Some invitations arrive quietly.
Others arrive the way my sister Annemarie delivered them.
“There’s a car show in Newport,” she said. “I’d like to go. Wanna take me?”
Now, if you knew Annemarie, you’d know that subtlety was not exactly her defining trait. When Ann had an idea, it arrived fully formed, already halfway out the door.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Let’s make a day of it. Lunch in Newport too.”
And just like that, the plan was made.
Lunch at The Chanler at Cliff Walk.
Then on to the Newport Car Museum’s AutoFest, October 3, 2021.
A simple day.
Or so it seemed.
The moment we were alone in the car, the conversation drifted the way conversations between siblings often do when there’s time and a road ahead of you.
We talked about life.
About faith.
About the curious path of choices that somehow land us where we are.
About growing up in a house filled with noise, laughter, and—if you were one brother among five sisters—a fair amount of learning to listen.
It didn’t take long for me to realize Annemarie wanted something more than a ride to a car show.
She wanted a sounding board.
Not because she was fragile.
Far from it.
Annmarie was strong—mind, body, and spirit. In many ways, she reminded me of our mother. She loved a good time, lived for a party, appreciated a fine glass of wine, and could cook a meal that made people linger at the table long after the plates were cleared.
But Ann was also fighting the battle of her life.
Metastatic melanoma.
A hard phrase.
One that settles into a room whether invited or not.
Still, for a few precious hours that day, we managed to push the shadows aside and simply enjoy being brother and sister.
It was a gift.
For both of us.
The car show helped.
Ann had two favorites, but the one that really captured her imagination was a 2013 Lamborghini Aventador in a stunning burnt orange. It gleamed like it had been poured from molten copper.
Ann stood there smiling at it.
“Now that,” she said, “is a car.”
But the real laugh of the day came a little later.
We were walking along, looking up at the rows of cars, when suddenly we both stopped.
Looked at the car.
Then looked at each other.
We had found it.
The car our father had been talking about for years.
“The Beach Wagon.”
Dad had called every station wagon in existence by that name.
And here it was.
A Chevrolet, complete with the classic wood panels along the side.
Back in our family, a beach trip wasn’t exactly a minimalist affair. If we were heading to the shore, you needed a wagon—not for towels and sunscreen, but for the real essentials.
Chicken in wine.
Broccoli rabe and garlic.
Pasta, sausage, and meatballs.
Dad would fire up the grill and start heating lunch while the entire beach tried to figure out where the new Italian restaurant had opened.
Ann and I stood there laughing at the memory.
Sometimes the past arrives like that—parked quietly in front of you.
Later we wandered over to the section where some buyers were loading up cars they had purchased.
One of them caught Ann’s eye immediately.
An old Chalmers-Detroit, early 1900s, weathered but proud. It looked like it had once raced across dusty roads when the automobile itself was still a daring idea.
Ann loved it.
Of course she did.
It was a convertible.
Figures.
We took turns being funny that day.
Even with the cloud that hovered quietly nearby.
Ann understood something that many people never do.
She knew she was both lucky and unlucky.
Unlucky because of the diagnosis.
Lucky because she had time.
Time to travel.
Time to reflect.
Time to put her affairs in order.
Time to fight the good fight.
And time to spend a day with her brother wandering through a car show in Newport.
I will remember that day for as long as I live.
Because on that very day, though I didn’t fully realize it at the time…
Ann had begun our goodbye.
She passed away exactly one year later.
October 3, 2022.
And whenever I see a bright orange sports car…
or an old station wagon with fake wood paneling…
I still hear her voice.
“Hey George…
wanna take me?”
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