Too formal.
So after Grant retired, he replaced it.
The new plaque said:
LUCAS BUILT THINGS.
ONE OF THEM BROUGHT HIS FAMILY HOME.
Grant approved.
At seventy-two, Grant’s health began declining.
Not dramatically.
Age.
Heart.
Years of cigarettes he had quit too late.
One afternoon Noah received a call from the hospital.
He drove there on Lucas’s Dyna.
Grant lay beneath a thin blanket, oxygen beneath his nose.
His beard was shorter now.
Hands thinner.
Still Grant.
Noah sat beside the bed.
“You look terrible.”
Grant smiled.
“Family tradition.”
Doctors believed he would recover enough to go home.
But both men understood time had become limited.
Grant looked toward Noah.
“Got the little bike?”
Noah frowned.
“At home.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“Was afraid you lost it.”
“I’m thirty.”
“So?”
Noah laughed.
Grant became serious.
“Your dad gave me something.”
“You’ve given me all his letters.”
“No.”
Grant reached toward the bedside drawer.
Inside was an old ring.
Lucas’s Iron Hollow ring.
Noah recognized it.
Grant had kept it since the fundraiser.
“I thought that was yours.”
“No.”
“Dad’s.”
“Yes.”
Grant placed it in Noah’s palm.
Noah closed his fingers.
“Why now?”
“Because I finally figured out it was never mine to guard.”
Noah stared.
Grant continued.
“I spent too much of my life thinking love meant holding things for people.”
“Your dad taught me better.”
Noah looked toward the ring.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Wear it.”
“Sell it.”
“Put it inside another tiny motorcycle.”
Noah smiled.
“Don’t start.”
Grant’s eyes filled.
“You know the day you came to the fundraiser?”
“Obviously.”
“I thought Lucas had sent you because I needed to fix something.”
Noah nodded.
Grant continued.
“Took me years to understand he wasn’t asking me to fix his life.”
“He was asking me not to waste yours.”
Noah’s throat tightened.
“You didn’t.”
Grant looked toward him.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Noah leaned forward.
“You showed up.”
Grant smiled.
“That simple?”
“No.”
“But that important.”
They sat quietly.
Then Grant said:
“I’m sorry Cody kicked your motorcycle.”
Noah stared.
“Seventeen years and that’s what you’re apologizing for?”
“I gave his keys back too early.”
Noah laughed so loudly a nurse looked inside.
Grant smiled.
That was the last deeply serious conversation they had.
Grant lived another three years.
He died at seventy-five in his own home with Noah beside him and the restored Dyna visible through the garage window.