She smiled nervously.
"You wouldn't take money, so I thought perhaps you might accept a sandwich."
He looked into the bag.
Two sandwiches.
An apple.
And a small packet of cookies.
For one extraordinary second, an old memory brushed against him.
A wooden bridge.
A girl insisting that peanut butter became lonely without jelly.
Then the feeling disappeared.
He smiled.
"Well, now, that's hard to refuse."
Nora's shoulders relaxed.
"Good."
He examined the sandwiches.
"What kind?"
"Turkey and cheese."
He nodded.
"Any jelly?"
She laughed before she could stop herself.
Daniel looked surprised.
Nora caught her breath.
"No. I'm afraid not."
He smiled.
"Just checking."
She stood beside the workbench while he opened the bag.
For several minutes, they talked about ordinary things.
The weather.
The motorcycle.
The town.
Daniel learned that Nora was staying in Bellweather while handling family property.
She learned that he had run the garage for years.
He told her about Arthur Cole and the old sign.
She listened carefully.
When he mentioned Elise, his voice softened.
"She was Arthur's niece. We met when she came back to help him."
Nora felt a painful tightening in her chest.
"Your wife?"
Daniel nodded.
"She died seven years ago."
Nora looked at him.
"I'm sorry."
He gave a small smile.
"Thank you."
He glanced toward a photograph hanging above the workbench.
A woman with warm brown eyes stood beside Daniel and a small girl wearing a pink bicycle helmet.
"That's Elise. And our daughter, Lucy."
Nora looked toward the picture.
Daniel's face changed when he spoke about them.
His love for Elise was unmistakable.
Nora felt both sadness and relief.
Sadness that he had endured another loss.
Relief that he had known a happy marriage.
Then she felt ashamed of the relief.
His wife's death was not an opportunity.
It was a wound.
She looked toward Daniel.
"Your daughter must be wonderful."
He laughed.
"She's twelve and thinks I'm incompetent."
Nora smiled.
"That sounds normal."
"She keeps me honest."
He picked up the apple.
"She'd approve of you bringing me lunch. Says I forget to eat."
Nora studied his face.
"You do look tired."
He waved away the concern.
"Garage life."
She wanted to tell him that he deserved rest.
That he had given enough of himself to other people.
That she knew something of what it meant to work until silence became unbearable.
Instead, she smiled.
"Then perhaps I'll bring lunch again."
Daniel laughed.
"Don't make a habit of it. You'll spoil me."
Nora looked toward him.
The words escaped before she could stop them.
"Maybe somebody should."