He's eight years away from being sixteen as I write this. I hope somebody has taught him to drive carefully by then, and I hope he's found interests that belong entirely to him. I don't need him to become a mechanic. I don't need him to keep my workshop alive. I only want him to grow up knowing his father was proud of him before he ever picked up a wrench.
Gravel lowered the letter.
For several moments, he stared toward the dark floor.
Leo looked up at his mother.
“Did Dad write that about me?”
Mara nodded, crying openly.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Gravel took a slow breath and returned to the page.
If Leo ever helps somebody understand Dutch's engine, tell him he's done enough. Whatever happens next belongs to the adults. Don't make the boy carry a promise that belongs to men old enough to know better.
And Marcus, there's something else.
Dutch asked me once what I wanted Leo to remember if I died before he was old enough to know me properly. I couldn't answer him then. So I made a recording. It's in the smaller wooden box, along with the photographs Mara hasn't seen yet.
Please give those things to my family. Let them decide when Leo should hear the recording.
You and Dutch have been family to me in every way that matters. I hope you remember that when I'm gone.
Take care of them if they'll let you.
Your friend,
Arty.
Gravel folded the letter.
His hands were trembling.
For years, he'd been the president of a riding club filled with men who considered him nearly impossible to intimidate. He'd stood beside broken motorcycles in desert heat, faced storms on mountain highways, and carried friends to their final resting places.
But in that basement, holding a letter from a man who'd been dead for two years, he couldn't speak.
Leo stepped closer.
“Mr. Gravel?”
The old biker looked down.
“Yeah, son?”
“Is there really a recording?”
Gravel looked toward Mara.
She nodded.
Rusty opened the small wooden box.
Inside were several photographs, a wrapped stack of notebooks, and a little digital voice recorder stored in a protective case. A handwritten label was attached.
For Leo, when he's ready.
Mara reached toward it.
Then stopped.
Her eyes filled.
She hadn't heard Arthur's voice outside old family videos for almost two years. She'd avoided playing some of those recordings because she knew how painful it would be to hear him laughing and then remember that he wasn't coming home.
Leo looked at her.
“Mom?”
She swallowed.
“Yeah?”
“Can we hear him?”
For a moment, Mara couldn't answer.
Then she nodded.
“Yes, baby.”