Mark makes arrangements to meet with Mr. DeSouza at his secret warehouse for the following week, asking permission to bring me along. DeSouza says he’d be delighted to see me, so long as we don’t mind if some of Mr. DeSouza’s colleagues attend the meeting as well.

Then he swears us to secrecy once again, and wishes us a good night.

Even though we’re exhausted, Mark and I talk excitedly for another hour or so, looking at the photos again.

We both recognize that this is might be an opportunity of a lifetime. Soon, Mark will obtain the equipment the shop requires, enabling him to take on more work and hire more staff anyway.

If Mark gets this restoration work, it will lead to more high-end jobs. Which means, Mollenkamp Motors will be lifted out of the bang-and-grind of work-a-day motor repairs and into the rarified, moneyed circles of classic vehicle restoration…and into direct competition with my father’s business unit doing the same thing.

The kind of work that currently employs Tommy…and lately, me. The work that we just completed that pain-in-the-ass audit for, in order to complete the cost/profit analysis and determine if high-end car restoration is even worthwhile for Sinclair’s to be doing anymore.

Either way, in all reality, there’s enough work to go around, so it’s not exactly competing with Dad that worries us.

Well, we’re both nervous about that, but, determined to do it anyway. Mark has the right to succeed.

It’s just that neither one of us wants to rock the family boat again, especially since it seemed to knock my Dad so far off course that he basically checked out of the family for a while there.

Especially since a fragile peace has so recently been established again.

So we make a plan. We’ll see how the meeting with DeSouza goes, and then we’ll get together with my family for my birthday celebrations…and also, to make the announcement of our engagement.

That’s two secrets we’re keeping, then.

Well, three…for me anyway.

If you count Kazuko.

To me, it feels for all the world like she saved us both. I mean, don’t get me wrong. My logical brain says, “Nah! That’s ridiculous!”

But my heart…? My heart says…maybe.

Touching the inked herons on my arms, I can’t help but smile. I’m so happy that I have those mythical birds there, where I can keep them for myself, always…where I can always see them, flying forever in her memory.

I think…yes. Maybe I’ll keep that secret to myself forever, too.

Kazuko would probably approve.

* * *

Besides, I’m happy as a pig-in-a-pen to be keeping the secrets I’m keeping with my man…the two of us, thick as thieves and head-over-heels in love.

I can’t for the life of me think of anything better than that.

As the week progresses, it’s tough to stay calm and cool with all the simmering excitement bubbling underneath everything, but we manage somehow.

Mark goes to work as usual and I putter around the apartment, recovering. I keep busy with tidying and cleaning, cooking and reading and catching up on sleep. I have lunch with my mom, walk the dogs with Brenda and have In-And-Out burgers with Jenny and Amanda, watching the race footage with them and answering their questions and just…getting back to normal.

To my relief, no one asks any questions about what happened. And I don’t offer any explanations.

I just let it fade away, like a flock of herons fading into the distance.

Gone but not forgotten.

Of course, the whole time, I’m dying to tell them that I’m engaged.

But I don’t. It’s only fair to tell my family first. And that’s gotta wait until we sort out what we’re already calling the DeSouza Collection.

* * *

The much-anticipated day rolls around. Mr. DeSouza sends us the warehouse address and Mark and I drive out there.

The address turns out to be a long-disused airfield, one that the town appropriated back in the seventies to turn into a housing development, but due to changing economic times, never did anything with.

The old runways are no longer visible, but a newer-looking barbed-wire fence stretches away on either side of a gated entrance. The fence is hung with No Trespassing and Private Property signs, belying the abandoned air of the place, and a kiosk, staffed with a security officer, guards the gated entrance.

The gate sits at the head of a tidy dirt road, which leads away towards a disreputable-looking hangar, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight like a rusty mirage.

We pull up to the kiosk. The unsmiling guard asks for our names and ID, and then the gate swings silently open.

Mark steers the truck through it and down the silent dirt road.

“Geez,” I say. “Welcome to Dr. DeSouza’s World Domination Headquarters!”

We both chortle. “Yeah, this could totally be some evil villain’s lair, couldn’t it? The place looks deserted but check it out…it’s wired to the max,” Mark notes, pointing to the cell tower standing off to the side in one field, and then to a series of tall poles, standing along the side of the road at intervals, each carrying a light fixture.

And, every so often, a pole is fitted with the familiar dark sphere that encloses a CCTV camera.

“Wow. Someone’s serious about security,” I say, impressed.

“Sure seems like it,” Mark replies. “This is a far cry from Mr. DeSouza’s seventies-style house in the ‘burbs.”

Approaching the rusted hangar, a sign directs traffic through an open gate next to another manned kiosk. The guard waves us through.

We follow the signs to a parking lot at the back of the structure, while, behind us, the gate wheels closed.

Rounding the corner of the building, we see a small dirt lot, empty except for two vehicles.

One is a nondescript Ford sedan.

The other is a decked-out, navy-blue crew-cab Ford F10, with familiar heavy-duty brush-guard grille, fog lights, fancy step-bars and dual rear wheels.

The Sinclair Auto Supply logo is stenciled on the driver’s door.

I don’t need to see the other side to know that the same logo appears on the door on that side, too.

Mark and I look at each other in amazement.

My father’s here.

* * *

Inside the hangar, there’s a vestibule, with a few chairs and a closed door leading into the hangar.

A sliding glass window separates the entry from a small, modern office, where an unsmiling but polite security officer mans a desk bristling with display monitors.

Sliding the glass window open, the man hands us two clipboards. “Hello. Mr. DeSouza requires your signatures before you can proceed.”

We take the clipboards to the seating area and read the attached papers. It’s a non-disclosure agreement. We read, sign, and hand them back to the guard.

After a moment, the closed door opens and a smiling Mr. DeSouza appears, inviting us inside.

We exchange greetings and pleasantries. “I’m kind of excited to be here,” I say, in reply to DeSouza’s welcome.

“It’s an exciting day for me, too. Thank you for your co-operation and interest. It will be nice to get this ball rolling properly, after all these years.”

After a short walk down a corridor, we go through another closed door and emerge into a large, open warehouse. A drywall partition with a closed door partitions off the back of the space, indicating that this area of the facility is only part of the mystery.

High overhead, banks of overhead lights illuminate row after row of dusty cars, parked closely together in ranks of about ten, separated on either side by a narrow corridor of space. The configuration reminds me of a vegetable garden, where you often have rows of plants separated by access walkways for watering and tending.

And the “crop” here is a bumper one, alright! Dozens of dusty, sometimes rusty, venerable old automobiles…classic cars.

Or at least, in some cases, what’s left of one.

Row after row of cars, painted in every color, jewel-tones, two-tones, pastels and garish custom jobs. The gleam of all that chrome is often muted by dust, rust or grime, but the potential for restoration still plainly evident.

It’s a smorgasbord of classic automobiles. I can smell the tang of metal, oil, gas and rust hanging in the air.

“Wow!” Mark exclaims, then whistles softly as our heads crane around, trying to identify all the vehicles.

Mr. DeSouza laughs softly. “Yes, there are one hundred and sixty-five vehicles in this section. About half that in another section.”

Mark and I shoot a glance at each other.

One hundred sixty-five? Another eighty-five somewhere else?

Holy crap!!

“Some, I acquired as a labor of love, you might say,” DeSouza continues, “and they aren’t worth as much as others. Except, perhaps, to an aficionado like me. But some…heh. Some are very rare, and worth a substantial amount of money.”

“My God,” Mark says, head still swiveling as he tries to take in the sights. “What…how…holy shit! Wait…those are…”

He strides over to a row of low, three-wheeled vehicles, with me close on his heels. All the vehicles in this row sport offset headlamps, tall windows capped with a a narrow canvas roof and a rounded, snub-nosed front engine compartment. “Messerschmitts! Cabin scooters!”

“Bubble cars? Cool!” I shout, unable to contain myself.

Made in Germany after World War II by the famous aircraft manufacturer of the same name, these mini, tandem-seater vehicles are sought-after collectors items, with restored values rivaling that of some of the finest racing cars.

Behind the bubble cars is a row of Studebakers from the fifties and sixties, hot rods and sedans both, in various states of repair.

Behind those, is a row of Cadillacs from the same era, some in decent condition and some, not so much.

And behind those, is a row of Ferraris.

And behind those, sits the Mercedes.

And behind those….the Lamborghinis we saw in the photos.

And behind those, there’s the Citroens. Not just one, but six.

There’s even a couple Grimmettis back there.

“Look at ‘em, ’Ree,” Mark says, his voice hushed and reverent. “Just…look at ‘em all!”

My eyes must be bugging right out of my head, there are so many makes and models represented here.

Classic American cars by Chevrolet, Buick and Ford are as lovingly gathered as Maseratis and Bugattis and Austins and Jags.

Caddies, Beamers and Hudsons, oh my!

As is, the collection is worth a fortune. Fully restored, it’s anybody’s guess how much monetary value is sitting in this location right now.

All told, there must be a couple million dollars worth of cars sitting under this roof here today.

Maybe more.

My mind can’t take it all in.

Mr. DeSouza is calm and unruffled. “Of late, your father has been here, helping me catalogue them, Marie. Today, he brought your brother Thomas as well.”

“Oh…you mean, my father and brother are the colleagues you spoke of?”

DeSouza nods, smiling.

Mark and I look at each other and laugh.

As if on cue, the door in the partition at the rear opens and my father and Tommy walk through it, chatting.

Tommy’s carrying his iPad and my dad has a clipboard.

“Here they come now,” Mr. DeSouza says.

My brother and my father spot us and their faces light up.

“Hey, guys,” my dad calls out, and his voice is as light and chipper as I’ve ever heard it.

“Welcome to Heaven,” Tommy laughs. They join us where we stand gaping at the all the cars. “My idea of it, anyway,” he adds.

“Mine too,” Mark says, beaming at my dad.

“Isn’t it exciting? We couldn’t wait for you to get here! Harry has given me his inventory listing,” Dad says, holding up the clipboard. “Thomas has taken photographs of this collection with his gadget there,” he continues, indicating Tommy’s iPad, “and we are ready to start cataloguing the parts as well.”

Tommy waves towards the door they just came through. “You gotta check that out before you leave, Mark. What a treasure trove!”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Dad says.

Mr. DeSouza leads us all to a well-appointed lunch room. There’s fresh coffee, sodas and bottled water.

At DeSouza’s direction, we help ourselves to a beverage and take a seat at the lunch table.

“Okay, guys,” Dad says, after taking a long swallow of water. “You’ve seen the goods. Let’s talk details now.”