The mothers talk about me, sitting across the sandy pit at a picnic table, waving occasionally. I can’t hear them, but I know their words.
Poor man, doesn’t he have a job?
I do. I will. I refuse to be sucked into the temptation to drop into their laps one of my many garage-storage copies of The Last Year.
However, I admit to keeping a box in the trunk of my car. Just, in case.
They invite me over sometimes, and I’m nice, because, like I said, Eve doesn’t burn bridges.
I do. With a flourish, and plenty of gasoline and explosives.
Eve’s way might be better.
I’m not on playground—or even school drop off—duty today. Eve and Ashley are gone by the time I finish my run, 3.2 miles around Lake Calhoun. I brace my hands against the shower tile, letting the cool water sluice between my shoulder blades, trying to work it out.
He gave you his watch, Rem. When did you ever know John Booker to do anything by accident?
Eve’s right, I know it in my bones, and the question is a burr under my skin. Forgiveness? Maybe. But like I said, I’m not the one who needed forgiving.
So, something else then. While John had a little bit of cowboy in him, the kind of guy who, in earlier days might have shot first and asked questions later, he wasn’t vindictive.
Just, immovable.
One might say, stalwart.
I wish there was someone to ask—Burke, maybe, but he left shortly after we cut the cake yesterday, and it’s not like he’s going to disagree with Eve. He probably considers himself on that list of people I need to apologize to, except he knows me, so he’s not holding his breath.
We’ve managed to find a tenable peace, dodging the what-ifs in our weekly workouts and occasional go-arounds in the ring. We’re a fair match, but I see the satisfaction in his eye when he lands the occasionally bell-ringing shot. I look up at him from the mat and he’s fighting a smile.
Enjoy it, pal, because that’s all the apology you’re ever going to get.
The windows are open, the day bright and cheery as I go downstairs, neatly avoiding the office, for now, and head into the kitchen.
Eve has left me coffee and I fill my cup, grab a piece of cold bacon, soggy on a paper towel near the stove and am mentally checking off my to-do list on the re-staining of the baseboard in the dining room when my gaze lands on a scrap of paper on the counter.
A torn out yellow page. I walk over and see it’s the watch repair listings. Across the top, Eve has scribbled one word in a black sharpie. Go.
Maybe I’ll never know why John left me his watch, but something about the word etched in the back, along with Eve’s nudge has me latching onto the idea that this is my chance to find out, maybe lance the festering.
Not ask for forgiveness, let’s make that clear. But just to seal up the dark ache inside.
Besides, I can almost hear her. You’re an Inspector, Rem. Figure it out.
Was. Was an Inspector.
I pull up a Google map of the first place. It’s just a couple miles away in Uptown, so how long can it take?
Folding the listing, I shove the paper into my jeans pocket, stop by the office to grab the watch off the desk and head outside.
I get my passion for vintage German automotive technology from my dad. He had a private love affair with a 1962 VW Bug that we spent years in our garage restoring, but I have more elegant tastes.
I’m a sucker for the 911 Porsches, especially the 993 GT2 line. Turbos, they’re called, and in 1985 Porsche took the 911 Turbo, twin-turbo, flat-six engine and combined it with a wide-body, rear-drive chassis to create a beautiful machine. Side canards and a massive rear wing with air scoops, it was also upgraded under the hood, it got a bump to 429 hp—which meant zero to sixty in 3.9 seconds, top speed 187 mph. Porsche only made fifty-seven of these beauties, the last of the air-cooled engines and fate smiled down on me the day a guy who called himself Biggie North got picked up on 35W doing a Hasselhoff, as if the three-lane freeway might be the Autobahn. Poor girl was coughing her way down the highway, finally sputtered out and shut down right there in the middle lane. Highway patrol snagged Biggie on a dozen other warrants and my dream girl got hauled off to impound.
A month later, she auctioned off at exactly the spare change in my recently flush savings account.
I spent the next year under the hood, replaced the timing belt, rebuilt the carburetor, got her purring, then turned to the interior where I ripped out the red carpet, replaced it with utilitarian black, shined up the leather seats and since then she’s been a guy’s best friend.
Always hot, always ready to go. I know I sound about twenty-six, but a guy needs a way to remember who he was.
Eve hates the car. Makes me drive the Ford Escape when I take Ashley to school, even though Ash would choose the Porsche every time.
I slide in, open the T-roof and turn on KQ92 as I pull out.
I tap out Haddaway’s, “What is Love,” on the steering wheel as I cruise around the lake. There are still a few runners out as the sun climbs the sky, the lake rippling under the brush of the wind. I like the energy of Uptown, the specialty delis, the mix of vintage theaters and shiny new gyms and eclectic whole food cafés. There’s something for everybody, and it never bores.
I’d die a slow death in
