"Nearby." "Where?" "Somewhere motorcycles are allowed to exist." "Jack, everybody coming tomorrow has legitimate parking." "Nobody's blocking your driveway.
Nobody's using your property." "That's not the point." "Then what is?" For once, she didn't answer immediately. Finally.
"This neighborhood isn't appropriate for an event of this scale." "It's lunch with 50 bikers and everybody else." "You're doing this to make a point." "No." "You expect me to believe 50 motorcycles just happened?"
"They asked if they could come, and I said yes." "It's a fundraiser." "You knew exactly how that would look." That was it. Denise wasn't afraid of 50 people.
She was afraid of what she thought 50 motorcycles said about the neighborhood. "Bear's group raises money for charities." "I don't care what they call themselves." "You've never met them." "I don't need to."
That line sat between us. Then she looked away. "I've done everything I can to warn you." "No, you've done everything you can to warn everybody else." Her eyes came back to me.
"You should think very carefully about tomorrow." "I have, and we're eating at noon." Saturday morning started quietly. I was awake before 5. By six, Pete was backing the black pig roaster into position.
I pulled my dark brown canvas apron over my charcoal gray t-shirt and helped him set up. Marcus arrived with drinks. Linda arrived with enough potato salad to alter local supply chains. Frank arrived with coffee and the expression of a man who had been awake since 4:00 because motorcycles were coming. You open the lot.
5:30. "Why?" In case they're early. They're not. You don't know that.
I talked to Bear. Frank sipped his coffee. Maybe he lied about arrival time. Bikers are mysterious. You've spent three days texting him.
"Exactly." Haven't figured him out. By 8, the lawn looked like a fundraiser. Canopies, tables, coolers, clear donation box, pig roaster, my old smoker farther back, everything where it belonged. At 8:30, Denise came outside, cobalt blue blazer, coffee in hand.
She looked at my lawn, then the street, empty. At 9, still empty. At 9:30, she checked her mailbox and looked down the street again. I knew that look. She thought they'd backed out.
At 10:00, neighbors started arriving. Mrs. Halpern brought cookies. A family from two streets over donated before they'd even eaten. Two rescue squad volunteers came to help. Still no bikers.
At 10:15, Denise approached the hedge. Not quite the turnout you expected. We don't serve until noon. I thought your motorcycle friends were coming. They are.
She glanced at the empty street. Of course, my phone buzzed. Bear parked walking over after everyone is in. I smiled. Denise noticed.
"What?" Nothing. Then I heard an engine. A black touring motorcycle appeared at the far end of the street. One rider, slow, no revving, no dramatic entrance.
He stopped near my driveway and removed his helmet. Gray beard, black t-shirt, weathered black leather vest, bare morning. Jack. Thought you were parking at Franks. I did, dropping off supplies.