He glanced toward me.
Then toward the office.
“I've got some parts to pick up.”
I frowned.
“We have everything for the Mustang.”
Marcus gave me a look.
“Other parts.”
I nearly laughed.
He winked.
Then grabbed his keys.
“I'll be back.”
He left us alone.
Mara watched his truck disappear.
Then looked toward me.
“He seems nice.”
“He is.”
I gestured toward the wooden bench beside the open garage door.
“Want to sit?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Her eyes moved across the workshop.
The tool cabinets.
The partially restored Mustang.
The old photographs on the wall.
The framed picture of my grandfather standing outside the garage in 1984.
She approached it.
“Is that Walter?”
I stared.
“You remember him?”
She smiled sadly.
“Of course.”
I moved closer.
“He taught me everything.”
Mara looked toward the photograph.
“He was kind to my father.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She turned.
For a moment, she seemed to realize she'd said too much.
Then she opened her handbag.
“I brought something.”
I watched as she removed the faded childhood photograph.
The one from the white house.
She held it toward me.
I took it carefully.
There we were.
Two children.
A summer afternoon.
A rose-covered fence.
I stared at our faces.
Then looked toward her.
“How long have you had this?”
“Since I was twelve.”
I swallowed.
“You kept it?”
She nodded.
“Always.”
Something tightened inside my chest.
She continued quietly.
“I had it in my school notebooks. Then in a box at college. Then in my apartment. Every time I moved, it came with me.”
I looked down at the photograph.