Faded brick.
Boarded windows.
Weeds growing through cracks in the pavement.
The old marquee still displayed three missing letters from an event nobody remembered.
Miriam carried a small bouquet of white daisies.
Nathan walked beside her but stopped before the steps.
He watched her place the flowers beneath the doors.
She touched the brick.
For nearly five minutes, Miriam said nothing.
Nathan looked away.
Finally she spoke.
“He couldn't dance.”
Nathan turned.
“What?”
“My husband.”
She smiled.
“Terrible dancer.”
“Then why meet at a dance hall?”
“He was handsome.”
“Fair.”
“He stepped on my feet through three songs.”
“Romance.”
“I almost never spoke to him again.”
“What changed?”
Miriam looked toward the boarded entrance.
“He came back the next Saturday wearing polished shoes and carrying a book from the library called Modern Ballroom Techniques.”
Nathan laughed.
“He studied?”
“For a week.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
Miriam laughed too.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“But I married him anyway.”
Nathan looked at Bellweather Hall.
He could almost imagine it alive.
Music.
Lights.
Young couples moving behind the windows.
He had spent years repairing motorcycles because machines made sense to him.
Broken parts had causes.
Causes had solutions.
Grief was different.
Nothing repaired it.
You simply learned which noises were normal.
Miriam wiped her eyes.
“Thank you.”
Nathan nodded.
“Sure.”
“You can take me home now.”
He did.
Before she entered her small white house, Miriam turned toward him.
“You never told me why you actually stopped.”
Nathan looked at the rain.
“Your groceries looked expensive.”
She smiled.
“No.”
Nathan shrugged.
“Maybe I didn't like seeing you standing there alone.”
Miriam studied him for a long moment.
Then she said something that would follow him for the next three years.
“Well, Nathan Cole, neither do I.”
She closed the door.
Nathan stood in the rain longer than necessary.
Then he turned back toward the tow truck.
At the time, he believed he had helped an old woman through one difficult afternoon.
He had no idea Miriam Hale was about to change almost everything about his life.
Nathan replaced Miriam's tire the following morning.
He charged her for the tire.
Only the tire.
Nothing for towing.
Nothing for labor.
Miriam arrived at his shop at eleven carrying a homemade apple cake.
“I told you I don't accept charity,” Nathan said.
“It isn't charity.”
“What is it?”
“Payment.”
“For forty dollars of labor?”
“You haven't tasted it.”
Eli cut himself a slice before Nathan could object.
His eyes widened.
“Oh, boss.”
Nathan looked at him.
“What?”
“You've been undercharging this woman.”
Miriam laughed.
That should have been the end.
Instead, she returned the following Tuesday.
This time her Buick was working perfectly.
Nathan was beneath a motorcycle when he heard her voice.
“I require professional assistance.”
He rolled out.
“With what?”
“My windshield wipers squeak.”
Nathan stared at her.
“You drove twelve miles for squeaky wipers?”
“Eleven point four.”
“You counted?”
“I have a dashboard.”
He inspected the wipers.
They were fine.
He cleaned the windshield anyway.
Miriam stood beside him.
Then she asked, “Are you busy next Tuesday?”
Nathan looked suspicious.
“Why?”
“Bellweather.”
Nathan understood.
“You have another anniversary?”
“No.”
“Then why Tuesday?”
“Tuesday was dance night.”
He laughed.
“You want me to drive you to a condemned building every Tuesday?”
“Only until you get tired of me.”
“That might be today.”
“Excellent. Pick me up at two.”
She left.
Eli watched from the office.
Nathan pointed.
“Not a word.”
Eli smiled.
“Your girlfriend is bossy.”
Nathan threw a rag at him.
The next Tuesday, at 1:58, Nathan pulled into Miriam's driveway.
He told himself he was going because he needed to check a customer's motorcycle downtown afterward.
There was no customer.
Miriam emerged carrying a thermos.
At Bellweather they sat on the hood of Nathan's truck.
She poured coffee.
It was terrible.
Nathan drank it anyway.
Miriam told him about her husband, Walter Hale.
He had worked thirty-seven years for the railroad.
Loved woodworking.
Hated olives.
Refused to buy new shoes until the soles became dangerous.
Together they had raised one daughter, Rebecca.
Rebecca now lived in Cincinnati with her husband and two children.
“They visit?” Nathan asked.
“Of course.”
“How often?”
“Enough.”
That answer told him not enough.
Miriam changed the subject.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Wife?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Children?”
Nathan looked toward the boarded building.
“No.”
Miriam waited.
He didn't continue.
Unlike most people, she didn't push.
That earned something from him.
“My wife wanted them.”
“Children?”
“Yeah.”
“And you?”
“I thought there'd be time.”
Miriam remained quiet.
Nathan continued.
“We were married nine years.”
“What happened?”
“I was good at making promises about later.”
Miriam studied him.
“That sounds expensive.”
“It was.”
His former wife eventually left.
Not for another man.
Nathan almost wished she had.
That would have given him someone to blame.
Instead she simply got tired of waiting for Nathan to become present.
He had spent most of his thirties drinking, riding, fighting, and pretending owning a successful shop meant he was building a life.
When she left, she told him something he hated because it was true.
You show up for broken motorcycles more reliably than you show up for people.
Nathan didn't tell Miriam that part.
Not yet.
The Tuesdays continued.
Then Tuesdays became Sunday lunches too.
Miriam cooked.
Nathan fixed things.
A loose porch rail.
A leaking faucet.
A stubborn window.
A lawn mower that hadn't started in two summers.
Miriam paid him in food regardless of his objections.
Eli eventually started coming.
Then Ray Bishop, another rider from Nathan's club, began stopping by.
Miriam called them “the noisy boys.”
They called her Miss Miriam.
The neighbors were uncertain.
A stream of motorcycles outside the quiet widow's house produced gossip within days.
Miriam found it hilarious.
One afternoon her neighbor, Linda Parker, approached while Nathan replaced a gutter.
“Everything all right, Miriam?”
Miriam looked confused.
“Why wouldn't it be?”
Linda glanced at Nathan.
“I just noticed you've had... visitors.”
Nathan kept working.
Miriam understood immediately.
“Oh.”
She smiled.
“Are you worried Nathan is robbing me?”
Linda turned red.
“No, I—”
“He's terrible at robbery.”
Nathan looked down from the ladder.
“Thanks.”
“He keeps repairing things and forgetting to invoice me.”
Linda apologized and left.
Miriam called after her.
“Come for coffee next time! He looks much worse than he is!”
Nathan nearly dropped his screwdriver.
Their strangest project began in April.
Miriam stood outside Bellweather Hall staring at the broken marquee.
“They're demolishing it.”
Nathan followed her gaze.
A city notice had been posted beside the entrance.
DANGEROUS STRUCTURE — DEMOLITION REVIEW PENDING.
“When?” he asked.
“Council meeting next month.”
Miriam's face had changed.
This wasn't simple nostalgia.
It looked like another death.
Nathan said, “Building's rough.”
“It is.”
“Roof's probably gone.”
“Yes.”
“Plumbing destroyed.”
“Probably.”
“Electrical system older than I am.”
“Almost certainly.”
Nathan looked at her.
“You want to save it.”
Miriam sighed.
“Wanting and doing are different things.”
Nathan thought about all the times that sentence had described his own life.