And the unfinished accounting courses were simply another reminder of a plan she hadn't been able to complete.
Now someone had asked her to use that knowledge.
And paid her for it.
She looked toward the garage.
Then whispered, “Maybe I'm not finished yet.”
The next week, she requested information from the community college about completing her certificate part-time.
She didn't tell Ethan immediately.
Not because she was ashamed.
Because she wanted to understand what it would require before promising something she might not be able to finish.
But when the college counselor explained that several of her previous credits remained applicable, Sarah felt a small, unfamiliar excitement.
The kind she used to feel before money became the only thing she could think about.
Marcus's first serious warning came in a plain white envelope.
It arrived on a Thursday morning, wedged between a parts catalog and a utility bill.
He almost placed it in the usual stack.
Then he noticed the return address.
Pratt Commercial Properties.
Marcus opened it.
The letter explained that the owner of the building, seventy-four-year-old Eleanor Pratt, intended to sell the property as part of her retirement planning. The existing lease would remain in effect through its stated term, but the buyer was expected to reassess the site's future use.
Marcus read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
Hale's Motor Works had occupied the building for more than thirty years.
He'd replaced sections of the roof.
Installed lifts.
Upgraded the electrical service.
And spent thousands improving a place he didn't own.
His father had always preferred renting because it allowed the business to expand without taking on a large property loan.
For many years, the arrangement worked.
Eleanor Pratt was a fair landlord.
She knew Robert Hale.
And she rarely raised the rent without discussion.
But now she wanted to sell.
Marcus couldn't blame her.
She had worked hard throughout her life.
Her husband had died several years earlier.
And the building represented a substantial part of her retirement savings.
Still, the letter frightened him.
A new owner might want to continue leasing the property to the garage.
Or might not.
The building stood on a corner lot near a busy road, and the neighborhood had begun attracting commercial redevelopment.
Storage facilities.
Retail units.
A distribution company.
Businesses with far more money than Marcus possessed.
He placed the letter on the desk.
Then stared toward the garage.
Dean approached.
“What's wrong?”
Marcus handed him the paper.
The older mechanic read it.
His expression changed.
“Well.”
Marcus nodded.
“Yeah.”
Dean looked toward the open bays.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he asked.
“What are you thinking?”
Marcus rubbed his forehead.