Her father laughing before the business troubles began.
And the terrible night when she left without saying goodbye to Daniel.
Martin watched her.
"You all right?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He handed her the keys.
"I opened the windows this morning. The heating works, and there's food in the refrigerator. Let me know what else you need."
"Thank you."
He started toward the truck.
Then hesitated.
"There's one thing."
Nora turned.
"Yes?"
"The old bridge beyond the railroad road is still there."
Her heart stopped.
She stared at him.
Martin smiled faintly.
"Don't know why I thought you'd want to know."
Nora looked toward the distant trees.
For forty-six years, she had wondered whether the bridge survived.
Whether the creek still flowed beneath it.
Whether the crooked bench remained.
She swallowed.
"Thank you, Martin."
He nodded.
Then drove away.
Nora stood alone outside the white house.
The key felt cold in her palm.
For a long time, she could not bring herself to open the door.
She spent her first night walking through rooms filled with memories.
The dining room where her mother once arranged birthday flowers.
The small library where her father read newspapers.
The staircase she had raced down in her school uniform.
The bedroom she occupied as a child.
The wallpaper was different now.
The furniture had changed.
But the window still overlooked the garden.
Nora sat on the bare bed frame and opened her handbag.
She removed the small jewelry box.
Inside lay the brass ring.
She held it toward the window.
Moonlight caught the tarnished surface.
For decades, she had wondered what happened to Daniel.
Sometimes she searched for him online.
But there were many men with the same name, and Bellweather's public records were not always easy to distinguish from other places.
She found a few references to local mechanics and community events but never followed them far.
Part of her was afraid he had died.
Another part was afraid he had married, raised children, and built a life in which her return would only cause pain.
She had no right to enter that life simply because a childhood promise remained precious to her.
And perhaps, she told herself, she only wanted to see the bridge.
Not Daniel.
Not really.
The next afternoon, she borrowed Martin's old motorcycle.
It was a vintage machine with a burgundy fuel tank, chrome engine covers, and more character than reliability.
Martin kept it in the garage behind the Whitfield house.
Nora had ridden motorcycles occasionally in her younger years, though she was not particularly experienced with older machines.
Martin checked the tires and brakes before lending it to her.
He insisted on a proper helmet, gloves, boots, and protective jacket.
Nora accepted the equipment.
Then rode toward the northern edge of town.
She remembered the road.
The bend near the old mill.
The long stone wall.
The turn beside the creek.
She was less than two miles from the bridge when the motorcycle began sputtering.
The engine coughed.
Lost power.
Then stopped.
Nora guided it safely onto the gravel shoulder.
She tried restarting it.
Nothing.
She removed her helmet.
Looked toward the sky.
Then laughed bitterly.
"Of course."
She had managed companies across three continents.
Negotiated contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars.