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owners—serious collectors. And a few basic car nuts like you and me.”
    Danny frowned and tugged a wad of chips, cheese, and peppers off the platter. “What’s that got to do with food and the Oscars?”
    I slid the napkin holder toward him. “Nothing. It’s just a way to showcase the kids’ project. Last summer, a rally came through town. A dozen pre-war Rolls-Royces, including a Silver Ghost from 1910, same year as the Merc was built. The owner and I got talking, and the kids got out their cameras. Shot some footage, realized they might have a story.”
    â€œThe story of horsepower and obsession,” Nick said.
    â€œThey even filmed me,” Kyle said. “Remember that old 1970 GTO Judge? You and I spent every spare hour in the barn. We tuned that engine till it purred.”
    In the dim bar light, I saw the other man shift on the hard chair, wincing at its discomfort.
    â€œYou don’t still have that old wreck?”
    â€œYeah. Parked it when I went in the Army, and there it stayed. I go pet it occasionally. Still in good shape—some minor body damage.” Kyle had enlisted after graduation. Became a cook. Went to Iraq. Came home and worked his way up to head chef at Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, the family biz. “Drove it around for the kids. Been too busy to work on it, but I’m getting the bug again. Might turn it into my summer car.”
    Beside me, Kim scraped her boot on the wood floor. I had the feeling she hadn’t quite forgiven her cousin for his part in the Art Festival tragedy, though they’d buddied up for Friday night pool. His had been a bit part, stemming from an old mistake, but as I knew too well, Kim does not let resentments go easily.
    J.D., the new man at Red’s, cleared our empty beers and brought a new round. He gave Danny a questioning look.
    â€œGin and tonic, at the bar,” he said, his hands in push-up position on the chair back. “Been some changes around here after all.”
    â€œJ. D. Beckstead. Old Ned’s grandson,” I said. “So there’s still a Redaway behind the bar at Red’s, despite the last name. And a redhead, to boot.”
    â€œIt’ll be good for Ned to have family around, after what happened in June,” Christine said. “Not to mention what happened at the Art Festival. After a run of crime like that, you start to wonder, but thank goodness the system worked.”
    Amen to that.
My own father’s death in a hit-and-run nearly fifteen years ago had never been resolved. I was grateful that another family had gotten justice, or some semblance of it.
    Kyle picked up his fresh beer. “The guy had to know they’d figure it out. Somebody always sees something.”
    Danny stood abruptly, the wooden chair creaking. For a bulky man, he moved with grace. I had an idea he’d been one of my father’s basketball players. In small towns, kids of all sizes play all kinds of sports.
    â€œGood to see you, Kyle, Kim.” His quick glance around the table took in all of us. “Don’t have too much fun tonight.” He winked and headed for the bar.
    â€œYou know, little sis, you guys ought to put on a wildlife film festival,” Nick said.
    Christine snickered and stood. One of the few visible changes since my mother bought the building from Ned last summer had been to make the women’s room a place a woman no longer cringed at the thought of visiting.
    As soon as she was out of earshot, I leaned across the table to my brother. “So, you guys back together or what?”
    Nick played with his beer. “Christine isn’t the kind of woman you cut out of your life, just because you don’t want to spend the rest of it with her.”
    â€œBecause you’re not that kind of guy,” I said.
    Sharp words spoken near the bar caught my ear. Red’swas still Ned Redaway’s business, not my family’s,