Page 21 of Atonement Trail
Friday arrived wearing fog thick as wool, the mountains invisible behind curtains of white that turned Laurel Valley into an island floating in clouds. Dylan stood outside the Henderson building—what would become her restoration shop—watching Hank O’Hara measure doorways and tap walls with the focused intensity of a doctor examining a patient.
“The good news,” Hank said, making notes on his tablet, “is the bones are solid. Better than solid. They built things to last in 1923.”
“And the bad news?” Aidan asked from where he leaned against the brick exterior, looking unfairly good for seven in the morning.
“Those gorgeous hardwood floors have to go in the work areas. You can’t put a two-post lift through hundred-year-old wood and expect it to hold. We’ll need to excavate, pour reinforced concrete, proper drainage for the work bays.”
Dylan tried not to let disappointment show. She’d been doing restoration work in a cramped corner of The Pinnacle for five years, making do with the standard garage equipment. When Aidan had shown her this space on Tuesday, she’d immediately envisioned keeping those floors, maintaining the building’s character while creating something entirely hers.
“But,” Hank continued, his expression softening at her obvious dismay, “we can save them in the front third of the building. Create zones—modern industrial in the back where you need it, historical preservation in front for your office, customer waiting area, display space. Best of both worlds.”
“Display space?” Dylan asked.
“For before-and-after photos. Maybe a few choice pieces. You’re not just fixing cars, you’re creating art. People should see that the moment they walk in.”
Aidan moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth in the cool morning. “What do you think?”
“I think it sounds expensive.”
“Most things worth doing are.” He turned to Hank. “Timeline?”
“If we start Monday, basic structural work will take three weeks. Electrical and plumbing, another two. You could be operational by Thanksgiving if we push, but I’d recommend waiting until after the holidays. Do it right rather than fast.”
“After the holidays,” Dylan agreed, though the wait chafed. She’d been ready for her own space for years; another two months felt like eternity.
“I’ll draw up the plans this weekend,” Hank said, tucking his tablet away. “Full restoration shop in back, elegant customer space in front. We’ll expose those brick walls properly, keep the tin ceiling. It’ll be the finest restoration shop in three states.”
After Hank left for another job site, Dylan and Aidan stood alone in the foggy morning, looking at the building that would transform from abandoned storefront to dream realized.
“Second thoughts?” Aidan asked.
“Third and fourth thoughts. This is a massive investment.”
“It’s the right investment. You’ve been making do with a corner of The Pinnacle for five years. The work you’ve done—the Barracuda, the Ferrari, all of it—that’s been with basic equipment and borrowed space. Imagine what you’ll create with a proper setup.”
“What if?—”
“Stop.” He turned to face her fully, and the intensity in his green eyes made her words evaporate. “You’re talented, Dylan. Beyond talented. You see what cars could be, not just what they are. This town needs that. I need that.”
The last three words hung between them, weighted with meaning neither was ready to explore. Since Tuesday’s dinner, since the signing of partnership papers and that walk through town, something had shifted. They were business partners now, but the air between them crackled with the possibility of something more.
“The equipment’s already ordered,” Aidan said, breaking the moment. “It’ll go into storage until the renovation’s complete. No point in setting it up at The Pinnacle just to move it. I may have gotten enthusiastic with the catalog.”
“Aidan—”
“Partner’s prerogative. Besides, Judge Harrison called yesterday about his Packard. He wants to be your first official restoration customer. That commission alone will cover the equipment costs.”
Dylan felt overwhelmed by the speed of change, the weight of other people’s faith in her abilities. “This is happening fast.”
“Five years of groundwork isn’t fast. It’s overdue.”
They walked back toward The Pinnacle together, navigating the foggy streets with the ease of people who knew every cobblestone, every uneven patch, every place where October ice liked to form. Downtown was beginning to wake—Rose arranging pastries in the bakery window, Bernie Watson setting up his newsstand, the town performing its morning ritual of transformation from sleeping beauty to bustling destination.
“Tomorrow,” Aidan said as they reached the garage. “The treasure hunt continues.”
Tomorrow. Saturday. The oak tree by the lake where Patrick had carved his initials with Margaret’s, where love had been literally grown into the bark.
“Eight o’clock?” Dylan asked.
