"I'm looking into it. I need to finish the prerequisites, and there's a program in Sudbury that might work around the shifts." She turned over one of the sheets. "I'm not ready to pay the fees yet. There's still the case and the room and everything else."
"The club will cover the program fees," Fig said.
Willa stared at him. "No. You've already done enough."
"Didn't ask what you thought we'd done. I'm telling you what was decided at the meeting. You found a crack in the vice president's frame in thirty seconds the first night you came here. You've saved customers money, and you've been doing the work. We want the qualifications on paper so you can go wherever you want with them."
"I don't want another debt," she said.
"Then it won't be one. We'll put it down as training support. No claim on your wages, no promise you have to stay five years, no speech about loyalty. You can take the course and leave if that's what you need someday."
He looked at her over the top of his glasses. "Don't argue until you've read the terms. That's your own rule."
Willa opened her mouth and then shut it. Fig had learned exactly which kind of argument would work with her. He left the printed proposal on the desk, signed by Reese and the club treasurer, and walked away before she could say thank you. She read it twice, checked that it really contained no repayment clause, and placed it beside the certification requirements. That night she added another line to her notebook: They want me to have something I can carry even if I leave. I don't know what to do with a gift that doesn't need to be earned again tomorrow.
In May, when the roads had finally dried and the first long-distance riders were passing through Coldmare again, a woman came into the garage and asked for Willa Deacon. She was in her sixties, with neat gray hair, a pale blue coat, and careful posture that suggested a long drive had been difficult for her. She carried a small paper bag and looked around the bay as though she had rehearsed the words she intended to say and was suddenly uncertain where to begin. Fig called Willa from the parts counter.
"I'm Harriet Sneier," the woman said when Willa approached. "I used to bring my car to your father's shop in West Haven. Nine years, I think. He always remembered that my husband hated the sound of the old engine."
Willa remembered her. Harriet had driven a beige station wagon and insisted on keeping it even when everyone told her it was not worth the repair costs. Grant had once stayed late to replace a failing hose so she would not have to pay for a tow in the middle of a winter storm. The memory returned so sharply that Willa had to take a breath before she answered. "I remember the station wagon," she said.