8. The Land
The Land
Morgan
Through the bay door, she could see Nora approaching with her guitar case slung over her shoulder.
Morgan’s hands didn’t pause on the torque wrench, but her heart took a short break before going back to work, faster.
“Hi,” Nora said when she reached the bay door. “I hope it’s okay that I just showed up.”
“You said yesterday that you’d come back.”
It had become a habit, Nora showing up, though she usually texted first. Then she sat on her stool for a few hours, and sometimes they talked, but mostly they didn’t. There were more lines to the song Nora had started on now.
“I know, but I meant to text first, and then I was walking and…” Nora gestured vaguely. “Is now a bad time?”
Morgan glanced at the transmission, then at Nora. Fifty-one days left. “It’s fine.”
Rusty padded over to greet Nora, tail wagging in that slow, contented way he reserved for people he’d decided were acceptable. Nora knelt to scratch behind his ears, and Morgan noticed the way her shoulders dropped, tension releasing.
“What are you working on today?” Nora asked, standing.
“Transmission rebuild.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It’s systematic.” Morgan returned to the precise work of alignment. “Same as anything else.”
Nora settled onto the stool in the corner, unpacking her guitar with careful movements, and then she started playing soft melodies that somehow made the shop feel less empty without making it feel crowded. An impossible balance that Morgan still didn’t quite understand.
They worked in silence for a while—Morgan with her tools, Nora with her guitar. But this silence was charged somehow, like the air before a storm.
It had felt that way since the alternator four days prior. The wrench, their hands, and Morgan had turned her head when she’d known she shouldn’t have. Neither of them had mentioned it.
“Can I ask you something?” Nora said eventually.
Morgan looked up, prepared for another question about loneliness or certainty or the other uncomfortable topics Nora seemed comfortable discussing.
“Would you come somewhere with me? After you close?”
“Where?”
Nora’s fingers stilled on the guitar strings. “My grandfather’s property. The land I told you about.” She took a breath. “I need to go see it. And I don’t think I can do it alone.”
Morgan set down her wrench, processing the request. Nora wanted her to come to a place heavy with grief and memory, to witness something deeply personal.
“Why me?” she asked.
“Because you won’t try to make it better.” Nora met her eyes. “You won’t tell me it’s going to be okay or that time heals all wounds or any of the other things people say when they don’t know what else to do. You’ll just… be there.”
The observation was uncomfortably accurate. Morgan didn’t know how to offer comfort, didn’t have the words people seemed to expect in emotional moments.
“Okay,” Morgan said.
“Really?”
“Shop closes at six. We can go after.”
Nora’s relief was visible, tension draining from her shoulders. “Thank you. Really. I know it’s weird to ask—”
“It’s not weird.” Morgan returned to the transmission, unable to look at Nora’s face when she continued, “Having someone there is… practical.”
Nora laughed softly, picking up her guitar again. “Leave it to you to make emotional support sound like a mechanical process.”
“Everything’s a process. Some just have more variables.”
They fell back into comfortable parallel work, but Morgan found herself hyperaware of Nora’s presence.
The way she bit her lip when she was working through a difficult chord progression.
The small sound she made when something finally clicked.
The pink streaks in her hair catching the afternoon light.
She kept glancing Nora’s way.
“What are you thinking about?” Nora asked.
Morgan’s hands stilled on the transmission. “Nothing.”
“You look like you’re trying to solve a really complicated problem.”
“Things are more or less complicated depending on the number of variables.”
“Is that a Morgan Livingston saying?”
“It’s a fact.”
Nora smiled, and something warm and inconvenient settled in Morgan’s chest.
“How long are you staying?” Morgan asked. “In Redwood Hollow?”
Nora’s fingers stumbled on the fretboard. “I don’t know. A few more days? Maybe a week?” She adjusted her grip on the guitar. “Why?”
“Just wondering about variables.”
“Variables?”
“Things that change. Affect outcomes.” Morgan focused on the transmission with more intensity than necessary. “You’re a variable.”
“A good or bad one?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The honesty seemed to surprise them both. Nora set down her guitar, looking at Morgan with an expression that was difficult to read—curiosity mixed with something else, something that made Morgan’s pulse quicken uncomfortably.
“For what it’s worth,” Nora said quietly, “you’re a good variable. To me.”
Before Morgan could figure out how to respond to that, the bell above the shop door chimed. She glanced up to see her mother entering with a covered dish and the expression that meant she was about to be helpful whether Morgan wanted her to be or not.
“Morgan, honey, I brought you some—” Patricia stopped mid-sentence as she noticed Nora. “Oh! Eleanor—I mean, Miss Carter. What a wonderful surprise!”
Nora automatically deployed her public smile. “Mrs. Livingston, hi.”
“Please, call me Patricia.”
“Then you call me Nora.”
Patricia’s eyes moved between them with barely concealed delight. “I had no idea you two were spending time together. How lovely!”
Heat rose in Morgan’s face. “We’re not—”
“Morgan’s letting me hang out while she works,” Nora said quickly. “I’m trying to write, and her shop is really peaceful. Much better than a boring hotel room.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Creative energy and mechanics—what a combination.” Patricia beamed as if she’d personally orchestrated their meeting. “Maybe you could give Morgan guitar lessons? She could use a hobby outside work.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying, it would be good for you to have interests beyond cars. Maybe learn an instrument, or—”
“Mom. Stop.”
Patricia’s expression shifted to wounded confusion. “I’m just trying to help, sweetheart. You spend too much time alone.”
At least she didn’t continue with you have, ever since you were a child, ever since your father left, which would have been even more humiliating in front of Nora.
“My social life is none of your business,” Morgan said, voice even.
“Of course it is. I’m your mother. I worry.”
“There is no need to.”
“When I look at this place—” Patricia motioned at the shop, as if the shop was a problem.
Morgan could feel the familiar argument building—the same one they’d had dozens of times, where her mother’s well-meaning concern felt like judgment disguised as love.
“I have work to finish,” Morgan said, returning her attention to the transmission.
“Morgan, don’t be like that. I’m just—”
“Actually,” Nora interjected, “Morgan’s been really helpful. She’s teaching me about focus and systematic thinking. I’m learning a lot.”
Patricia looked genuinely surprised. “Really?”
“Really. Most people just tell me to relax or go with the flow, but Morgan explains things in a way that actually makes sense. Like there are logical reasons for everything.”
The unexpected defense made Morgan look up.
“Well,” Patricia said, clearly delighted. “I’m so glad you girls are becoming friends. Morgan needs more people in her life. Ever since her dad, and then that thing with Hannah—”
“Mom,” Morgan said again, sharper.
“What? You’re always here alone, and it’s not healthy. I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
Patricia’s expression said she didn’t believe that for a second, but she had the good sense not to push further.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Put the lasagna in the fridge, you can just warm it up when you’re ready for dinner.
Don’t work too late.” She paused at the door.
“And Miss Carter, dear—you’re welcome here anytime. Morgan could use the company.”
When her footsteps faded, Morgan found herself gripping the torque wrench tighter than necessary. As if it were her mother’s prerogative who was allowed in the shop.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said without looking up.
“You don’t have to apologize.” Nora was quiet for a moment. “It’s hard when people who love you can’t see who you actually are.”
Morgan met her eyes, surprised by the understanding in them. “Yeah.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you need to change. The way you are… it works.”
The knot in Morgan’s chest eased, making it easier to breathe. She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else.
They worked in mostly silence until six, when Morgan locked up the shop and they climbed into her truck. Rusty settled in the back seat, content to go wherever Morgan went.
“It’s about twenty minutes,” Nora said, giving directions in a voice that got quieter with each turn.
Morgan didn’t try to fill the silence. Just drove, following Nora’s increasingly hesitant directions through residential streets that gave way to rural roads, trees closing in on either side.
The light was still high and gold—August evenings held on long—and dust hung behind the truck down the last stretch of road.
When they finally turned down a long gravel driveway, Nora’s breathing had gone shallow.
“We can turn around,” Morgan said.
“No.” Nora’s hands were fisted in her lap. “I need to do this.”