“When he died,” she continues, gesturing around us, “he left them to me.”
I scan the collection again, seeing it differently now.
Not wealth. Not a hobby. A history. A tether.
“You kept them,” I murmur.
She smiles at me, shrugging. We walk around her collection of twenty cars, and I itch to reach for her hand. That has never happened to me before.
I have never held a woman’s hand.
“I’m going to miss them.” She sighs.
“What do you mean?”
She turns her back to me. “Never mind. My grandpa wasn’t restoring them like you, though. He had people helping him. He was more of a collector. How many cars did you restore?”
I don’t push for more explanation. She’s sharing. I’m not going to push my luck. Not now. “About ten.”
“And who gotyouto appreciate old vehicles?”
“Growing up, we had a maintenance worker on our estate. He used to bring cars from junkyards and restore them. Save them, as he called it. I became friends with his son. I hung out in his garage a lot.” I trace the hood of a Gullwing.
“Where are the cars? The ones you saved?” She leans against a wall.
Today, she is wearing a male oversized shirt and a flapper skirt. And again, she makes it work.
“Can I see the engine?” I dare to ask, and she nods. I pop the hood open and sigh at the beauty and craftsmanship. “I sell them. Most of them, anyway.”
“No way? All that work, and you just part with them?”
I let my fingertips skim the engine bay. “I enjoy the restoration, and I prefer to hand them over to a collector who cares as much as me.”
“What about your friend? Is he also following in his father’s footsteps?”
The question is simple, expected. I opened up for it when I mentioned him myself. I swallow. “No, he doesn’t.” I flex my fingers. “Noah passed a longtime ago.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” I close the hood, my palms flat on it.
I’ve been sorry about that for the past ten years, blaming myself and my father. I don’t want to spoil the moment, though, so I share something else.
“My father hated my interest. For him, it was too common. Too dirty. Not worthy of a Stone. Perhaps that’s why I loved it so much.”
She sighs. “I don’t think you would be this passionate about it if it were just to spite your father. But yeah, our fathers don’t get it. I moved these here because I worried my father would sell them behind my back.”
The sentence is calm. But I hear the fear buried beneath it.
I swallow, jaw tightening. I guess our fathers are the topic we can bond over, even though it’s the reason we can’t move forward yet.
“He still can. You’re using your name to keep the thieves away. He must know.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, exhaling. “Jesus, don’t say that.”
“We can move them to my garage,” I offer, not even thinking about it. “Tonight, if you want.”
Her laugh comes out wrong. Too sharp. Too bright. A deflection wearing mascara. “Your garage?”
