Chapter 4 — The Shop She Lost

On Monday morning, Nico’s motorcycle was gone from the garage.

Mara noticed before she noticed the guard stationed beside the empty space.

“Where is it?”

“At the mechanic’s,” the guard said.

“Again?”

“Mr. Moretti asked for a second inspection.”

Mara folded her arms. “Did he say why?”

The guard’s expression suggested that Nico Moretti did not generally explain himself to people assigned to watch garage doors.

“No, ma’am.”

Mara looked at the clean rectangle of floor where the motorcycle usually stood. The first inspection had found a loose cover. She had wanted to believe that settled the sound she’d heard. Nico apparently hadn’t.

At lunch, she found him in the courtyard speaking into his phone. He ended the call when he saw her.

“Your bike’s at the mechanic,” she said.

“It is.”

“Did he find something?”

“Not yet. I asked him to ride it.”

Mara nodded. A noise that appeared only under load could vanish when the machine stood still. “That makes sense.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m adjusting to being listened to.”

Nico’s mouth tightened. “Has that been difficult here?”

“Here? Usually people hear me.” She glanced at the guard near the steps. “They just seem startled when I have something to say about motorcycles.”

Nico followed her gaze. “I’m not startled anymore.”

He asked if she was free that afternoon. The black bike would not be back in time, but he had another pair ready.

They rode west, away from the estate and its gates, until the houses grew farther apart. At a gas station beside an old highway, they stopped for coffee. Mara took hers to a picnic table. Nico remained standing for a moment, looking at his phone.

“Work?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You can take the call.”

“I know.” He turned the phone face down and sat across from her.

Mara warmed her hands around the paper cup. “That looked painful.”

“It was an adjustment.”

“Like being listened to?”

He gave her a look. She smiled into her coffee.

Nico had spent their rides asking careful questions about engines, the shop, and how she had learned to diagnose a problem by sound. He never asked her to repeat the story of her father’s death. Mara was grateful for that. She could tell him new things about Frank Bennett: that he sang badly with the radio, that he kept every thank-you note customers wrote him, and that he had once made her rebuild the same engine twice because she refused to admit she had rushed the first attempt.

“He sounds demanding,” Nico said.

“He was. He was right, too.”

“Did you finish it faster the second time?”

“No. I finished it properly.”

Nico raised his coffee in acknowledgment.

A sedan passed the gas station, then returned along the road five minutes later. Nico watched it through the window of the small store. Mara noticed the movement of his eyes.

“Someone you know?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Then why do you look as though you’re deciding whether to follow them?”

“Habit.”

He did not say more, and she did not press him. She knew who he was. The gates, the guards, and the meetings that interrupted dinner were parts of his life. Out here, she could enjoy his company without pretending those parts had disappeared.

When they returned, Mrs. Russo was waiting near the service entrance with a list of tasks in her hand. Her gaze went from Mara’s flushed cheeks to the helmet beneath her arm.

“The guest linens are ready,” she said.

“I’ll do them now.”

“After you eat.” Mrs. Russo glanced at Nico. “Neither of you took the sandwiches I packed.”

Mara stared at her. “You packed sandwiches?”

“They’re in the kitchen. I don’t prepare food for it to sit there.”

Nico thanked her. Mrs. Russo gave a brief nod and went inside.

“She likes you,” Mara said.

“She tells me what to do every day.”

“That’s how you can tell.”

The mechanic returned Nico’s black motorcycle on Wednesday. He reported that he had ridden it twice and found no unusual sound. The loose cover had been the likely cause.

Mara was relieved. She still walked around the bike when it came off the truck, examining it with a habit she no longer bothered to hide.

“You can ask for the report,” Nico said.

“I can?”

“I told him to leave you a copy.”

Mara looked up. “Why?”

“Because you heard it first.”

It was a simple answer. She had spent four years being treated as though her mechanical knowledge belonged to a past life; the offer unsettled her more than a compliment would have.

She read the report in the garage that night. The inspection was thorough. When she finished, she slid it back into its sleeve and left it in the marked cabinet.

On Friday, Nico brought her a pair of riding gloves.

Mara met him in the courtyard after her shift. The gloves were black, made from soft leather, and fitted when she tried them on.

“Are these also extras from the garage?” she asked.

“No.”

“I can buy my own gloves.”

“I know.”

“Then I should pay you for them.”

“If you want to.”

She took out her phone. Nico told her the price without protest. Mara sent the money, and he checked the payment.

“Now can we ride?” he asked.

Mara laughed. “Now we can.”

They rode to a small overlook above the river. The parking area was nearly empty. Mara leaned against the railing while Nico stood beside her, both of them watching a freight train cross a distant bridge.

“I’ve been looking at workshop rentals,” she said.

Nico turned. “Since when?”

“Since I helped that boy outside the repair shop.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d do anything with it.”

“And now?”

“There’s a place near my old neighborhood. One service bay, a little office. I don’t have enough saved to open yet, but I went to see it.”

Nico took this in. “Do you want me to come with you next time?”

“I want to look at it once more on my own.”

“All right.”

She had expected an offer to buy the building. Instead, he asked what the rent was and listened while she explained her plan to start with weekend repairs. He pointed out that she would need secure storage for customers’ bikes. Mara had already made a note of it.

“You’ve thought this through,” he said.

“For the first time in years, I want to.”

On the ride home, Nico let her lead.

From an upstairs office, Adrian Vale watched the motorcycles enter the courtyard. He had worked with Nico long enough to recognize a change in routine before anyone reported it. The rides had started as an occasional hour. Now Nico cleared space for them himself, and Mara had begun reading a mechanic’s reports.

Adrian closed the folder on his desk.

He had delayed one conversation with an associate because Nico was out riding. A second delay would be harder to explain. Adrian checked the garage schedule, then called the associate and arranged to meet after midnight.