I drove home at sunrise and sat in the garage and looked at the rusted-out 1968 Ford Mustang fastback she had bought me at Barrett-Jackson in Scottsdale two years before. She had handed me the auction paddle and said, “Sterling, we’re buying it. Tate is twelve. The two of you need a project.” He had been twelve. He is nineteen now. He starts at the University of Georgia in two weeks. We worked on that car together for four years in our old garage in Roswell, sanding, welding, rebuilding the four-speed, dropping in a fresh 289 V8. The pearl-white paint was hers. The cherry-red interior was Tate’s. The brass dash plaque with the date November 18th, 2017, “for my two favorite men,” was hers, riveted onto the glove box four months before the aneurysm.
I sold the Roswell house in 2023 because I could not sit on her porch swing anymore. I bought a four-bedroom in Briarwood Glen Estates in Cedarvale. New construction, brick, pine-straw beds, a two-car garage I painted myself the color of a Coca-Cola bottle. I did not tell anyone in Briarwood Glen that I was the chief. I wear jeans and a UGA cap on weekends. I drive a 2014 F-150 with the original tailgate dent from a Lowe’s parking lot. I keep my badge in my glove compartment. The Cedarvale PD station is fifteen minutes east. None of the new neighbors recognized me, and I did not see a reason to introduce myself with a title. I had come to Briarwood Glen to be quiet. Margaret was a quiet person. I was trying to be more like her.
Hadley Lockwood introduced herself two weekends after I closed on the house. She drove a pearl-white Mercedes GLE, the same color as the Mustang in my garage, which she would later tell me was providential. She brought a key-lime pound cake from the Publix bakery on a flowered porcelain plate. She wore a coral blouse and white capris and gold sandals. She told me she had been HOA president for nine years and that they just loved welcoming new families to Briarwood Glen. I thanked her. I took the cake. I told her my son and I would enjoy it. She did not ask what I did for a living. She did ask, twice, about the car in my garage. The first time I told her it was a rebuild project I had done with my son. The second time I told her it was not for sale. She smiled the way some women smile when they have already decided you are going to change your mind.
Three weeks after the pound cake, Hadley’s son walked into my garage, uninvited. I was changing the front sway-bar bushings on the Mustang. The garage door was up because Georgia in late August does not negotiate temperature. A muscular kid in white tennis shorts came up my driveway, stopped at the open bay, and said, “Whoa, is that a ’68?” His name was Bryson Lockwood, nineteen, tall, blond, the kind of boy who walks into rooms expecting people to look at him. I told him it was. I told him I was busy. He stood at the edge of my driveway for nine more minutes asking me what year the rear end was and whether the carburetor was original. I gave one-word answers. He left.
That evening Hadley sent me a text. “Sterling, Bryson is obsessed with the Mustang. He turns nineteen next month. Whit and I would love to talk about a fair purchase. Could we come over Saturday?” I wrote back, “Not for sale. Thank you for the cake.” She wrote back nine seconds later. “Sterling, every car is for sale. Let’s just have a conversation.” I did not reply. She came to my door anyway on Saturday morning with Whit. He was bigger than I remembered. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper, polo over khakis. He had the wide, calm handshake of a commercial real-estate developer who is used to closing deals at the country club. He told me he would be willing to write a check that day for twenty-five thousand dollars. I told him the car was not for sale. He raised it to thirty-five. I told him it was not for sale. He paused. He nodded slowly. He smiled the way men smile when they are about to start charging interest. “Well, Sterling, we respect that. We sure do. But we wanted to put a fair number on the table while we could.” They left. Whit’s pearl-white Range Rover backed slowly out of my driveway. Hadley waved out the passenger window.