When she slid from under that cherry-red 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle with grease on her cheek, I knew she was the woman I’d marry. She brushed loose strands from her face with the back of her hand and looked up at me with big brown eyes. When she smiled? Damn. The world stopped spinning. It was fate,” her dad says, smiling as he reminisces. “Always said it was like magic.”
