At the diner the waitress called me sweetheart, set two menus on the counter, and asked whether we wanted coffee. The window air conditioner rattled in its frame despite the cool evening, and an old George Strait song drifted from the jukebox. Tate ordered fried chicken with biscuits and gravy, then changed his mind about the potatoes twice. I ordered the same breakfast plate I always ordered when I did not want to think about what I was eating.
We talked about school, the scholarship, and whether the next youth auto show needed better parking arrangements. Tate wanted to invite Riggs and several other technical students to demonstrate a restoration project. I suggested they have a safety officer review the equipment first, because some habits die hard. He told me he had expected that answer before he asked.
A man at the far end of the counter recognized me. He hesitated a moment before coming over, holding a baseball cap in one hand. I thought he was going to ask about the case or whether I had enjoyed seeing Hadley arrested. Instead he introduced himself as a retired school custodian and told me his daughter had recently applied for one of the trade scholarships.
"She's always fixing things," he said. "Repaired our lawn mower when I was ready to throw it out. Doesn't think people will take her seriously in an engine shop."
I told him I hoped she would visit the program even if she was not selected for the scholarship that year. Good mechanics were made by work, questions, and practice, not by the sort of person other people expected to see holding a wrench. He smiled, thanked me, and returned to his stool. Tate watched him go.
"Mom would have liked that," he said quietly.
"She would have asked your new friend to bring his daughter by the garage," I answered.
"Maybe we should."
I considered it over my coffee and nodded. The restoration project Marguerite had imagined for the two of us had already become a scholarship, a set of classes, and a reason for people who had lost family members to keep working with their hands. There was room for another apprentice to learn how a carburetor worked. There always would be.
Tate ordered a slice of pecan pie and left half of it on the plate. He has done that since he was little, convinced that the first bite of pie tastes better if there will be some left when he is full. I paid the bill, and we walked out under the buzzing red sign above the diner door. The Mustang waited in the lot with its white paint reflecting the last of the streetlights.
On the drive home, Tate asked whether I ever regretted not telling Hadley I was a police chief the day she first brought the cake. I thought about the question for a while. There would have been practical advantages to telling her, perhaps fewer fines, fewer visits, and less trouble for Tate. But if Hadley had treated me fairly only after learning my title, it would not have changed what she was willing to do to the next person who had no title to show her.