“She died six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Cancer.”
The word came flat.
Not because he did not care.
Because he had said it enough times for strangers that it had become a category.
Adeline waited.
Coulter continued.
“She handled the office.”
“Books?”
“Books.”
“Scheduling.”
“Customers.”
“Payroll.”
“Parts orders.”
“She knew which rancher would pay thirty days late but always pay.”
“She knew which suppliers could be trusted when they said a shipment would arrive Tuesday.”
“She remembered birthdays.”
“Kids’ names.”
“Everything.”
He nodded toward the garage.
“I fixed cars.”
“She made it a business.”
“And after she died?”
“I kept fixing cars.”
Adeline understood.
He gave a humorless laugh.
“Turns out that wasn’t enough.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Which is usually worse.”
He looked at her.
She continued.
“Dramatic problems force people to act.”
“Slow ones let you pretend.”
Coulter was quiet.
Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
He explained.
He missed invoices.
Forgot renewals.
Ordered parts twice.
Failed to collect balances because he hated calling customers about money.
He stopped advertising.
Stopped answering the phone when overwhelmed.
Lost technicians gradually.
Some moved away.
Others found steadier work.
He sold equipment.
Borrowed against the building.
The shop kept getting smaller.
“I thought I needed time,” he said.
“How much?”
“Apparently six years.”
Adeline glanced toward the wrench.
“The ring.”
Coulter followed her eyes.
“Marianne put it there.”
“Why?”
He held the coffee mug between both hands.
“The week before her last surgery, I was working late.”
“She came out here.”
“Could barely walk by then.”
“I told her she should’ve stayed home.”
“She said she was tired of people telling her where she should be.”
Adeline smiled faintly.
“I like her already.”
“You would’ve.”
His expression softened.
“She took off her ring because her fingers were swollen.”
“Looped it around that wrench.”
“Then she said, ‘Don’t you dare turn this place into a mausoleum when I’m gone.’”
Adeline’s smile faded.
Coulter continued.
“I told her she wasn’t going anywhere.”
“She said, ‘That wasn’t an answer.’”
“What did you say?”
“I promised.”
“To keep the shop?”
“No.”
He looked at the ring.
“To keep living.”
That answer stayed between them.
Adeline finally understood why the ring remained.
Not because Coulter believed remarriage would betray Marianne.
The opposite.
The ring reminded him that remaining emotionally buried was the one thing she had asked him not to do.
“And you think needing a wife means you’re keeping that promise?”
Coulter rubbed a thumb over the rim of his mug.
“No.”
“I think I’ve done a bad job keeping it.”
Adeline looked toward the garage.
“You know what you need before a wife?”
“What?”
“Accounts receivable.”
He stared.
She took the mug toward the sink.
“You have unpaid invoices stacked under a carburetor catalog.”
“You looked?”
“They’re visible from here.”
Coulter followed her gaze.
A messy pile sat near the register.
“Don’t start.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
Adeline put on her coat.
“Fix the step.”
He called after her.
“You coming back?”
She stopped.