Lifelines: Kate's Story by Vanessa Grant Page B

panicked by
his comment about loss, and now she wanted to cry. Neither emotion made sense.
“How did you end up here?”
    “My
dad was here. He wasn’t doing too well. He died three years ago.”
    “I’m
sorry.”  She saw emotion in his eyes and wondered how much he resembled his
father. She guessed Mac’s age at about forty, not much older than her own
father had been when she left Anchorage.
    “When
Jake died, I figured I’d go back to Peru.”
    Jake,
his father. Back to Peru, pretend it never happened. She’d tried to pretend,
too, working on David’s book.
    “You
didn’t go back?”
    “I
got married.” He swept his mug sideways, flung the dregs of his coffee over the
damp ground.
    She’d
been so focused on herself, she hadn’t thought of anything but her own grief.
She saw him now, clearly, with the perception she used for clients in her
office. He wore a wide gold band on his left hand. He was the sort of man who
came to counseling only as a last resort. He hadn’t mentioned his wife before,
and he worked Saturdays when the job wasn’t urgent enough to justify it. When
she told him hammering would be therapeutic, he knew what she meant.
    Jesus,
Kate, cut it out. You don’t know the first thing about his marriage. The truth
is, he’s probably killing time on the job while his wife visits her parents for
two weeks.
    When
Mac stood, she said, “I haven’t seen my father in over thirty years,” The
bottom of her cup had grounds in it, and she imitated him, tossing the dregs
over the earth. When she handed him the empty cup, he hooked it on his index
finger.
    “My
dad worked on this vet clinic in Anchorage, thirty-three years ago. We were in
Brazil before that, and before that a housing development in Indonesia.”
    Mac
seemed to be waiting for the punch line.
    “He
could be anywhere now. I’m trying to locate him.”
    “Could
be difficult.”
    “You’re
not kidding. I just paid a Seattle detective seven hundred and fifty dollars
for that information. I should have asked you first.”
    He
stowed the thermos in the truck, shouldered another sheet of OSB and headed for
the house. She knelt down to pat Socrates, then followed. By the time she
caught up with Mac, he’d anchored the plywood with his usual four nails. She
picked up the tool belt, but he took it from her before she could strap it on.
    “When’s
the last time you’ve put in two hours with a hammer?”
    “A
few years.”
    “Go
home and have a hot bath. If you’re not too sore tomorrow, come back. I’ll
bring a lighter hammer—easier on your arm.”
    “I’ll
bring coffee tomorrow.”
    “What’s
your father’s name?”
    “Han
Stewardson.”
    He
lifted the nail gun and placed it in position on the OSB. “Write down
everything you know. Jobs he worked on—when and where, what company. The guys
on the jobs, if you remember any names. I’ve still got contacts here and there.
I’ll put out the word, see if anyone knows him.”
    Sudden
tears filled her eyes. “Thank you.”
    “It’s
a fair trade,” he said abruptly. “Give me a couple of hours labor on the
weekends, and I’ll see what I can turn up. No guarantees.”

Chapter Nine
    S ocrates
followed as Kate shed her runners at the door and headed straight for the
kitchen to wash the blackness from her hands. Swinging a hammer had left her
arm tingling and her stomach empty, but when she pulled open the fridge she
found only a container of strawberry yogurt and a brick of moldy cheese.
    She
ate the yogurt standing at the kitchen sink, but it wasn’t enough. She could
have trimmed the cheese and made grilled sandwiches, if she hadn’t used the
last of the bread for toast this morning.
    “I
won’t eat dog food,” she muttered at Socrates as she pulled open cupboard
drawers and found an empty box of crackers and six tins of David’s too-hot
chili.
    She
grabbed a plastic bag and loaded the chili tins in, then added taco spice from
the pantry and six cans of apple cider.