Page 18 of Atonement Trail
Raven—Just passed Aidan walking home. That man looked like he’d been hit by lightning in the best possible way.
And from Aidan—Thursday. 6 p.m. Bring your appetite for pasta and mysterious family history. This feels like the beginning of something important.
Dylan set down her phone and looked around her apartment—walls now warm as embraces, space transformed from temporary to intentional. She’d signed contracts, made commitments, chosen to stay. But more than that, she’d chosen to hope.
Wednesday dawned crisp and clear, the kind of October morning that made the whole valley look like it had been painted by someone who understood that beauty and melancholy were sisters. Dylan arrived at the garage early, needing the familiar rhythm of work to steady herself against the changes she’d set in motion.
Ralph was already there, whistling something that might have been a love song or might have been a funeral dirge—with Ralph’s musical ability, it was impossible to tell.
“So,” he said, his mustache twitching with suppressed glee, “the corner booth.”
“It was the only table available.”
“That booth hasn’t been ‘available’ since Simone took over. That’s the booth where three generations of Laurel Valley couples have gotten engaged. There’s actually a plaque.”
“A plaque?”
“Tiny one. Brass. Says Love Starts Here in fancy script. Jimmy Chen had it made after he proposed to his wife there in ’98.”
Dylan focused intently on organizing tools that didn’t need organizing. “It was a business dinner.”
“Sure it was. And I’m a ballet dancer.”
Before she could respond, Aidan appeared in the garage, morning light following him like a spotlight. He looked at her across the space, and his smile carried the memory of candlelight and confessions.
“Morning, partner,” he said, and the word felt like a key turning in a lock, opening doors she’d kept closed for thirteen years.
“Morning,” she managed, aware of Ralph watching them with the intensity of someone witnessing history.
“I’ve ordered the initial equipment for the restoration bay. Should be here Monday.”
Monday. Five days away. Five days until the restoration division became real, concrete, undeniable. Five days to figure out how to be someone’s partner without losing herself in the process.
“That’s fast,” she said.
“No point in waiting. We’ve got Mrs. Morrison’s neighbor asking about a ’67 Mustang, and Judge Hornsby wants to discuss his father’s Packard. Word’s already spreading.”
Word was always spreading in Laurel Valley. By noon, three people had stopped by to congratulate Dylan on the partnership, two had asked if she was taking on apprentices, and Mrs. Whitfield from the historical society had called to say she had photographs of the O’Hara homestead from the 1920s that might help with the treasure hunt.
Dylan worked through it all, finding refuge in the familiar rhythm of diagnostics and repair. But her mind kept circling to Thursday, to dinner at Aidan’s house, to the dangerous territory of his private space and family history.
The Ferrari owner finally arrived to collect his car, twelve days late and completely unapologetic. He handed over the payment without looking at the bill, his attention already on his next destination, his next forgettable adventure. Dylan watched him drive away and thought about the difference between moving and running, between traveling and searching, between being somewhere and belonging there.
“You okay?” Aidan asked, appearing at her shoulder with the stealth that seemed impossible for someone his size.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Says the man who bought a building on potential.”
“Secured an option on a building,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
He was quiet for a moment, and she could feel him choosing his words like selecting tools for a delicate repair. “One’s a commitment. The other’s a possibility. I wanted to give you possibilities, not obligations.”
The thoughtfulness of it, the way he was trying not to pressure her even as he offered her dreams, made something shift in Dylan’s chest like ice beginning its slow surrender to spring.
