I can’t tell you what to do, Mr. Cross. I can present options and recommendations. Then recommend. The adviser recommended a diversified portfolio, a trust for Lily that would mature when she turned 25, an immediate fund for living expenses and business improvements, and enough set aside for taxes that Ethan wouldn’t get a surprise from the government next April.
Sounded reasonable. Ethan said yes to all of it and felt like he was signing documents in a language he didn’t speak, but some things he understood perfectly. He paid off the credit hold with his parts supplier. The full 1,400 plus an extra 200 because he felt guilty for how long it had taken.
Hector Medina’s truck parts arrived 2 days later. Ethan had the transmission rebuilt by the end of the week. When Hector came to pick it up, he stood in the garage and looked at Ethan like he was trying to see something different about him. So Hector said, “$20 million. That’s what they say. And you’re still here fixing my truck.
Your truck needed fixing. Yeah, but I mean to 20 million, man. You could be anywhere. You could be on a beach. You could be in one of those houses with the infinity pools. You could I could be right here finishing your truck so your wife stops being mad at you. Hector stared at him. Then he laughed.
A real full laugh that filled the garage. You’re something else, Cross. You know that. So, people keep telling me Hector paid his bill, the regular amount, no markup, no rich guy searchcharge, which Ethan suspected Hector had been nervous about, and drove away in his truck with a working transmission and a story he’d tell for the rest of his life about the time his mechanic turned down $2 million and made 20 instead. Frank Reeves came by, too.
He stood in the doorway the same way he always did, arms crossed, toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Except now he had the look of a man who’d been proven wrong and was trying to figure out how to acknowledge it without actually saying the words. Heard about the auction? Frank said, I imagine you did. 20 million. Yep.
I said you were an idiot. You did. Frank shifted his weight. The toothpick moved from one corner of his mouth to the other. I was wrong. Yes, you were. Don’t push it. Wouldn’t dream of it, Frank. Frank looked around the garage at the tools, the lifts, the concrete floor with its old oil stains. So, what’s the plan? You going to tear this place down and build something fancy? Glass walls and one of those Italian espresso machines.
I’m going to fix it up. Bigger shop, better equipment. Maybe hire someone so I’m not doing everything myself. That’s it. What were you expecting? I don’t know, something more dramatic. You’re a millionaire now. Millionaires don’t fix trucks. This one does. Frank looked at him for a long time. Then he pulled the toothpick from his mouth, pointed it at Ethan, and said, “Your father would be proud of you.
I want you to know that. Henry would be real proud.” It was the kindest thing Frank Reeves had ever said to him. Ethan didn’t know how to respond, so he just nodded, and Frank left, and the garage was quiet again. Aurora Veil came on a Thursday. No convoy this time. No Escalades, no suits with tablets, just a single black sedan that pulled into the lot and parked near the sign, which was still leaning, though Ethan had plans to replace it entirely within the month.
He’d actually drawn a sketch of the new sign on a napkin during breakfast. Lily had critiqued the font choice. Aurora stepped out of the car alone. She was dressed differently than either of the previous times. Simpler, less armored, dark jeans, a gray jacket, flat shoes instead of the ones that had been ruined by the gravel.
She looked smaller without the entourage, which Ethan suspected was the point. He was in bay 1 changing the oil on a Honda Civic that belonged to the librarian from Prescott. He saw her through the open garage door, but didn’t stop what he was doing. She walked to the doorway and stood there waiting. Mr.
Cross, Miss Vale, do you have a minute? He looked at the Civic. The oil was draining. It would take another 2 minutes. I’ve got about two of them. She walked into the garage. Her eyes moved around the space the way they had the first time, cataloging, assessing, but something in her expression was different. Softer maybe, or just tired.
The sharpness was still there, but it had been blunted by something. I’m not here to make an offer, she said. Good. There’s nothing to offer on. I know. She stopped a few feet from him and put her hands in her jacket pockets. I came to say something. I’ve been thinking about it since the auction, and I decided if I didn’t say it in person, it would bother me for a long time.
Ethan straightened up and wiped his hands on a rag. He gave her his full attention because whatever else Aurora Vale was, she wasn’t the type to drive to Red Creek, Arizona alone in flat shoes to make small talk. “I misjudged you,” she said badly. “When I came here the first time, I looked at this place.
” She gestured at the garage, the cinder block walls, the box fans, and I made a decision about who you were. I decided you were a man who didn’t know what he had. A man who’d been dealt a bad hand and didn’t have the resources or the knowledge to play it right. I thought I was doing you a favor. $2 million for a car you didn’t understand.
You weren’t entirely wrong, Ethan said. I didn’t fully understand it. Not at first. But you understood enough not to sell. That’s what I missed. I was so focused on what I knew about the car that I never stopped to consider what you knew about yourself, about your father, about what that car meant beyond its market value. She paused.
