“Rosie sewed it?”
I smiled through tears.
“Right there in a diner.”
Bishop shook his head.
For a moment, he seemed astonished.
Then laughed softly.
“Your daughter sent you a mechanic.”
I laughed.
“Seems that way.”
We went inside.
I showed him Mara's letter.
The photographs.
And the little drawing Rosie gave me before I left.
It showed a giant man standing beside a small girl in a yellow coat.
Above them she'd written:
GRANDPA AND ME.
Bishop studied it.
Then looked toward me.
“You're not going to keep riding nine hundred miles every time she wants to see you.”
I sighed.
“I know.”
He nodded.
“So what's the plan?”
I looked toward the motorcycles lined up inside the garage.
The tools.
The workbench.
The equipment I'd collected over four decades.
Everything familiar.
Everything I'd built.
For a moment, I felt afraid.
I was sixty-three.
I didn't know how to start over in another town.
Didn't know whether I could afford to relocate the business.
And didn't know whether Rosie would still want me around once the excitement of meeting me faded.
Bishop watched me.
Then said quietly.
“Ray, don't turn this into a problem you have to solve in one night.”
I looked toward him.
He continued.
“Start by calling her.”
I nodded.
“Then visit again.”
“Yes.”
“Then see what makes sense.”
I smiled faintly.
For a moment, his expression softened.
“You've spent nine years believing you had nothing left to come home to.”
He glanced toward Rosie's drawing.
“Now you've got something.”
I looked down.
Bishop continued.
“Don't let being afraid of doing it wrong keep you from doing it at all.”
I swallowed.
Then nodded.
He grinned.
“Besides, I can run this garage without you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You couldn't organize the spare parts bin without me.”
He laughed.
“Then I guess I'd better learn.”
We spent the rest of the evening talking.
For the first time in years, I wasn't discussing where I'd ride next to escape the memories waiting at home.
I was discussing when I could return to the little yellow house in Arizona.
And whether a nine-year-old girl might enjoy learning how to rebuild a carburetor.
For the next three weeks, I called Rosie every evening.
At first, she was shy.
She answered the phone, said hello, and waited for me to do most of the talking.
Then she began asking questions.
Did I eat vegetables?
Had I ever been arrested?
Could I ride a horse?
Why did I have so many tattoos?
And how old did someone have to be before they could work in a motorcycle garage?