We took the Scamp back to her dad's house and she came outside to check it out.
It was a pain, cutting out the solid metal in the dash to make room for a standard car stereo, but luckily Scott had some tools and a vague idea of how to accomplish what needed to be. I handled the electrical and wiring, which ended up being an interesting project in a vehicle from 1972 that came from the factory with one speaker in the dash and no accessory lead. We got it all knocked out in an afternoon and it seemed to work perfectly.
She sat on the driver side and put in a CD. On hearing the music she cheered and clapped in that way, that way that only she could ever do. "Oh Colin, it sounds so good!"
The desire to get on the open road overwhelmed her. She put in her key, shifted the car into drive, and moved it toward the end of the road.
Slowing to the first stop, she suddenly had a puzzled look on her face. I watched her move the turn signal lever with no effect.
She turned the key again, got out and stood there, hand on her forehead. She swore a bit, which surprised me. I could tell she knew we had broken her very first car for probably forever.
I went to her, put my arms around her and pulled her close, and said to her, "It's OK. I will fix it. It's not a big deal, I promise." She struggled, just a bit, but she couldn't escape my eyes, and so she looked straight into them. She found assurance and then her face changed. I could see that she trusted me; it moved me, and it moves me now as I write this. I fixed her car and we went to church the next day.
I think in those nights, those moments of naivety and innocence, of idealism and the concept of romantic love and marriage as an uncharted and perfect idea, we deserved one another.