Then smiled.
For the first time, the smile was genuine.
“Fine.”
The Single Dad spent the next three hours documenting the car.
The engine came first.
Its numbers matched the experimental paperwork.
But the engine itself was strange.
It resembled a production V8 from the era, yet several components had handwritten casting marks.
The intake manifold looked hand-machined.
The cylinder heads carried no conventional production code.
The transmission casing bore another experimental stamp.
The rear suspension was unlike the later factory model.
The Woman slowly stopped checking her phone.
At first, she stood at a distance.
Then closer.
Then she began asking questions.
“What makes that different?”
“Why is that important?”
“What does original mean?”
“Would replacing this destroy value?”
The Single Dad answered every question.
Eventually, she removed the sunglasses.
Then the blazer.
She draped it over a patio chair.
By late afternoon, the glamorous woman in orange heels was sitting cross-legged on the driveway beside a rusted prototype holding a flashlight for a mechanic.
The contrast made the Single Dad smile.
“What?”
She looked at him.
“You're going to ruin those trousers.”
She looked down.
A dark grease mark had appeared near one knee.
“They cost too much anyway.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Fashion rarely does.”
He laughed.
She smiled.
Then looked at the car.
“My father never told me.”
“About this?”
“About anything.”
The Single Dad remained quiet.
The Woman continued.
“He talked about engineering like other people talked about religion.”
“Everything had to be precise.”
“Everything had to be done correctly.”
“He could spend six hours explaining why one bolt was wrong.”
The Single Dad smiled.
“I would have liked him.”
The Woman did not.
“I didn't.”
The statement hung between them.
She seemed surprised she had said it aloud.
The Single Dad did not ask for explanation.
That made her continue.
“My parents divorced when I was eleven.”
“My mother moved us across the state.”
“My father stayed here.”
“He called sometimes.”
“Sent birthday cards.”
“Paid for things.”
“Always thought money solved the emotional part.”
The Single Dad tightened a flashlight bracket.
“He might have been bad at the emotional part.”
“He was.”
She looked toward the house.
“I visited twice in the last ten years.”
The Single Dad did not judge.
She seemed to be waiting for him to.
“You think that's terrible.”
“I don't know enough.”
“Most people would.”
“Most people talk too much.”
She laughed softly.
The Single Dad continued inspecting.
Near sunset, he found another envelope behind the passenger seat.
It had fallen between the seat frame and carpet.
The paper was yellow.
The front carried the Woman's name.
The Single Dad froze.
“What?”
She noticed his expression.
He handed it to her.
The Woman stared at her own name.
The handwriting was unmistakably her father’s.