Theodore had raised Elliot alone.
His wife Clara died of cancer when Elliot was nine.
For almost a year afterward, Theodore functioned through schedules because schedules were easier than grief.
Wake Elliot.
Pack lunch.
Work.
Pick up son.
Make dinner.
Check homework.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Some mornings he woke at four because overtime started at six and Elliot needed breakfast before Theodore left him with Mrs. Jenkins next door.
Some nights he came home after eleven.
Clara had made him promise one thing before she died.
“Do not let that boy think losing me means he lost you too.”
Theodore kept that promise imperfectly.
But he kept it.
He taught Elliot engines because the garage was where Theodore knew how to talk.
When Elliot was ten, Theodore put an old carburetor on the workbench and said:
“Take it apart.”
Elliot asked:
“What if I break it?”
“Then you learn something.”
By twelve, Elliot could change brakes.
At fourteen, he rebuilt a small-block V8 with Theodore.
At sixteen, he worked summers at a dealership washing cars.
At twenty-two, he understood automobiles better than many sales managers twice his age.
But Elliot’s real gift was business.
He saw dealerships differently.
Not as rooms full of inventory.
As trust businesses.
He believed luxury customers did not simply buy cars.
They bought confidence that everything surrounding the car would be handled correctly.
He started small.
One struggling pre-owned dealership.
Then another.
Then a franchise.
Then outside investors.
Then Prestige Motors.
Eventually Foster Automotive Group.
Whenever reporters asked who taught him business, Elliot gave the same answer.
“My father taught me how to work. Everything else came after.”
Theodore hated when he said that publicly.
“Boy, stop making me sound dead.”
The night before Theodore’s sixty-eighth birthday, Elliot called.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You busy tomorrow?”
“Everybody is busy.”
“Are you doing anything important?”
“Danielle’s Honda needs a hose.”
There was silence.
“You are repairing a twenty-year-old Civic on your birthday.”
“Her kids need transportation.”
“After that.”
“What?”
“I want you at the Fifth Avenue dealership at noon.”
Theodore frowned.
“Why?”
“Birthday.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“I know.”
“Then we agree.”
“No.”
Elliot laughed.
“I want you to test-drive something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Walk in.”
“Give your name.”
“There will be an appointment.”
“Choose a car.”
“Dad, I mean it.”
Theodore looked around his living room.
At Clara’s picture.
At the article about Elliot.
“Boy, what am I going to do with a Ferrari?”
“Drive it.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere.”
“I have a truck.”
“You have a biological experiment with license plates.”
“It starts.”
“Usually.”
Theodore smiled.
Elliot continued.
“You spent your life building and repairing cars for everybody else.”
“Just come.”
“Drive one.”
“If you hate it, leave.”
Theodore became quiet.
“Your mother would call this foolish.”
“She would pick the color.”
That got him.
Clara had loved red.
Not subtle red.
Bright, unapologetic red.
“All right.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Noon.”
“And Dad?”