I rolled up the door of unit 31, braced for the worst a widow can imagine, and the light fell on a car under a fitted cover. I drew it back, and my breath left me, because it was a 1967 Pontiac, deep green, restored to a mirror shine, the twin of the one Walter courted me in.
I sat down on the bumper, my knees gone.
Real particular that no one be added but him, the man had said, and now I understood, my Walter was building me a surprise, and a man who cannot keep a Christmas gift secret past Thanksgiving needed to lock this one away where he could not spoil it.
For seventeen years, my Walter had been secretly rebuilding the car of our young love, piece by piece, out of his own quiet pocket money, keeping it here where no one could see and no one could tell.
Taped to the steering wheel was an envelope with my name on it.
He wrote: Old girl, you know I cannot keep a secret. I would ruin every surprise I ever tried to give you. So this one, the biggest of all, I had to hide where my own big mouth could not reach it, and I told the storage folks to add nobody but me, so I could not slip up. This is our car, or near as I could find her. I have been bringing her back for you, for our anniversary, to drive you to dinner like it was 1967. I am sorry I did not finish. Take her out, old girl. Remember us young. Love, Walter.
I wept over that steering wheel. Particular that no one be added, because he could not trust himself to keep the surprise otherwise.
The car was nearly done, just the chrome left. One of Walters old friends from the shop finished it exactly to his notes.
And on what would have been our anniversary, that friend put on his good suit, picked me up in that deep-green Pontiac, and drove me to dinner, just the way Walter planned, back to 1967 for one perfect evening.
I drive it on Sundays now. Walter is in every gleaming inch of it. The man who could not keep a secret kept the biggest, sweetest one of his life, by locking it away from his own blabbing mouth, all for me.
My daughter did not know why I drove out to Route 11. Now she knows her daddy was rebuilding us a chariot. Particular that no one be added, so the surprise would keep. It kept. He kept it. I keep them both, the car and the man, close and polished and loved.