My daughter was there.
The woman climbed out carrying a paper bag.
My daughter immediately ran outside.
“You're truck lady.”
The woman stopped.
I wanted the concrete floor to swallow me.
She looked at me.
“Truck lady?”
“My daughter categorizes people efficiently.”
The woman crouched.
“And you must be mechanic girl.”
My daughter considered.
“I want to be a veterinarian.”
“Then veterinarian girl.”
They shook hands formally.
The paper bag contained cinnamon rolls.
My daughter decided instantly that truck lady could stay forever.
Children are easily bought.
I checked the pickup while they ate.
The cooling system needed work.
Rear shocks were tired.
One ball joint concerned me.
The woman watched my expression.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Make the face.”
“What face?”
“The one mechanics make before telling you your sentimental object requires a second mortgage.”
I leaned against the fender.
“The truck needs about twelve hundred dollars.”
Her face fell.
“See?”
“But.”
She waited.
“I found something.”
I pointed beneath the chassis.
One frame section had been reinforced years earlier.
Excellent welds.
Not factory.
My father's work.
Stamped beside the repair was a date.
The date of my twenty-first birthday.
I stared.
The woman understood.
“He was thinking about you.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
I looked at her.
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
She shrugged.
“But he stamped dates on things that mattered.”
She pointed toward the hose tape.
I hated how much I wanted to believe her.
My daughter appeared beside us eating frosting with her finger.
“Are you going to fix it?”
The woman answered:
“I don't know.”
My daughter looked at me.
“You fix everything.”
Children also have unrealistic expectations.
“Not everything.”
She shrugged.
“Mostly.”
The woman looked at me.
Something passed between us.
I looked away first.
“I can do the work.”
“How much?”
“Parts.”
“No.”
“We've discussed this.”
“Yes.”
“And you're still wrong.”
I sighed.
She smiled.
There it was again.
That laugh hidden inside her face.
“Fine.”
“Normal rate.”
“Family rate.”
She froze.
So did I.
The word had escaped accidentally.
Family.
Not romantic.
Not exactly.
Something stranger.
Shared inheritance.
Shared dead man.
Shared pain.
The woman looked toward the truck.
“Family rate.”
She nodded.
“All right.”
I worked on it over several weekends.
She came almost every time.
Sometimes with food.
Sometimes without.
My daughter started asking whether truck lady was coming.