Sometimes as a young man.
Sometimes as a husband waiting at home.
Sometimes as a face she couldn't quite name.
But the feeling remained.
Love survived even when the details around it disappeared.
Luke had spent his spare evenings restoring Thomas's Mustang.
It didn't need much mechanical work.
Thomas had maintained it carefully.
Luke replaced hoses, drained old fuel, installed a battery, and polished the faded paint.
Then came the anniversary dinner Margaret never reached.
Rebecca decided they would have it anyway.
Behind Parker's Garage, the Iron Wolves set up folding tables.
Someone hung strings of lights.
Bear insisted on cooking.
Nobody trusted him, so Emily—Luke's bookkeeper—quietly ordered backup food from a restaurant.
At sunset, Rebecca brought Margaret outside.
The restored yellow Mustang waited in the parking lot.
On its hood rested a single yellow rose.
Margaret stopped.
Her hand rose to her mouth.
“Tom?”
Rebecca took her arm.
“Dad left the car for you.”
Margaret walked toward it.
She touched the yellow rose.
“He remembered.”
Rebecca began crying.
“Yes.”
Margaret looked toward the driver's seat.
For a moment, Luke wondered where her mind had taken her.
Perhaps she was twenty years old again.
Perhaps Thomas stood beside her.
Perhaps they were going dancing.
Nobody interrupted.
Finally, Margaret looked at Luke.
“You did this?”
“Your husband did most of it.”
She shook her head.
“You fixed it.”
Luke thought of his father.
The machine isn't the important part. The person waiting on the other side of the repair is.
“Just doing my job.”
Margaret smiled.
“No.”
She placed the rose against his chest.
“You did more than your job.”
Luke didn't know how to respond.
Bear rescued him.
“Speech!”
Luke glared.
“No.”
The Iron Wolves began chanting.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Luke reluctantly stood beside the Mustang.
He looked at Margaret.
Rebecca.
Bear.
The mechanics.
Neighbors.
People who had heard the story and come to celebrate.
Luke cleared his throat.
“My dad started this garage.”
He pointed toward the building.
“He used to tell me that people think mechanics fix machines.”
Luke paused.
“He said they don't.”
Everyone became quiet.
“He said machines are easy. They're metal, rubber, wires. Something breaks, you find it, replace it, and eventually the thing runs again.”
He looked toward Margaret.
“People are harder.”
Margaret smiled.
“My dad said when someone comes into a garage, they're usually trying to get somewhere. Work. Home. A hospital. A wedding. Doesn't matter.”
Luke looked at the Mustang.
“Our job is just to help them keep going.”
Bear lowered his head.
Luke finished quietly.
“I think Dad would've liked today.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Bear raised his drink.
“To Daniel Parker.”
Others followed.
“To Daniel.”
Margaret raised hers.
“And Thomas.”
Luke smiled.
“To Thomas.”
The sun disappeared beyond the fields.
Music began.
People ate.
Margaret sat in the passenger seat of the Mustang while Rebecca drove slowly around the property.
When they returned, Margaret was laughing.
It was the kind of laughter that made everyone nearby smile without knowing why.
For one evening, there were no police.
No stolen money.
No dementia.
No fear.
There was only a yellow car, an old love story, and people who had accidentally become friends.
Luke stood outside the garage watching.
Bear joined him.
“You did good, kid.”
Luke shook his head.
“We all did.”
Bear smiled.
“You sound like your father.”
Luke looked toward him.
“That's supposed to be an insult?”
“No.”
Bear watched Margaret.
“Highest compliment I've got.”
A year passed.
Parker's Garage changed.
Not dramatically.
The same sign hung above the entrance.
The same radio played old country songs.
The same tools disappeared whenever Luke needed them.
Bear continued insisting Luke charged too much.
Luke continued reminding Bear that he received discounts.
Bear continued claiming discounts weren't large enough.
But there was one new photograph behind the counter.
It showed Margaret standing beside the yellow Mustang with a yellow rose in her hand.
Beneath it Luke had placed a small handwritten sign:
EVERYONE IS TRYING TO GET HOME. HELP WHEN YOU CAN.
Margaret's condition progressed.
By the following spring, she rarely recognized Luke.
Rebecca warned him before one visit.
“She might not remember you.”
“That's okay.”
“I don't want you to be hurt.”
Luke smiled.
“Rebecca, I fix carburetors for people who think carburetors are still common. My expectations are low.”
She laughed.
They drove to Margaret's care facility.
Luke brought something with him.
A yellow rose.
Margaret sat beside a window.
Her hair was shorter now.
She seemed smaller.
Rebecca approached.
“Mom?”
Margaret looked up.
Recognition flickered.
“Rebecca.”
Rebecca smiled.
“Yeah.”
She hugged her.
Then she introduced Luke.
“This is our friend Luke.”
Margaret studied him.
Luke sat.
“Hello, Mrs. Holloway.”
“Have we met?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“On the side of a road.”
Margaret smiled.
“That sounds irresponsible.”
Luke laughed.
“It probably was.”
He gave her the rose.
Margaret stared at it.
Something happened.
Her fingers closed around the stem.
Her expression softened.
“Tom.”
Luke swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“He gives me these.”
“I heard.”
“Every anniversary.”
“I heard that too.”
Margaret smelled the flower.
“He's a good man.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Do you know him?”
Luke thought carefully.
“Not personally.”
Margaret looked disappointed.
“But I know a lot about him.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She leaned closer.
“Tell me.”
So Luke did.
He told her about Thomas Holloway.
He told her about the hidden Mustang.
He told her about the secret room in the barn.
He told her how Thomas had protected the north field.
He told her about the letter.
Margaret listened as though hearing the story of two strangers.
Sometimes she laughed.
Sometimes she frowned.
When Luke told her about the anniversary roses, tears appeared in her eyes.
“He loved her very much,” she said.
Luke realized she was speaking about herself as though Margaret were someone else.
“Yes,” he said.
“He did.”
“Was she happy?”
Luke looked at Rebecca.
She was crying silently.
Luke turned back.
“I think so.”
Margaret touched the rose.
“Good.”
Then she looked through the window.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
Eventually she asked:
“Do you think people remember us after we're gone?”
Luke wasn't expecting the question.
“I hope so.”
“What if they forget?”