The Diane you knew, the one I didn't get to see. Beatatrice smiled. The first real smile he'd seen from her. Fierce, funny as hell. Took no [ __ ] from anyone, especially not men who thought women couldn't fly, but gentle when it mattered.
Kind to the people who needed kindness. She settled onto her bucket memories flooding back. Honey, we flew search and rescued together during Desert Storm, night missions, mostly looking for downed pilots. She saved three lives I know of. Probably more I don't.
She'd fly into situations that scared the hell out of me. Hot LZ's Sandstorm's mechanical failures and she'd just handle it like fear wasn't even an option. She never talked much about the war, Jackson said quietly. No, she wouldn't have. Too many bad memories, too many people we couldn't save.
Beatatrice paused. We lost touch after we both got out. Different lives, different states. I married Douglas, moved to Nevada, Diane married you, moved to California. But I thought about her sometimes.
Wondered how she was doing. If she was happy. She was happy. We were happy. I'm glad.
Beatric's eyes were wet. I'm glad she had that. Had you had 33 good years? They sat in silence. The weight of shared loss.
The strange comfort of knowing someone else had loved the same person you did. Did Diane ever mention me? Jackson asked. After you knew each other after she got married. Once near the end of our time together, just before she left the service, she showed me a picture of you and your welding gear covered in soot, grinning like an idiot.
She said she was marrying a welder named Jackson, who rode motorcycles and had kind eyes. Beatatric's smile widened. She said you didn't know you had kind eyes. Said that was part of your charm. That you were strong but didn't know how strong.
That you were good but didn't believe you were good. Jackson felt something crack in his chest. Not break, just crack like ice at the beginning of spring. Thank you, he said, for telling me, for knowing her, for being her friend. Thank you for fixing Douglas's bike, for giving me a chance to ride it again, for helping me remember.
On the seventh day, Jackson turned the key. The engine caught, coughed once, caught again, then roared to life. The sound filled the garage. Pure, strong. A Harley's distinctive potato potato rhythm.
The sound of resurrection. Jackson let it run. Adjusted the idle with a screwdriver. Listened for any irregularities, any skips or misses, but there were none. The engine ran smooth, clean, like it had been running every day for the past 9 years, instead of sitting silent and forgotten.
Beatatrice appeared in the garage doorway. Her hand flew to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. "Oh my god," she whispered. "Oh my god, you did it. You actually did it. " Jackson shut off the engine.
The sudden silence was profound, sacred. "Want to take it for a ride? " he asked. "I I don't know if I can. My hands, the Parkinson's. I'll ride.
You sit behind me. Just like with Douglas, just like yesterday on my bike. " Beatatrice looked at the Harley, at the machine that had carried her and Douglas through years of Sundays, through deserts and mountains, and the simple act of being together. "Okay," she said. "Yes, let's go. " They rolled the Harley out into the sunlight. The paint still needed work, oxidized and dull.
The chrome still pitted in places, but the engine purred, the heartbeat strong. Jackson straddled the bike. Beatatrice climbed on behind him, settled onto the seat she'd last sat on with her husband 9 years ago. Her arms wrapped around Jackson's waist. Familiar and strange all at once.
"Ready? " he asked. "No. " A pause, a breath. "But go anyway. " Jackson started the engine, felt Beatric's grip tighten, felt her lean into him, trusting him with something precious. They pulled out of the gravel lot, onto the frontage road, then onto Highway 95, and they rode. Not fast, not far, just 10 miles out into the desert and back.
But it was enough. Enough for Beatatrice to feel the wind again. To feel the power of the machine beneath her. To remember what it was like when Douglas was alive and they had forever ahead of them and the desert was theirs. Enough for Jackson to feel useful again.
To feel like he was honoring Diane's memory by helping Diane's friend. To feel like maybe he was becoming the man Diane had believed he could be. When they returned to the diner, Beatatrice climbed off the bike slowly. Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling. Really smiling.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for giving me this. For giving me Douglas back, even if just for 10 miles. You're welcome. " She looked at the Harley, then at Jackson. What do I owe you for the parts?
For your time, for everything. Nothing. It's a gift. Jackson, from Diane, she would have wanted me to help you. So, I did.
That's payment enough. Beatatrice wiped her eyes. Then I have something for you. Wait here. She disappeared into the diner, came back holding a framed photograph.
This is from 1988, Saudi Arabia. After a mission, Jackson took the photo. Two women in flight suits arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera despite the desert heat and the exhaustion and the weight of what they'd seen. Diane looked young, happy, alive, whole. I can't take this, he said.
You can. I have others, and I think you need it more than I do. Beatatric squeezed his arm. Keep it. Remember that she was more than just your wife.
She was a pilot, a friend, a woman who lived fully and loved fiercely, who saved lives and took risks and refused to be less than she was. Jackson stared at the photo, at Dian's smile, at proof that she'd had a life before him. Friends, adventures, joy that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with who she was. Thank you, he managed, his voice thick. Keep it.
Remember her. And remember that you're more than just a man who lost his wife. You're someone who helps people, who fixes broken things, who keeps promises even when it's hard. Jackson nodded, couldn't speak. The crack in his chest widened a little more.
That evening, as the sun set over the desert, Jackson sat on the front steps of the diner. The photograph sat beside him. His phone was in his hand. He dialed Natalie. She answered on the second ring.
Dad, you done with your project? Yeah, I just finished today. How'd it go? Good. Really good.
Better than I expected. He paused. Listen, sweetheart. I was thinking maybe I could come up to Portland, visit you if that's okay. If you'd want that.
Silence long enough that Jackson thought she'd hung up. Then really, really, I've been a shitty father for too long. I want to fix that. If you'll let me, if it's not too late. He heard Natalie's breath catch.
Heard her crying softly. It's not too late, Dad. It's never too late. Good. I'll call you next week.
Set something up. Maybe stay for a few days. Let you show me your life, your hospital, your world. I'd like that. I'd really like that.
She paused. Dad, yeah, I'm proud of you. Whatever you did there, whatever changed. I'm proud of you. Mom would be too.
Thanks, sweetheart. That means everything. After they hung up, Jackson sat watching the sunset. Beatric came out, sat beside him with her own cup of coffee. You leaving tomorrow?
She asked. Was planning to. The bike runs. That's what I came to do. You're welcome back anytime.
The room's always here if you need it. I appreciate that. They sat in comfortable silence as the sky turned from gold to amber to deep purple. Stars beginning to emerge like promises being kept. Finally, Beatatric said, "Can I ask you something? " "Sure. " That first day when you stopped to help me.
You said you did it because someone you loved would want you to. Did you mean Diane? Yeah. What would she think about all this? About you fixing Douglas's bike?