I rolled up the door of unit 22, braced for the worst a widow can imagine, and the cool air rolled out, and the light fell on a car under a fitted cover. I drew the cover back, and my breath left me, because it was a 1965 Chevelle, midnight blue, restored to a mirror shine, the twin of the one Gerald courted me in.
I sat down on the bumper, my knees gone soft.
Couldnt take the heat or the cold, the woman had said, and now I understood, a fresh paint job and fine restoration work crack and fade in a hot metal shed or a freezing one, and my Gerald was protecting a beautiful thing he had labored over for years.
For thirteen years, my Gerald had been secretly rebuilding the car of our young love, piece by piece, and keeping it in that climate-controlled room so the paint and leather and chrome would stay perfect.
And taped to the steering wheel was an envelope with my name on it.
He wrote: Old girl, I know I tell you when I change a light bulb, so keeping this secret thirteen years about did me in. This is our car, near as I could find. I have been bringing her back for you, for our fortieth anniversary. I paid the extra to keep her cool because I did not spend thirteen years on this paint to let a hot shed ruin it. I wanted to drive you to dinner in her like it was 1965. I am sorry I did not finish in time. Take her out, old girl. Remember us young. Love, Gerald.
I wept over that steering wheel. Couldnt take the heat or the cold, because he would not let one summer ruin thirteen years of love.
The car was nearly finished, just small things left. One of Geralds old friends from the shop completed it exactly to his notes.
And on what would have been our fortieth anniversary, that friend put on his good suit, picked me up in that midnight-blue Chevelle, and drove me to dinner, just the way Gerald planned, back to 1965 for one perfect evening.
I drive it on fine days now. Gerald is in every gleaming inch of it. The man who could not keep a secret about a light bulb kept the biggest, sweetest one of his life, and kept it cool and perfect, for me.
My son did not know why I drove out toward the airport. Now he knows his daddy was rebuilding us a chariot. Couldnt take the heat or the cold, because love that careful deserves to be kept perfect. It is. He is. I keep them both polished and close.