Chương 12
A neighbor two houses down was dragging a trash bin toward the street.
Somebody farther up the road was using a leaf blower with the persistence of a personal enemy.
Zoe leaned against me.
“Can we still sleep here tonight?”
“Yes.”
“In the guest room?”
“Yes.”
Eli looked toward the door.
“Can I have my side back?”
“It was always your side.”
He nodded.
Then he rested the box on his knees.
“I think the mast can be fixed.”
“I think so too.”
“What kind of epoxy?”
“We’ll look.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
Zoe raised one sticky foot.
“Can we get ice cream too?”
I looked at her.
“Your aunt may have committed financial fraud and your main concern is ice cream.”
She frowned.
“What’s fraud?”
“Never mind.”
“Can we?”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
Eli smiled for the first time since the boat broke.
I took out my phone.
Caroline’s number sat at the top of my recent calls.
Below it was a message from her.
The buyers need an answer by nine tomorrow morning.
I read it twice.
Then I locked the screen.
For once, I did not answer immediately.
We drove into town for epoxy and ice cream because apparently those were the two emergencies left in my life that could be solved with a credit card.
Eli stood in the hardware aisle comparing labels as if we were choosing medication for a patient.
“This one says marine.”
“That seems promising.”
“This one says five-minute cure.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because I know us.”
He looked at me.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is if you’ve ever watched me assemble furniture.”
Zoe sat in the cart holding a pint of strawberry ice cream we had not paid for yet.
“You said no opening it.”
“I’m not opening it.”
“You’re hugging it.”
“It’s cold.”
The man stocking adhesives glanced at us and smiled.
I wondered how ordinary we looked.
A father.
Two kids.
A broken toy boat.
No visible evidence of fake invoices, hidden debt, fractured trust, or a million-dollar house offer waiting unanswered in my pocket.
I bought the slower-curing epoxy.
Eli approved.
At the register, Zoe asked whether fraud was worse than stealing.
The cashier paused halfway through scanning the ice cream.
I looked at my daughter.
“Why are we revisiting that?”
“You said Aunt Jenna might have fraud.”
“That is not how I phrased it.”
“You said committed.”
The cashier suddenly became very focused on the receipt printer.
Eli grinned.
I paid and ushered them outside before Zoe could ask whether jail had snacks.
We ate ice cream on a low concrete wall near the parking lot because neither child wanted to wait until we got home.
A city bus hissed at the curb.
Two teenagers argued over a skateboard.
A woman nearby tried to convince a toddler that a banana qualified as dessert.
Life continued with insulting normalcy.
Eli scraped the lid of his chocolate cup with the little wooden spoon.
“Are you mad at Aunt Jenna?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
“Are you mad at Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“I still don’t know.”
He looked at Zoe.
“She keeps asking questions.”
Zoe licked strawberry ice cream from her wrist.
“You keep answering.”
“That’s fair.”
Eli stared at the traffic.
“I don’t think I’m mad forever.”
“Okay.”
“I think maybe three weeks.”
I smiled.
“That’s very specific.”
“He can earn less.”
“How?”
“If he helps fix the boat.”
I looked at him.
“You mean your cousin?”
“Yeah.”
“He.”
“Yes.”
Eli rolled his eyes.
“I know.”
I let it go.
He took another bite.
“I don’t want Aunt Jenna helping.”
“You told her maybe.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re allowed.”
He nodded.
“That means I can say no?”
“Yes.”
“Even if she says sorry?”
“Yes.”
He seemed relieved.
Adults were always teaching children to apologize.
We were less consistent about teaching them they did not owe immediate forgiveness in return.
By the time we got back to the cottage, the sun had dropped lower and the rooms had taken on that dim gold color that made every surface look more expensive than it was.
Zoe carried the ice cream bag inside even though it was empty.
Eli took the epoxy straight to the dining table.
I stopped him.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“We need clamps.”
He stared at me.
“You forgot clamps?”
“Yes.”
He sighed with deep professional disappointment.
“You said you knew us.”
“I was right.”
We improvised with painter’s tape and two heavy cookbooks.
Eli rejected one because it was an atlas and he did not trust the curved spine.
I did not argue.
We cleaned the split carefully, mixed the epoxy on a piece of cardboard, and fitted the mast back into place.
His hands shook once when he pressed the wood together.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The mast leaned slightly.
He noticed.
I noticed.
Neither of us mentioned it.
Sometimes repair changed the shape of things.
That did not make it failure.
Zoe fell asleep sideways on the sofa before eight with one arm hanging toward the floor.
I carried her to the guest room.
She woke just enough to say, “My side,” and pointed at the bed nearest the wall.
I put her there.
Eli climbed into the other bed with his astronomy book.
He opened it, stared at one page for less than a minute, then closed it.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“You working tomorrow?”
“No.”
His face changed.
“You took off?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“To be here.”
He looked suspicious.
“Because of the house?”
“Partly.”
He picked at the corner of the blanket.
“Will you be on your phone?”
“Yes.”
His mouth tightened.
“But less.”
“How much less?”
I laughed quietly.
“You negotiating?”
“Yes.”
“An hour in the morning.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I have actual patients.”
“Forty minutes.”
I stared at him.
“Forty-five.”
He nodded.
“Deal.”
I turned off the lamp.
At the doorway he said, “Dad?”
I looked back.
“Can we surf tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
May you like
“You don’t know how.”
“Correct.”
