“That isn’t why.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking a job because my husband saved your life.”
“Good.”
“Because I’m not offering one for that.”
She folded her arms tighter.
“Then why?”
“Because Ray filed two tax forms in the wrong quarter.”
Ray shouted:
“One.”
“Two.”
“Government accepted both.”
“That is not defense.”
Rachel tried not to smile.
Bear continued.
“I need somebody.”
“You need work.”
“Interview Monday.”
“If you’re qualified, job.”
“If not, move.”
Rachel looked at him.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“I’m leaving Monday morning.”
“Interview at eight.”
“That would mean not leaving.”
“Correct.”
She stared for a long time.
Bear shrugged.
“Your choice.”
That was the first thing Rachel liked most about him.
Not the job offer.
The word choice.
No debt.
No speech about what Adam would have wanted.
No insistence.
Choice.
She said:
“I’ll interview.”
Bear nodded.
Noah heard.
“Does that mean we’re not moving?”
Rachel looked at him.
“Maybe.”
His face brightened too quickly.
She touched his shoulder.
“Maybe.”
Noah nodded.
Still smiling.
They left an hour later.
Bear stood beside his motorcycle until Rachel’s SUV disappeared.
Ray came over.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Just checking.”
Bear looked at the drawing.
Ray crossed his arms.
“You keeping that?”
“Yes.”
“Paint pen.”
“I know.”
“You’ll need clear coat or it’ll chip.”
Bear looked at him.
“Can you do it without smearing?”
Ray grinned.
“Absolutely.”
Bear pointed.
“You touch that drawing and ruin it, I’ll bury you under parts room.”
Ray laughed.
That evening Bear rode home slowly.
For once he did not chase the open road.
He stopped at Route 9 overlook.
Twelve years earlier, his motorcycle had gone through guardrail thirty yards south.
The highway had been resurfaced since.
Guardrail replaced.
Nothing visible remained.
Bear sat on the concrete barrier.
He thought of Adam.
Then Mara.
He had not spoken to his daughter in six months.
Not because they were estranged again.
Life.
Mara lived in Seattle.
She was thirty-nine.
Married.
Two daughters.
Bear and Mara had built something over the years.
Not a perfect father-daughter relationship.
A real one.
Phone calls.
Birthdays.
Occasional visits.
Long silences neither interpreted as rejection anymore.
Bear pulled out his phone.
Called.
Mara answered on fourth ring.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Bear smiled.
“Why does everybody ask that?”
“Because you call at seven on Saturday and usually text like an emotionally unavailable raccoon.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means are you okay?”
Bear looked at highway.
“Remember paramedic?”
Silence.
“The one who pulled you from wreck?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I met his wife and kid today.”