Il semblait presque soulagé.
"Au moins, papa ne nous a pas caché une fortune."
When we hung up, I smiled to myself.
Ryan had asked the same question we'd asked as kids.
"What was it worth?"
He never asked why Dad had spent over two decades there.
Two weeks later, Derek stopped by unexpectedly.
He leaned against the open garage door with his hands in his pockets.
"So this is where you've been hiding."
"I've been busy."
His eyes landed on the Mustang.
"I'll admit..." He whistled softly. "I wasn't expecting that."
"It's coming along."
He walked around it slowly.
"What do you think it's worth?"
I laughed.
"That's your first question?"
"What?"
"I'm just curious."
"No."
"You want to know if Dad accidentally left me something more valuable than the house."
His expression hardened.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Finally, he shrugged.
"I just think Dad would've wanted things to be fair."
I looked at the Mustang.
"Je pense qu'il était juste."
Derek frowned.
"You got a garage."
"I got exactly what he wanted me to have."
He looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. Then he climbed back into his truck and drove away.
I watched the dust settle behind him before returning to the garage. As I reached for a box of newly restored gauges, something slid from beneath it.
A large manila envelope. I'd never seen it before.
Across the front, in Dad's handwriting, were four words.
"Open after she's finished."
I turned the envelope over in my hands. The temptation to open it was almost unbearable.
Papa avait écrit une instruction.
I decided to listen. I slid the envelope into the top drawer of the workbench and went back to work.
The next six weeks became some of the busiest I'd had in years. Friends from work stopped by to help lower the engine into place. A retired mechanic from the next garage unit showed me a trick for aligning the transmission.
Piece by piece, the Mustang came together.
The first time I bolted the driver's seat into place, I sat behind the wheel for nearly ten minutes without saying a word.
It already felt alive.
There was only one job left.
The final bolt to secure the air cleaner assembly.
My hand hovered over the wrench.
A memory surfaced so clearly it almost made me laugh.
I was 12.
Papa venait de reconstruire le carburateur.
J'avais cherché la clé.
"Puis-je serrer le dernier ?"
He smiled.
