Chapter 11 — The Keys Are Hers

The first customer at Bennett Cycles asked to speak to the mechanic.

Mara wiped her hands on a cloth. “You are.”

The man looked past her toward the empty service bay. “I meant the person who works on the bikes.”

“That’s still me.”

He seemed embarrassed, though not enough to stop explaining the problem as if she had missed it the first time. Mara listened, asked him to start the bike, and identified the fault before he finished describing it.

He brought the motorcycle back the following week. This time he asked for Mara.

She kept working at the estate through the first months of the shop. On weekdays she helped Mrs. Russo; on weekends she opened Bennett Cycles. The schedule left her tired and proud in nearly equal measure.

Her first large repair bill paid for a proper lift. The second bought a stronger lock for the side door. When she could afford a workbench with drawers that did not stick, she ordered it herself and assembled it on a Sunday morning.

Nico arrived halfway through, claiming his motorcycle needed attention.

“It’s making a noise,” he said.

Mara looked at the bike. “What kind?”

“A difficult one to describe.”

“Try.”

“Low. Intermittent.”

“Does it happen when you ride?”

“Sometimes.”

“When you stop?”

“Less often.”

She folded her arms. “Does it happen when you want to see me?”

Nico considered the question. “That may be related.”

“You could call.”

“I did. You said you were busy.”

“I was.”

“So I made an appointment with the mechanic.”

Mara fought a smile and lost. “Then help me finish this bench. After that, I’ll look at your imaginary noise.”

By the end of summer, she had enough regular customers to leave her job at the estate. Mrs. Russo accepted the resignation with a brisk nod, then hugged her so tightly Mara could barely breathe.

“You’ll still visit,” Mrs. Russo said.

“Yes.”

“With the cat.”

“The cat hates traveling.”

“Then without the cat.”

On Mara’s last day, Nico walked her to the service entrance. She carried a small box containing her work shoes, a spare sweater, and the mug Mrs. Russo had given her.

“You can come through the front door next time,” he said.

“I know.”

He took the box from her while she got her car keys.

Adrian’s case continued beyond that summer. Statements were taken, financial records reviewed, and the garage evidence examined. Mara gave her account when asked. She described what she had heard, what she had seen, and how she had dated her notes. She did not embellish any of it.

Adrian no longer had access to the estate or to her. The people tied to the gate attack faced their own consequences. Mara let Elaine update her on matters that concerned her and spent the rest of her days building the shop.

Nico learned the new rules of her life too. Sometimes he arrived after closing with dinner. Sometimes she went to the estate and found him waiting with two helmets. They planned rides around her appointments and his work. Mara asked about the parts of his business that affected their safety. He answered her directly.

Neither found that easy every time. When Nico worried, his first instinct was still to arrange protection before discussing it. Mara told him when he had done so. More often now, he stopped and listened.

Nearly a year after she first climbed onto his motorcycle, Nico asked her to come to the estate on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Mara arrived expecting lunch. Mrs. Russo opened the front door and sent her straight to the courtyard.

Nico waited there beside an old motorcycle.

Mara stopped on the steps.

The paint had faded to a dull blue. A scratch crossed the side of the tank, just above a pair of initials she had once painted by hand. The seat had a split along one edge.

She went down the steps slowly.

“I made that scratch when I was seventeen,” she said.

“I know.”

“My father told everyone I’d done it trying to show off.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

She touched the tank with the tips of her fingers. She knew the machine before she saw the initials. Frank had ridden it to the shop on sunny mornings. He had taught her to check its tires, then its oil, and eventually how to ride it.

When the bills came, she had sold it to a customer who promised to care for it. She had never been able to ask where it went after that.

“How did you find it?”

“Three owners since you sold it. The last one kept good records.”

Mara crouched to examine the engine. Some parts needed replacing. Others needed careful cleaning. Someone had resisted the temptation to make it look new.

“You didn’t restore it,” she said.

“That’s yours to decide.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes stung.

Nico came closer but did not touch the bike. “I thought you might want to work on it yourself.”

“I do.”

“I hoped so.”

Mara rose and wrapped her arms around him. He held her, one hand settling at the small of her back.

For a while, neither spoke.

When she stepped away, she noticed a key hanging from the handlebar. Attached to it was a small envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Inside was a single page. It gave the bike’s history as far as Nico had been able to trace it, with dates and the names of the people who had owned it. At the bottom, he had written:

For the shop your father built, and the one you built yourself.

Mara read the line twice.

Nico waited while she folded the page and returned it to the envelope.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m going to say plenty once I get it running.”

“That sounds more familiar.”

She laughed, then climbed onto the motorcycle. The seat felt smaller than she remembered. Her hands settled around the grips, and she could picture Frank standing nearby with his coffee, ready to tell her to look ahead.

Nico stood beside her.

“Need a lesson?” he asked.

Mara turned her head. “You’ve been waiting a year to say that again.”

“I have.”

“I still know more than you.”

“I know that too.”

She looked at the old bike, then at the man beside it. He had brought her something precious and left it for her to repair. She loved him for knowing the difference.

Mara took the key from the envelope and fitted it into the ignition. She did not try to start the engine. First she would bring the bike to her shop, put it on the lift, and learn what it needed.

“Help me take it to Bennett Cycles?” she asked.

Nico smiled. “Tell me what to do.”

Mara rested one hand on the handlebar and pointed him toward the trailer waiting beyond the courtyard.

This time, the motorcycle went wherever she chose to take it.