time. He’d been asking about Emily’s arrival every ten minutes, and it was beginning to drive me crazy. But I couldn’t get too frustrated with him because I understood how much he loved my best friend. In many ways, Emily was more of a mother to him than I was and probably ever would be.

CJ looked down at his feet, then back up at me. “I’m going downstairs with Gerti,” he said. “She’s cooking good food for Auntie Emee!”

I watched my five-year-old son as he bolted downstairs, disregarding the fact that I’d just asked him to play in his room. Hell, I guess if I were him I’d rather be downstairs licking batter from the bowls of whatever Gerti was cooking than being stuck in my room.

Gerti Taylor wasn’t just our housekeeper, she was family. And right now, she was busy preparing a small feast in honor of Emily’s arrival. Gerti loved my friend to death and was just as anxious to see her as CJ and I were. Hell, my whole family was psyched about Emily coming to town. Speaking of which, I didn’t have time to deal with Carl at the moment. Reluctantly, I unmuted my phone. “I have to go,” I huffed.

“You gonna call me later?” he asked in a slightly demanding tone.

“I’m going to be busy tonight, but I’ll see.” Where the hell did that come from? As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. I couldn’t believe I had actually opened up the door to the possibility of calling Carl back. I had to break free of him, and this wasn’t the way to do it.

“A’ight. Later,” he said, and then hung up.

I couldn’t see him, but I knew from the sound of Carl’s voice that his slick ass had been smiling on the other end. He knew he’d gotten to me.

I prayed that he wasn’t up to his old tricks again. I was trying to end our dysfunctional relationship once and for all, but he refused to let go. Carl was a master at creating headaches and drama, but I had no idea how crazy he could be until four hours later . . . when he showed me face-to-face.

According to my GPS, I was only a couple of miles away. I glanced at the ancient clock on my car’s dashboard and smiled. It was close to six o’clock, and I was right on target to reach my destination on time.

As I drove through the city, I looked up at the houses and apartment buildings that were stacked so closely together that I could barely tell one from the other. Urban living was going to be a new challenge for me. I was born and raised in Atlanta, and until yesterday, I had lived there since the day I emerged naked and screaming into this world. Samantha had been trying to get me to move here for years, but relocating wasn’t an option because my mother needed me. We’d always been there for each other. But after her funeral, and with no family left, I couldn’t think of any good reason to stay in the Peach State. And ironically, my move to “the city” was part of a reading that Ms. Marabelle had prophesied to me many years ago, when I was just a little girl.

At six on the dot, I finally reached my destination. As I parked in front of the beautifully manicured driveway, an intense feeling hugged my stomach that I couldn’t explain. Surprisingly, it wasn’t nerves or anxiety, but it made my hands shake just the same. And even though my rickety air conditioner was pumping full blast, tiny beads of sweat dotted my forehead. I took a deep breath, turned off the engine, and prepared myself.

Looking at the impressive brick colonial in front of me, the house seemed much bigger than I remembered. I wondered if it was just my imagination or if they had built an addition to the five-thousand-square-foot dwelling. Then I realized that my mind had only made it seem larger because for the first time, I was keenly aware of the mountainous troubles that lay behind the stately walls.

“Auntie Emee! Auntie Emee!” CJ shouted as he rushed out the front door, running toward me like a hurricane on two legs. I hopped out of my car and leaned down to pick him up as he ran into my arms. I smiled so hard my cheeks started to hurt. This five-year-old little boy was the absolute apple of my eye. We squeezed and hugged each other as he wrapped his arms and legs around me, hanging on like a life preserver.

I missed CJ terribly. It had been a year since he left my care to come and live here with his grandparents. And even though it had torn me up inside to deliver him into the hands of Samantha’s mother and father, I knew it was for the best. My mother’s condition had deteriorated badly, and migraines had begun to take a toll on my own health. That, coupled with long work days, constant fights with the insurance company over Mom’s medical claims, trying to maintain a sinking relationship with my boyfriend, and juggling all of life’s other balls had left me with little time to care for an active, young child.

I didn’t want to deprive CJ of the care and attention that he needed and deserved. After all, it was the reason why Samantha had given me legal guardianship of her son in the first place. Plus, I knew it was time for CJ to have a strong male figure in his life, and it was a role that Samantha’s father was more than happy to step up and claim.

“Hey, Sweet Pea,” I cooed after giving CJ a million small kisses on his softly dimpled cheeks. “Where’s your mother?”

“Here I am!” Samantha shouted, strutting over to greet me with her hands perched on her imaginary hips.

I had predicted what her reaction to my new appearance would be, and judging from her wide-eyed expression, I’d been right.

“Oh my God!” Samantha screamed as she came closer. “Girl, I can’t believe what you’ve done to your hair!”

Hair was to black women what weight was to our white counterparts, and my hair had always been a topic of discussion. It had been the only bone of contention between my mother and me . . . well, that and the fact that she thought I should’ve been married a long time ago.

My hair was a wild mixture of kinky, curly tendrils, in its natural state. When I was a little girl, my mother used to press my hair until it was bone straight. Every Saturday night, like clockwork, she’d separate my thick mane into tiny sections and then divide those into even smaller, more manageable pieces before coating my thick strands with coconut-scented pomade. Then she’d run the sizzling hot comb’s steel teeth through each curly clump until my unruly hair submitted into long sheets of black silk that gleamed down my back. The next day at church my mother would smile proudly, enjoying the compliments that her painstaking handiwork garnered. And I, too, benefitted from her diligence, as I became known as the pretty girl with the great hair.

During my teenage years I rebelled against the hot comb and my much-coveted straight hair. It wasn’t just the unrelenting hours of heat-emblazoned misery that I rebuked, it was the notion that my thick, unapologetically wild hair wasn’t beautiful in its natural state. At the time, I wasn’t aiming for any kind of militant social statement, I just knew what I liked, and what made me feel most comfortable in my own skin.

But my mother was old school, and she wasn’t having it. “At least let me take you to Ms. Emma’s shop so she can put a relaxer in your hair,” my mother had said during one of our knock-down-drag-outs one weekend. “It’ll look just like you had a good pressing, and it’ll even last longer,” she sighed, hoping I’d have the good sense to give in.

Finally, she gave up, not having the energy to argue because her disease had started to progress. I went natural my junior year of high school, and it wasn’t until last week, sitting in Ms. Emma’s chair in Heavenly Hair Salon, that my mother got her long-held wish. I had enjoyed my natural hair, but now it was time for a change. I wanted a new look to go along with my new life, in a new city. The large bush of hair that had once rested at the bottom of my shoulders now hung down to the middle of my back. It had taken a little getting used to at first, but now I loved my new hairdo.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Samantha gasped. “I can’t believe you finally relaxed your hair!”

She circled around me while CJ began to examine my hair, too, as if he’d just seen me for the first time. When he grinned, showing me one of his adorable dimples, I knew he approved. “Your son likes it.” I smiled.

“And I love it!” she shouted. “Girl, your shit is fly!”

I bristled at the sound of Samantha cursing in front of her son, but I let the uncomfortable feeling go because I didn’t want to spoil the happy moment. So instead of gently cautioning her about the importance of watching her language around an impressionable five-year-old, I reached one arm out and embraced her while I held on tight to CJ with the other. I saw that he liked the group hug because he started grinning even harder. As I watched CJ’s face light up, it struck me that men, even in their early stages of development, loved the company of more than one woman at a time. But for now, I appreciated that my little Sweet Pea’s enthusiasm was purely innocent. I constantly marveled at how Samantha and Carl could have created such a perfect little person.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved Samantha dearly, and there was no one on this earth who could hold a candle to her as a loyal and trusted friend, but her life was filled with the kind of drama that could make the police officers on Cops take a pause. And Carl, her on-again, off-again boyfriend who happened to be CJ’s father . . . well, let’s just say he wasn’t the type of guy one would ever mistake for being a good catch.

For someone who’d been raised around all the “right kind of people,” I never quite understood why Samantha always gravitated toward the lowest common denominator when it came to men. I could only assume it was a rebellion thing.

It killed Samantha’s parents, especially her mother, that she made such poor relationship choices. But Samantha seemed to almost delight in it. We’d been best friends since our freshman year of college—that was eleven years and running—and in all that time I had never known her to date a man who was worth the breath it took to call his name. Well, there had been one, but it was years ago, and she’d messed up that relationship in a disastrous way.

Samantha and I first met on move-in day at Spelman College. We were roommates and quickly became inseparable best friends, to the bewilderment of everyone around us, because with the exception of sharing the same birthday, and the same middle initial—my E was for Eloise, and her E was for Elise—we were polar opposites in almost every way.

Samantha was born into a family of old money and privilege, raised in the prominent Gold Coast section of DC—the right side of the tracks. Her father, Ed, the love of my life, was a well-known plaintiff attorney whose courtroom victories were legendary in the DC metro area. Her mother, Brenda, docent and socialite extraordinaire, was a beautifully elegant drama queen whose antics could easily rival those of a soap opera diva. Together, they had raised Samantha and her older, estranged brother, Jeffery, to be cultured members of the Talented Tenth.

I, on the other hand, was born into a lower-middle-class lot. My father, Roosevelt, was a janitor who took pride in a job well done. He was a strong, hardworking, God-fearing man with a gentle heart. My mother, Lucille, was a soft-spoken, but fiercely independent elementary school teacher who ran our home with the same efficiency and care that she demonstrated in her classroom. They’d met at the school where they both worked, and as my father had once said, “It was love at first sight.” They were the salt of the earth, truly two of the finest human beings I’d ever known. I missed them dearly.

As I looked at Samantha, her face beaming with relief that I was finally here, I didn’t have the heart to tell her what I was really feeling—that I was scared out of my mind knowing I’d be sleeping under the same roof as her father.

“Let’s go inside. I know you want to relax after your long drive,” Samantha said.

“Are your parents home?” I didn’t know if their vehicles were parked out back in their three-car garage.

“No,” she said, swatting a pesky fly that had invaded her space. “Mother’s over at the Corcoran Gallery, and Daddy’s probably knee-deep in paperwork at the office, as usual.”

That information gave me the temporary relief I needed. We grabbed my bags out of the trunk of my beat-up but trusty 1985 Volvo, ready to head inside. Samantha stopped and looked at my car as if I’d driven up in a horse and buggy. “Emily, you need to get a new ride. I’m surprised you didn’t break down on your way up here. City driving is gonna beat the last bit of life out of ol’ Hazel.”

Samantha was right, but there was a deep sentimental value attached to my four wheels. Hazel was the first brand-new vehicle that my father had