I rolled up the door of unit 63, braced for the worst thing a widow can imagine, and the light fell on a car under a fitted cover. I pulled the cover back, and my breath caught, because it was a 1966 Mustang, candy-apple red, restored to a mirror shine, the twin of the one we courted in and sold when the babies came.
I sat down on the bumper, my knees gone.
Only came at night, the young man had said, and now I saw why, my Bill worked days right up until his heart gave out, so the only time he had for his secret project was after dark, out here where no one would spoil the surprise.
For sixteen years, my Bill had been secretly rebuilding the car of our young love, piece by piece, night after night, out of his own quiet pocket money.
And taped to the steering wheel was an envelope with my name on it.
He wrote: Old girl, I know I cannot keep a secret to save my life, so keeping this one for sixteen years about killed me. This is our car, or near enough. I found her and I have been bringing her back for you, for our fiftieth anniversary. I wanted to drive you to dinner in her like it was 1966 all over again. I came at night so you would never catch me and so I would never blab. I am sorry I did not finish in time. Take her out, old girl. Think of us young. Love, Bill.
I wept over that steering wheel. Only at night, so he would not ruin the surprise, the way he ruined every surprise. This one he kept. For me.
The car was nearly done, just the chrome left to finish. I found one of Bills old friends from the shop, and he completed it exactly to Bills notes.
And on what would have been our fiftieth anniversary, that old friend put on a suit, picked me up in that candy-apple Mustang, and drove me to dinner, just the way Bill planned, back to 1966 for one perfect evening.
I drive it on Sundays now. Bill is in every gleaming inch of it. The man who could not keep a secret kept the biggest, sweetest one of his life, working in the dark so it could be the surprise of mine.
My daughter did not know why I drove across town. Now she does. Her daddy was rebuilding us a chariot, at night, for love. I keep it polished. I keep him with me. Only at night, so the surprise would keep. It kept. It always will.