I stepped forward, drawn by confusion and curiosity, unaware that I was about to discover just how thoroughly I had misunderstood my husband’s final gift.

My fingers trembled as I pulled the fitted cover from the Aston Martin, the soft material sliding away to reveal a 1964 DB5 in pristine silver birch, identical to the one Sean Connery drove in those James Bond films Robert loved so much. The car gleamed under my flashlight beam as if it had just rolled off the factory floor, not as if it had been sitting in this obscure garage for God knows how long.

“Robert,” I whispered into the stillness. “What on earth were you doing?”

My husband had never mentioned collecting cars. In forty-two years of marriage, there had never been a hint of this passion, this investment, this secret life. I didn’t even know what to call it.

I moved to the next vehicle, my heart beating faster as I gently pulled away its cover. A 1956 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing emerged, its distinctive doors and elegant lines unmistakable even to my untrained eye. The deep blue paintwork was immaculate, the chrome details catching my flashlight’s beam like scattered stars.

The third cover concealed a Ferrari—a 1967 275 GTB/4, according to the small plaque mounted on a stand beside it. Its deep red color reminded me of the wine Robert would order on our anniversaries, rich and intense.