But Bishop and Nolan had taken over most routine operations, and I arranged my work so that I could stay in Arizona for longer periods.
I opened a small appointment-only motorcycle repair workshop.
Nothing fancy.
A two-bay space behind an older commercial building.
A workbench.
A lift.
Several cabinets of tools.
And a coffee maker that produced something barely deserving the name.
Rosie insisted on helping decorate.
She made a sign in large blue letters.
GRANDPA'S GARAGE.
I laughed when she showed it to me.
“That's not the business name.”
She frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because people have been calling it Mercer Motor Works for forty years.”
She considered.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
For a moment, I thought the discussion was over.
Then she added.
“But you can put my sign inside.”
I smiled.
“Deal.”
The sign went above the workbench.
Right beside the framed photograph of Mara.
Some days, customers asked about it.
I told them my granddaughter made it.
They smiled.
Then I went back to work.
I discovered I liked living in a smaller town.
The mornings were quiet.
The desert sunsets were beautiful.
And I could drive to Rosie's school without planning an overnight stop.
I still missed Wyoming.
Missed Bishop.
Missed the Iron Ravens gathering at the old garage.
But missing one place didn't mean I'd made a mistake by finding room for another.
Life was becoming larger rather than smaller.
And for the first time in years, I stopped counting the days since I'd last seen my daughter.
I began counting the moments I was lucky enough to share with her child.
The first anniversary of Mara's death arrived on a cold morning in December.
Rosie was quiet all week.
She stopped asking as many questions during our evening visits.
She left some of her drawings unfinished.
And twice, Evelyn found her sitting beside the little wooden box in her bedroom, looking through photographs without saying anything.
I didn't know how to help.
I wanted to take her somewhere.
Buy her something.
Find a project that would distract her from the pain.
But Evelyn gently reminded me that Rosie wasn't a broken machine.
She didn't need an activity every time she became sad.
Sometimes she simply needed someone willing to sit beside her.
So that's what I did.
On the morning of the anniversary, I arrived at Evelyn's house carrying groceries and a small bag of yellow flowers.
Rosie was sitting on the living-room carpet.
She wore an oversized sweater that had belonged to Mara.
The sleeves covered most of her hands.
I lowered myself into the chair beside her.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
She looked up.
“Hi.”