I walked back to my van.
Lowered the liftgate.
Positioned the hand truck.
Secured the jukebox carefully.
Then rolled it onto the platform.
Dad watched from the porch.
“You don’t have to make a production out of it.”
I didn’t answer.
I raised the liftgate.
Secured the machine inside the van.
Then returned to the curb.
The cardboard sign was still taped to the glass.
I peeled it off carefully.
Folded none of it.
Then placed it flat on the passenger seat beside my spiral notebook.
Dad’s watch vibrated.
He glanced at it.
Then laughed.
“Apparently I’ve been sitting too long.”
I looked toward him.
For a moment, I wanted to tell him everything.
How I’d searched for the machine.
How much I’d spent.
How many evenings I’d worked with cold hands in the storage unit.
How carefully I’d selected the wedding songs.
How I’d left the first record untouched so he could be the one to play it.
But something stopped me.
I’d spent most of my life explaining why the things I loved mattered.
I was tired of explaining.
So I got into the van.
Closed the door.
And drove away.
I didn’t go home.
I drove across town to a little white house two streets behind Augie’s.
A ceramic goose stood beside the front steps wearing a yellow raincoat.
I hadn’t visited in years.
But I remembered who lived there.
Dot Maryman.
She opened the door wearing a sweatshirt from the local high school.
For a moment, she stared at me.
Then looked toward the jukebox through the van window.
Her expression changed.
“Well,” she said quietly.
“Look who’s come back.”
I tried to smile.
Instead, I began crying.
Dot didn’t ask questions in the doorway.
She simply stepped aside.
“Come in, Hollis.”
She made coffee.
Sat me at her kitchen table.
Then waited until I was ready.
I told her everything.
The search.
The restoration.
The records.
The birthday party.
Dad’s joke.
The staging furniture.
The cardboard sign.
When I finished, she remained silent.
Then she asked whether I had brought the sign.
I nodded.
I went to the van.
Retrieved it.
And laid it on the table.
FREE.
Dot looked at the thick black letters.
For a long time, she didn’t speak.
Then she opened a kitchen drawer.
Inside was a stack of papers held together with a binder clip.
She placed them beside the cardboard.
“Your sister has been calling me about the bar.”
I looked up.
“What?”
Dot nodded.
“Nearly every month for over a year.”
She opened the stack.
There were letters from Kaylee.
Printed emails.
An unsigned purchase proposal.
And several notes from Dad offering to buy the building when Dot decided to sell.
I stared.
For a moment, I couldn’t understand.
Dad wanted to buy Augie’s?
The same man who had just put Grandpa’s jukebox at the curb?
Dot watched my face.
“Your father wants to reopen the place after retirement.”
I looked toward the papers.
“He never told me.”
She nodded.
“I figured.”
She explained that Kaylee was handling the proposed purchase.
Dad wanted to use part of his retirement savings to buy the property.
They planned to renovate the back room, install modern entertainment equipment, and rename it Dale’s at Augie’s.
Kaylee had apparently told several relatives the deal was almost certain.
But Dot had never accepted an offer.
I looked toward her.
“Why not?”
She was quiet.
Then said, “Because I made your grandpa a promise.”
I waited.
She continued.
“When Augie sold me the place, he asked me to look after it. Said when I was ready to let it go, he’d like it to return to someone in the family who would keep its heart intact.”
I looked toward the window.
Then she added.
“He didn’t say which family member.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Dot touched the cardboard sign.
“Your father wants the building because he thinks it’ll make a good retirement project.”
I nodded.
“Your sister wants it because she sees a real estate opportunity.”
She looked toward me.
“But you spent eight months repairing something they thought was worthless.”
My throat tightened.
Dot took a breath.
“Hollis, can you afford to buy this place?”
I stared at her.
“Not now.”
She nodded.
“Could you in three years?”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then I thought about my finances.
My service van.
The savings account.
The bass boat I’d purchased the previous summer.
The amount of work available on weekends.
I swallowed.
“Maybe.”
Dot smiled.
“Then let’s talk about what that would take.”
That afternoon, I helped move the jukebox into Augie’s back room.
The old tavern had been closed for years.
After Dot retired from regular operations, she’d kept the building but hadn’t found the right buyer.
The windows were covered.
The equipment was aging.
But the structure remained sound.
I rolled the jukebox through the alley entrance.
Positioned it carefully.
Then covered it with a moving blanket.
Dot handed me a key.
“For the back door.”
I stared at it.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“We’ll put the storage arrangement in writing. And if you want to help maintain the place, we’ll document that too.”
I looked toward the old bar.
The wooden stools.
The dusty windows.
The quiet room that had once been full of music.
Then I smiled.
“I’d like that.”
Dot nodded.
“Good.”
And that was how the next three years of my life began.
We didn’t make a secret handshake deal and hope everything worked out.
Dot introduced me to her attorney.
I met with a local credit union loan officer.
We discussed the property’s likely market value, repair needs, taxes, financing requirements, and what I’d need to save.
Dot wasn’t promising me a building for free.
She intended to sell at a price she considered fair.
But she was willing to give me an opportunity to prepare.
We signed a written purchase-option arrangement with a defined term and conditions, reviewed by our respective advisers.
The agreement gave me time to secure financing and complete the necessary evaluations.
It also made clear what maintenance work I could perform while Dot still owned the property.
I agreed.
Then started saving.
I took extra service calls.
Saturday refrigerator repairs.
Sunday appliance installations.
Emergency heating and cooling work within the limits of my qualifications.
Whenever the company offered overtime, I considered it.
I sold the bass boat.
Stopped looking at newer trucks.
Reduced unnecessary spending.
And opened a separate savings account at the credit union.
Every paycheck, I transferred money into it.
Sometimes the amount was small.
Sometimes substantial.