The visits settled into a rhythm faster than either of them expected.
Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, Elena arrived at Henry's Auto Repair around 2:30 p.m.—after David finished the lunch rush and before the after-work crowd rolled in. The first few times, her driver dropped her off and waited in the parking lot. By the third week, she told him to leave and come back in two hours. She wanted the freedom to stay longer if she felt like it.
David always had the stool ready—wiped clean, positioned near the workbench so she could watch him work without being in the way. He poured coffee the moment her crutches clicked across the threshold. Black for him. Cream and two sugars for her. Sometimes she brought something from the bakery near her condo: muffins, scones, once even a small box of beignets she'd found at a New Orleans-style café downtown. He always accepted with a quiet "You didn't have to," but he ate every bite.
They talked while he worked.
She asked questions about engines she'd never thought to ask before—why a timing belt mattered, what made a transmission slip, how he knew when a head gasket was about to blow. He answered patiently, pointing with greasy fingers, using simple words. No condescension. Just a man who loved what he did and didn't mind sharing it.
In return, she told him about her life—the parts she rarely shared with anyone. The pressure of board meetings where men twice her age talked over her. The charity galas where smiles were currency and conversations were transactions. The way her father looked at her sometimes—like she was the final piece in a puzzle he'd spent forty years building, and any wrong move could ruin the picture.
One Thursday in early November, snow flurries were drifting again outside the open bay door. David was replacing spark plugs on a Subaru Outback. Elena sat on the stool, legs stretched out carefully, crutches leaning against the bench.
"You ever think about doing something else?" she asked.
David paused, plug wrench in hand. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Something bigger. You're smart. You could run a chain of shops. Or teach. Or… anything."
He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. "I like this. Fixing what's broken. Seeing a car come in limping and leave running smooth. It's honest work. Pays the bills. Lets me be home for Jamal most nights. What more do I need?"
She studied him. "Most people want more."
"Most people chase more and end up tired." He tightened the last plug, lowered the hood gently. "I got enough."
Elena smiled softly. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. When you stop comparing."
She looked down at her hands. "I've spent my whole life comparing. To my father. To what he expects. To what the world thinks a Whitaker should be."
David leaned against the fender, arms crossed. "And what do you think an Elena should be?"
She met his eyes. "I don't know yet. But I'm starting to want to find out."
He nodded once. "That's a good place to start."
A silence settled—comfortable, not heavy. The gospel station played low: "It Is Well with My Soul." David hummed along under his breath while he cleaned his tools.
Elena watched him. The way his shoulders moved under the work shirt. The careful way he placed each wrench back in its drawer. The small scar on his left knuckle she'd noticed weeks ago but never asked about.
"David?"
"Hmm?"
"How did you get that scar?"
He glanced at his hand. "Old fight. High school. Guy said something about my sister. I didn't like it."
"You fought for her?"
"Punched him once. He punched back harder." He grinned. "I was fifteen. Thought I was tough."
She laughed—the first real, unguarded laugh he'd heard from her. It surprised them both.
"You should laugh more," he said quietly.
"I don't get many chances."
"You got one now."
She laughed again, softer this time. "You're good at making me do that."
"Glad to be of service."
A customer pulled in—an elderly woman in a Buick whose check-engine light had come on. David excused himself, handled the intake, came back ten minutes later.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. I like watching you work."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Really. It's… calming. You're focused. No drama. Just problem, solution, done."
He chuckled. "If only life was that easy."
"Some parts are."
They fell quiet again. Then Elena said, "Tell me something funny about Jamal."
David's face lit up. "Last week he tried to make tacos for dinner. Used hot sauce instead of salsa. Thought it was the same thing. Cried for twenty minutes after the first bite. I had to give him milk and ice cream."
Elena laughed so hard she clutched her side. "Poor kid."
"He's tough. Took it like a man. Then asked me to teach him how to cook properly."
"You cook?"
"Enough to keep us alive. Peach cobbler's my specialty. Rest is basic."
"I want to try it sometime. Your cobbler."
He looked at her—really looked. "You're welcome anytime. Our place ain't fancy, but the food's honest."
"Maybe I will."
The garage phone rang then. David stepped into the office to answer it. Elena heard his voice—low, calm—scheduling an appointment. When he came back, his expression had changed slightly. Not worried, but thoughtful.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just Jamal's coach. Game got moved to Saturday. Early."
"You going?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
She hesitated. "Can I come?"
He blinked. "To a high-school basketball game?"
"Why not? I've never been to one. And… I'd like to meet Jamal."
David rubbed the back of his neck. "It's loud. Crowded. Bleachers ain't comfortable with a cast."
"I can handle it."
He studied her a long moment. Then smiled. "Alright. Saturday. Tip-off at 4 p.m. I'll text you the school address."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You might hate basketball."
"I doubt it."
The rest of the afternoon passed in easy rhythm. David finished two more jobs. Elena asked more questions, laughed at his dry jokes about customers who thought they knew more than they did. When her driver arrived at 4:45, she didn't want to leave.
David walked her to the SUV, steadying her elbow when she wobbled on a patch of ice.
"See you Saturday?" she asked.
"See you Saturday."
She climbed in. The door closed. The SUV pulled away.
David stood in the cold until it vanished around the corner. Then he went back inside, picked up his rag, and wiped down the workbench even though it was already clean.
That night, in his apartment, Jamal sat at the kitchen table doing homework while David heated leftover chili.
"Coach called," David said casually.
"Yeah. Game's early now."
"Got a friend coming with me."
Jamal looked up. "Who?"
"Her name's Elena. She's… someone I helped a while back."
Jamal's eyebrows rose. "The lady from the crash? The one you prayed over?"
David nodded. "Yeah."
Jamal grinned wide. "She's coming to my game?"
"If she wants."
Jamal leaned back. "You like her, Uncle D?"
David stirred the chili. "She's nice."
Jamal snorted. "Nice. Right."
"Eat your food."
Jamal laughed. "She pretty?"
David shot him a look. "Mind your business and finish your math."
But he smiled into the pot.
Across town, in her quiet condo overlooking the city lights, Elena sat on the couch with her leg propped up. She opened her phone, scrolled to David's last text:
Game at East Denver High. 4 p.m. Saturday. Bleachers are rowdy. Bring a blanket if you're cold.
She typed back:
I'll be there. Can't wait to see you play, Jamal. And you cheer.
She hit send.
Then she stared at the screen, heart beating a little too fast.
Saturday was three days away.
And for the first time in years, she felt something like anticipation—real, uncomplicated, bright.
Outside her window, snow fell softly.
Inside the garage across town, David locked up for the night, turned off the lights, and walked to his truck.
He started the engine, gospel radio coming on automatically.
The song was "Blessed Assurance."
He sang along all the way home.
The game is coming.
Jamal is curious.
Elena is stepping further into David's world.
And Harlan just noticed she canceled her Aspen rehab plans.