The bike can be restored, but the fact that you were the one who scratched it, that's permanent. She let that land. What you can do is decide what you build from here. That's the only part that's still in play. His jaw worked.
That's not very satisfying, he said. No, she agreed. It's not. Is it enough? She thought about her father sitting in a garage with his hand on a Harley Road King that carried 30 years of miles inside it.
She thought about coming home from a military career with a shoulder that didn't work right and going into a garage and rebuilding three motorcycles in 4 months because the work was the answer even when the answer wasn't satisfying. It has to be, she said, because it's the only thing on offer. He stood there for a moment longer. Then he nodded once with the particular decisiveness of someone who has closed a door inside themselves that needed closing. I'll be here at 7, he said.
6: 55. She said, "Daniel gets here at 6: 55. I don't want him thinking he's the most punctual. " Something happened at the corner of his mouth. It was almost a smile. Not quite, but almost.
He left. She stood alone in the shop and thought about what she had just said. That what was broken was permanently broken. That you couldn't fix the meaning of damage, only build from its aftermath. And she thought about how true that was and how hard it was to believe when you were the one with something broken.
And she thought about her father's Harley under the tarp and the scratch that the shop light turned into a wound. Then she pulled the tarp back. She looked at the bike for a long time. She picked up her phone and called Ry. "It's late, " he said, but without complaint.
Because Rey had never in 40 years of knowing Clare's family complained about late calls. "I need to start on the Harley, " she said. tonight. No, after the visit. After we know, she paused. I want you there when I start.
I want it to be I want someone who knew him there when I take the first piece off. Ry didn't answer immediately. She could hear him breathing the way you can hear someone managing something on the other end of a line. I'll be there, he said. Whenever it happens, she said I'm ready.
I'll be there, he said again. No matter when. She covered the Harley back up. She turned off the shop light. She went home.
Thursday arrived cold for October in Arizona, which meant it was 62° instead of 80. And the light came in at an angle that made the shop look different from the way it looked in summer. Sharper, somehow more defined, the kind of light that shows you exactly what things are. Sandra Kellerman arrived at 9: 58. Clare had expected someone who looked like a foundation.
Conservative, careful, clipboard energy. Sandra Kellerman was 61 years old with closecropped silver hair and boots that had seen actual use in a handshake that meant something. "Thank you for having me, " she said. "Thank you for coming out, " Clare said. Sandra looked around the shop.
Not the sweep of someone cataloging, the look of someone seeing. There was a difference. Clare had learned to tell them apart in the first seconds. "It smells like my grandfather's garage, " Sandra said. Most good garages smell the same, Clare said.
Sandra smiled. He was a Korean War vet. Spent every Saturday in their room. She was still looking around. Never talked about the war.
Only talked in the garage. She turned back to Clare. I think I understand your program better already. Clare introduced Marcus, who was professional and warm in the way Marcus always was, which she appreciated because she was not always either of those things simultaneously. She introduced Daniel, who shook Sandra's hand and said, "Nice to meet you. " without any of the awkwardness she might have expected from him 3 weeks ago.
She introduced Carlos and Brett. She introduced Delaqua, who had arrived at 6: 54, 1 minute before Daniel, which Clare noted and chose not to comment on, and who shook Sandra's hand and said his name clearly and made eye contact. Small things, but nothing was a small thing when you were paying attention. She did not immediately explain who the four young men were. She let the morning do that.
Gus Ferraro arrived at 10: 30 as planned. He came through the door on his own two feet, which didn't sound like a significant thing until you understood that 6 months ago he had come through the same door for the first time walking with a cane. He was clearly furious about needing and a look on his face that said he had come here because he was out of other options, not because he believed this would work. He came in without the cane. Gus, Clare said, "This is Sandra Kellerman.
She's from the foundation I told you about. " Gus looked at Sandra with the specific evaluating look of a man who has spent enough of his life being assessed by people with clipboards that he has developed a strong preference for people without them. Sandra didn't have a clipboard. What branch? Gus said. Sandra blinked.
I'm sorry. Military. What branch? Oh, none actually. My father was Army.
My brother was Marine Corps. Just nodded slowly. What happened to your brother? He came home, Sandra said. But not entirely.