Chapter 9: A Matter of Patience

Since Gabrielle knew the route to her office, she directed me to the location. From the outside, it didn’t look any different from any other factory with an office. The only sign on the building was a modest Smithton in script across the entrance into the office.

Gabrielle told me that the company was now formally incorporated as Smithton Group, LLP. Diamond Stream and the new company would be subsidiaries of the parent company. All voting shares were held by the original company which included the Fulton, DesBiens, and Smith families, with a minority share held by Kevin Riordan. They had been able to raise capital without an initial public offering, but in the future, that would not likely remain so. The profit sharing plan had been very lucrative to the employees, but there would come a day when the issuance of non-voting shares would probably replace that plan. As it was, Gabrielle assured me she was very well compensated for her role.

I had placed my trust in Conrad Leitner, and as a result, I was financially a very well off young man. I had something over three million dollars spread over a variety of quality stocks, and I watched it grow steadily. I’d spent some money on the house, my partnership with Mike Trask, and some toys like the Cadillac, but otherwise I’d been fairly conservative with my wealth. But there was something still missing in my life. I knew almost the moment I saw her bending down to examine the Matchless in the showroom that I wanted Gabrielle back.

I lay in bed that first night, wondering if there’d be a repeat of that first night in Tahoe at the Smith lodge. I hoped there would be, but as each minute passed, I began to accept that it wasn’t going to happen. It was just a juvenile fantasy that wasn’t going to repeat itself. I slept fitfully that Monday night. The house was just as quiet as it normally was, with only the occasional sound of an aircraft overhead or truck on Highway 16.

I wasn’t sure of the signals I was getting from Gabrielle. I thought that I’d been subtle enough with my encouragement to her, but it was difficult to tell if I’d been getting through to her. When I’d blurted out that I didn’t want to ever leave, I thought that would provoke some kind of reaction ... positive or negative ... but it didn’t. She seemed comfortable for the most part around me, but I missed the easy intimacy we once had. I was trying to be patient, but I didn’t know how long I could hold out.

Fortunately, both of us had work to do that week. I was pleased that she agreed to stay with me rather than check into a hotel. That was a first step. I’d try to make her stay as pleasant as possible. I would also adjust my work hours to arrive a little later in the morning, and leave a little earlier in the afternoon. I was actually planning an eight-hour day. That was a significant reduction in my previous schedule.

I didn’t know what else I had to offer her. I’d tried to make my case that I’d changed from who I was to who I am now. If it meant shaving off the beard and cutting my hair, so be it. That wasn’t too important to me. I did it in the first place so that I could convince myself that I wasn’t the same angry man who walked away from her three years ago. Sure, it was superficial, but I needed to display something that said I was different.

I was up at six am and pulled on my usual slacks and work shirt, leaving my boots and black smock for later when I left. Gabrielle had been an early riser when we were living together, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the toilet and shower in the main bathroom while I made the coffee and waited to see what she’d want for breakfast. There was no point to making anything on the stove. She was usually a toast or cereal person during the week.

“Good morning, Kyle,” she said with a smile as she entered the kitchen. She was dressed in snug designer jeans, and long sleeved cotton top, and barefoot once more.

“Good morning,” I smiled. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. It’s so quiet here. I’m used to hearing traffic and other noise. I’m not used to the silence. I didn’t even hear you snore,” she grinned.

“Who me? I never snore,” I protested, remembering this conversation more than a few times in the past.

“Maybe that’s something else you’ve reformed,” she suggested, again with that teasing smile.

“Perhaps. What can I get you for breakfast?” I asked.

“What do you have for cereal?”

“The usual. Bran flakes, muesli, oatmeal,” I offered.

“Muesli sounds good,” she said, opening the fridge door and searching for the juice.

“It’s on the counter,” I said without looking. Old routines were coming back to both of us.

“I was thinking, I didn’t want to strand you at your office today, so if you’d like to take the Caddy, I’ll take the truck to work,” I suggested.

“You mean you’d trust me with your prize possession without you being there?”

I turned to her and said with a straight face, “Yes.”

“I think I’ll take the Buick and leave the Cadillac for another time. It might raise a lot of questions at the plant,” she said seriously.

“Whatever you think best,” I said, realizing she might be embarrassed to show up in something as ostentatious as the Eldorado.

“What time will you be home?” she wondered.

I shrugged. “Why don’t I give you a key and you can come and go without us trying to time our arrival. I’ll probably do a bit of shopping on the way home, so you’re welcome to use this as if it was your home.”

I turned to her and saw her eyes widen in surprise. She said nothing, but I saw a slow nod in agreement, and turned back to my task with a little smile on my face. Perhaps that wasn’t the most subtle hint, but it seemed to elicit a response, which was the idea in the first place.

I saw a raised eyebrow or two when I walked into the showroom just before seven-thirty. Mike was there, looking at me with a sly grin of “I told you so” before I gave him a “good morning” as I passed by into the shop. I was almost always the first one to unlock the door in the morning. It wasn’t often I was in later than six-forty-five. The business didn’t actually open until eight, but several of our employees came in earlier, especially if they had to make phone calls to suppliers in the east. The difference was that I was usually the last one to leave the building, well after everyone had gone home, including Mike.

I looked over my work list to see if there were any time commitments coming up. There were, but none were imminent. Over in the corner of the shop I had another cloth-covered item. I wondered when I’d have to nerve to show it to Gabrielle.

The intercom squawked. “Phone call Kyle.”

I walked to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. “Kyle Richter.”

“This is Oakland Terminal. We have a container here for you that’s been cleared by customs.”

“Good. I have arranged with Richmond Trucking to make the pickup. I’ll call them and let them know it’s ready.”

I knew what that was about. I’d bought a bunch of castoff scooters from Spain and Italy for my school project. They could remain secure in the container in my yard and pulled out as they were needed. We could only work on two or three at a time, and the container should have the remains of at least twenty-five inside it.

I arranged for the container to be delivered to the house after three that afternoon, giving them plenty of time to pick it up and deliver it. They had specific instructions and a drawing of where it was to be left if I wasn’t there, but my intention was to be there to avoid any error. Trying to move a loaded container was no easy job and required a heavy duty forklift. The trucking company carried one on the back of their trailer, while I had no access to one that I could easily hire.

I went about my work for the balance of the morning, not stopping as I had a sandwich and a container of milk while I pored over a manual for the transmission on a Honda 350 of 1960’s vintage. I’d had my doubts this would be worth restoring, but when I eliminated the rust on the spoke wheels and frame, threw away the damaged tank and saddle, and had it down to the bare bones, I started to think otherwise.

Now, before paint and slowly reconstructing it, I was making sure it would be safe as well as in working condition. The bike had belonged to a woman who had recently passed away. Her husband wanted the bike restored in memory of her and despite my reservations, I couldn’t turn him down. The gentleman had come in to the shop a few days ago to view the progress and was quite surprised how far along I’d gotten. He rode a Yamaha XS650 vintage bike, so I knew he was doing this for the right reasons.

I got a lot of pleasure and satisfaction restoring these bikes. I had a thing for post-WW2 British machines. What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on a Vincent Black Shadow, or a Norton Atlas. I’d worked on my share of Triumphs and BSA’s, but so far the iconic bikes had eluded me.

I checked the clock on the wall just in time to see it was almost three o’clock. I stripped off my gloves and headed for the showroom to let Mike know I was leaving. I’d already briefed him about the container. Mike was a financial supporter of our high school scooter project. Within a minute, I was out the door, into my truck and on my way home. I got there just in time to see the truck backing up to the front of my garage. Timing is everything.

I’d already leveled and prepared the ground where I wanted the container put and it was a simple job for the driver to pick it up from the truck bed and lower it onto the 4 X 4 frame I’d made for it. That would keep it off the ground and yet plenty low enough for me to get in and out of the container with ease. I signed off on the delivery after the driver had loaded the forklift onto its cradle and thanked him for the timely delivery. As he turned onto the road, I went to the unit and cut the customs tag and opened the doors.

I saw what I expected to see; a random collection of damaged and derelict scooters of all shapes and sizes. It would probably depress the average person, but I’d already seen the results of our efforts and knew there was nothing but potential in this mix of metal. It took me a half hour to pull five of the units out of the container and move them into my shop. I’d do an assessment of them before taking them to the school. No point to giving the kids a hopeless case. I wanted them to learn something and get a sense of accomplishment from this project, not frustration.

Gabrielle arrived just after five. She must have seen the container, the shop doors open, and my truck on the scene, so she came over to see what I was up to.

“Are these the scooters you said you were getting?” she asked.

“Yeah. That container is supposed to have at least twenty-five of them. I just pulled a couple out to see what kind of pigs I had in this poke,” I grinned.

“Can you really make these run again?”

“Yes. Maybe not all of them, but we can probably make seventy or eighty percent of them operational. The rest goes to the scrap yard. With what I paid for these, well ... I paid more to have them shipped here than they cost. The class has done four, with a fifth almost complete. The average cost to us is three hundred dollars. You couldn’t buy a used scooter for two or three times that, and these will be safer and better as well.”

“You’re really proud of this program, aren’t you,” she smiled genuinely.

“I am. When Larry Penner approached Mike about getting some support for a teaching program on vehicles, Mike passed it along to me. I sat down with Larry, and after some discussion, we decided that the best way to start was with something simple. Scooters were a good beginning, rather than full fledged cars or motorcycles.

“They already had some car programs in the system, but this was to be low budget and hopefully involve a lot more kids. Plus, every unit that we restored was a useful vehicle for these kids. The trouble was, we were too successful to begin with. Every kid wanted into the class and wanted a finished scooter. So, we had to have a lottery to chose who got one ... and only one per student.”

She was smiling broadly as I told the tale of my Saturday morning clinics.

“So, it’s all volunteer work then?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes. If Larry was willing to give his time, then I couldn’t do any less. One of Mike’s friends took a vacation in Spain and Italy and came back with stories of just how many small motorcycles and scooters were in use in those countries. That gave us the idea of seeing if we couldn’t buy some derelicts for next to nothing and bring them over here.

“I underwrote the project in the hope that it wouldn’t just be a pile of metal and fiberglass ready for the scrap heap here as well. We bought a few and decided it was worth the effort, so this container is the first shipment. If what I see so far is any indication, we should do quite well with what we have.”

“So you have your own money invested in this,” she stated.

“It’s invested in these kids, Gabrielle. I think they’re worth the money,” I said with a smile.

“You amaze me,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t get over how you’ve changed.”

“This is my therapy,” I said, my hand sweeping around the shop floor. “It’s also my rehabilitation. I started out needing it, and now I’m dependent on it.”

She was nodding her head in agreement. “I can see that. It’s something you can be proud of,” she said with another smile.

“Thank you.”

I cooked some veal cutlets for supper, with the usual potato and vegetable sides. Nothing fancy, just a simple everyday dinner. Gabrielle was appreciative as always and, we ate with easy conversation about our day. I’d gone back to serving a glass of wine with dinner, just as we had when we were living together in Hayward. I’d dropped the habit when I was on my own, but it seemed natural to pick it up again when Gabrielle moved in with me here.

She had her laptop with her and I helped her hook onto my wireless modem, as she wanted to do some work for an hour or so. I busied myself with writing up a shopping list, since we would need more food with her staying here. I tried to remember her favorite things and I was reasonably confident I’d identified most of them. Was I trying to spoil her with my cooking? Yes, indeed. I was sure I’d convinced her that I was a different man than the one who had let her down three years earlier. The question was, did she think we still might have what we once had?

It was another night that we slept separately ... to my disappointment. I kept hoping that we’d make that last connection, but so far, it wasn’t happening. What would it take?

I’d taken some pictures of the scooters I’d removed from the container and sent them to Larry. I got a quick reply of “yahoo!” He was excited that we had more projects ahead of us. I guess he must have circulated the pictures to some of the students because I began to get more e-mail from them as well. I felt really good about the attitude of these kids. This wasn’t just a fun program; it was a constructive one as well.

I had a good day at work, getting a lot done before leaving at five to do some shopping at the supermarket. I had my list and I knew what I wanted, so it didn’t take long before I was at the checkout.

“Hey, Kyle. How are you?” the young woman said in a very flirty voice.

“I’m good, Joanne. How has your day been?”

“Okay. You know, same old same old,” she grinned. “So when are we getting married?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m thinking a few weeks after you finish college,” I said, nodding.

“Oh, gee, only five more years to go,” she said with a frown.