The file ended.
Nobody moved.
Finally, the girl stood.
Walked toward the covered motorcycle.
Her hand touched the gray fabric.
She looked at her mother.
“Can I?”
Her mother nodded.
The girl pulled the cover away.
The motorcycle beneath was smaller than the biker’s custom Harley.
An old frame.
Vintage V-twin engine.
Primer-gray fuel tank.
Incomplete wiring.
No seat.
Front wheel installed.
Rear wheel leaning nearby.
Not beautiful.
Not finished.
On the tank, written in grease pencil:
DON’T MAKE IT PRETTY BEFORE YOU MAKE IT SAFE.
The girl laughed.
“I like him.”
Her mother cried harder.
That afternoon, they made no decisions.
That surprised the biker.
He expected the girl to demand the motorcycle be transported immediately.
She did not.
She closed the cabinet.
Locked it.
Put the brass key in her pocket.
Then said:
“I want lunch.”
The biker stared.
“That’s it?”
“I haven’t eaten.”
Her mother almost laughed.
The grandfather had been dead five years.
The motorcycle could wait another hour.
They ate at a diner nearby.
The conversation was awkward.
Then angry.
Then occasionally funny.
The girl asked her mother questions.
“Why didn’t you tell me after Grandma died?”
“I was a baby then.”
“I mean later.”
“I kept waiting for a good age.”
“What age?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you lied instead.”
“Yes.”
Her mother did not defend.
That helped.
The girl asked:
“If the biker never showed up, would you ever tell me?”
The mother took a long time.
“I want to say yes.”
“That means no.”
“It means I don’t know.”
The girl looked out the window.
Her mother continued:
“I was afraid you’d hate me.”
The girl answered:
“I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“Not hate.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her mother shook her head.
“No.”
That honesty helped too.
The biker mostly stayed out.
Then the mother turned toward him.
“And you.”
He sighed.
“I knew that was coming.”
“You had letters.”
“Not yours.”
“You knew he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“You knew he had a granddaughter.”
“Yes.”
“And you waited.”
“Yes.”
“Fifteen years.”
“Ten after he died.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the girl.
“He told me not to turn his regret into her responsibility.”
The mother replied:
“You followed his instructions even when they hurt living people.”
The biker’s jaw tightened.
Because she was right.
He said:
“I’ve wondered about that.”
“Wondered?”
“For years.”
“Did you ever think of calling me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because the last thing your father told me was that you had made your boundary clear.”