To finance his honeymoon, my son sold the blue Chevy that belonged to his deceased father. That struck me as the worst stab in the back. “Mrs. Thompson, George left something hidden in the dashboard; come alone,” a restorer informed me over the phone.

He pulled out a screwdriver, pressed a metal plate I had never noticed before, and, with a sharp click, the passenger-side dashboard opened up from the inside like a mouth keeping a secret. I stood completely still. Not out of surprise. Out of fear.

Because in that instant, I understood that George hadn’t spent years talking about “his little blue Chevy” as if it were just the whim of a stubborn man. There was something else. Something hidden among the smell of oil, the old upholstery, and the parts he polished with an almost religious patience.