For the first time in a long time, for the first time since your mom died. Good. Natalie's voice cracked slightly. That's good. Call me when you're done.
Let me know you're safe. I will. I promise. Okay. Be careful, Dad.
Love you, sweetheart. Love you, too. Jackson hung up. Sat in the quiet office for a moment, surrounded by photos of strangers who'd built a life together, who'd loved each other, who'd made something that mattered. Then he went back out to begin.
The day passed in a blur of assessment and planning. Jackson pulled the Harley into Douglas's old garage. The space was dusty but organized tools hung on pegboards sorted by size and function. Parts bins labeled in neat handwriting. Oil stains on the concrete floor that told stories of maintenance and care.
Evidence of a man who took care of his things. Who understood that love was in the details. Jackson started with a full assessment. Removed the spark plugs foul beyond saving electrodes worn down to nubs. Drained the old gas from the tank.
It came out thick as syrup brown and wreaking of decay. 9 years of sitting still. Checked the battery dead as expected. Terminals corroded white with age. Beatatric brought him lunch around noon.
Sandwich and chips on a paper plate. How's it looking? She asked. About what I expected. Nothing I can't fix, but it'll take time.
She sat on an overturned bucket watching him work. Douglas spent hours out here. I'd bring him dinner sometimes and find him just sitting with the bike, not working on it, just sitting. Thinking or I suppose or not thinking. He said that was the point to stop thinking for a while to let his hands work while his mind went quiet.
Jackson cleaned the spark plug holes with a wire brush. What did he do before the Air Force? Farm kid from Iowa joined up at 18 to get away from the farm to see the world to be something other than what his father wanted him to be. She picked at a loose thread on her cardigan. Flew missions in the Gulf War.
Came back different, quieter, started having nightmares, panic attacks, what they call PTSD now. She paused watching Jackson work. The bike helped. The riding helped. This place helped.
But some wounds don't heal. They just get easier to carry. Yeah, Jackson said. They do. They sat in comfortable silence.
Jackson worked. Beatatrice watched. The companionship felt natural, easy, like they'd known each other longer than a day. Eventually, she said, "Tell me about Diane. " Jackson paused, wrench in hand, memories flooding back. "What do you want to know?
How you met? " Jackson smiled despite himself. Couldn't help it. Navy shipyard in San Diego, 1985. I was a welder, 24 years old, working on hole repairs. She was a helicopter pilot, 23, came in to inspect some work on her bird.
She wore a flight suit two sizes too big and had grease on her cheek. And I fell in love right there. Just like that. Just like that. She was giving orders to men twice her age.
And they were listening. She had this this presence, this certainty. Like she knew exactly who she was and didn't apologize for it. He set down the wrench. Took her 6 months to agree to go out with me.
Another year before she'd marry me. But we had 33 years together. Had a daughter, built a life, and then and then a drunk driver ran a red light and took her away in two seconds. 33 years erased in two seconds. Beatric was quiet for a moment.
Then, did you get to say goodbye? No, she died on impact. I got the call at the clubhouse. By the time I got to the hospital, she was already gone. Just gone like she'd never been there at all.
I'm sorry. Me, too. Jackson picked up the wrench again. Needed something to do with his hands. I spent six years being angry at the drunk driver, at God, at the world, at myself for not being there, even though there was nothing I could have done, for not somehow stopping it, even though that's impossible.
You couldn't have stopped it. I know, but knowing and accepting are different things. Beatric nodded. Douglas died right in front of me. We were closing up the diner, counting the till.
He was laughing about something, some joke a customer told, and then he just stopped. Grabbed his chest, fell. Her voice stayed steady. Clinical. The voice of someone who' told the story before.
I held him, screamed for help, did CPR until the paramedics came, but he was already gone. Just like that, laughing one second, dead the next. She looked down at her trembling hands. I blamed myself for months. Thought I should have seen the signs.
Should have made him see a doctor. Should have done something different. Something that would have saved him. And now, now I know that death comes when it comes. We don't get to choose.
We just get to choose how we live afterward. Whether we let it break us or whether we find a way to keep going. Jackson looked at her, really looked, saw the strength it took to keep going, to get up every morning, to run a diner alone, to fight Parkinson's, to ask a stranger for help. You're stronger than you think, he said. I have to be.
Nobody else is going to do it for me. The parts arrived the next morning. Overnight shipping from Carson City. Gideon had packed everything carefully, included a note. Fix it right, boss.
Make it sing. And whatever you're doing out there, keep doing it. You sound like yourself again. Jackson got to work in earnest. Rebuilt the carburetor.
Disassembled it completely. Cleaned every jet, every passage, every tiny orifice clogged with varnish. Replaced gaskets and seals. Put it back together with the patience of a surgeon. Installed new spark plugs.
Gapped them perfectly with a feeler gauge. Changed the oil thick and black as tar. It poured out like sins being confessed. Replace the fuel filter, the air filter, the battery. Beatric checked on him throughout the day.
Brought water, coffee, food. Sometimes she'd stay and talk. Sometimes she'd just sit quietly watching him work, finding peace in the simple act of restoration. On the third day, she said something that changed everything. I knew Diane.
Jackson's hand slipped. He caught himself before dropping the socket wrench. Set it down carefully. Turned to face her. What?
Diane Reeves, your wife. I knew her. We flew together. Beatric's voice was soft, careful, like she was handling something fragile. 1985 to 1990.
Different bases mostly, but we crossed paths. Became friends. Good friends. Jackson's world tilted slightly. What?
She was a helicopter pilot. Search and rescue. So was I. We flew together during Desert Storm. Different units, but same mission.
Beatric looked at him with those clear blue eyes. She was a good pilot, better than me, braver. And she talked about you all the time. About the welder she'd fallen for. About the man who made her feel safe.
Jackson sat down on the concrete floor. His legs wouldn't hold him. Why didn't you say something when I told you her name when I said she was a helicopter pilot? Because I wasn't sure at first. Diane Reeves isn't an uncommon name.
But then you said San Diego. Said 1985. Said she was a helicopter pilot. She met his eyes and I knew, but I didn't say anything because I didn't know if you'd want to know. Didn't know if it would help or hurt.
Sometimes the past is better left alone. No, Jackson said. His voice came out rough, raw. No, tell me. Tell me about her.