“No.”
Rachel shook her head.
“He gave employees ownership so they would have a say.”
“That is different.”
Noah knew she was right.
He hated it.
Rachel said:
“You can vote no.”
“I may vote no.”
“But you will read offer.”
“And you will talk to people whose future is tied to this.”
Noah walked toward the photograph of Adam.
He stared.
“Do they want original motorcycle?”
Rachel hesitated.
Noah turned.
“Rachel.”
“Yes.”
Something inside him hardened.
“How much?”
“They offered additional amount.”
“How much?”
She told him.
Noah laughed once.
No humor.
“For a motorcycle.”
“For provenance.”
“I hate that word too.”
“They want to display it in flagship showroom.”
“No.”
“That part is yours to decide.”
“Then no.”
Rachel nodded.
“Fine.”
“That easy?”
“The bike belongs to you.”
“They cannot buy something you don’t sell.”
Noah exhaled.
Rachel put glasses back on.
“But the design rights are more complicated.”
He frowned.
“What rights?”
“The line drawing.”
“I drew it when I was eight.”
“Yes.”
“On somebody else’s motorcycle.”
“Yes.”
“Jack added Adam.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Your later commercial design was based on it.”
“That belongs to me.”
“Correct.”
“The original physical drawing on tank belongs with motorcycle.”
“Yes.”
“The shop has been using a simplified version in memorial fundraiser for years.”
“With your written permission.”
Noah nodded.
Rachel continued.
“Ridgeway wants exclusive licensing.”
“No.”
“Again—”
“No.”
This time Rachel smiled slightly.
“That one I expected.”
Noah crossed his arms.
“You going to sell?”
She looked around the office.
Not at equipment.
At scratches.
At years.
“I don’t know.”
That answer frightened him more than yes.
Noah left the shop two hours later with Jack’s calipers in his jacket pocket.
He did not realize until reaching home.
He lived outside Chicago by then.
But after Jack’s death, he had taken six months remote from design firm and returned temporarily to help Rachel.
Temporary had stretched to almost a year.
His apartment in Chicago remained.
Plants died.
Mail forwarded.
His girlfriend, Hannah, had tolerated distance longer than either expected.
She was thirty-five, an architectural designer, and more patient than Noah deserved.
They had been together four years.
Marriage had hovered over them without becoming plan.
Partly because work.
Partly because Noah had developed a quiet superstition around permanency.
Adam died.
Jack died.
Things you named as permanent seemed to become targets.
He knew that was irrational.
Knowing rarely dissolves fear.
Hannah flew in the following Friday.
Noah picked her up at the airport.
She got into truck, kissed him, then held his face between both hands.
“You look terrible.”
“Good to see you too.”
“You sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
“Some.”
“Eating?”
“Yes.”
“Vegetables?”
“No.”
“Then answer is no.”
He smiled.
Hannah had dark curly hair cut just above her shoulders and a habit of asking questions until people either became honest or exhausted.
She looked at the black motorcycle secured on a trailer behind the truck.
“You brought it to airport?”
“I’m taking it to the shop after.”