the fall. He doesn’t think anyone else around here will be able to either. It’s peak building season.”
Jim slowed his chewing, considering the answer. “That’s interesting timing,” he mused. “As luck would have it, Edie said she has a crew looking for work right now. I happened to mention we might be needing help on the guest house, and she offered her services. I could give her a call tomorrow. Wouldn’t hurt to get her over here just to take a look. I’m sure she’d find it amusing, even if she didn’t take the job.”
Cooper drew up his glass. “Why would she find it amusing?”
“You don’t know?” Jim smiled, shifting his gaze reflexively to the lawn, the view of the guest house shrouded slightly by dusk’s dimming curtain. “She and her late husband helped build it.”
“You’re kidding. I never knew that.”
“Ah, yet more secrets I’m spilling.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Cooper picked up the bottle and added more wine to his glass, then some to Jim’s. “Now you can tell me the rest of that fat night crawler of a story you dangled and yanked out of the water the other night.”
“And what story was that?”
Cooper gave Jim a weary look; Jim chuckled. “Oh,
that
one,” he said. “I should warn you, son: It’s long.”
Cooper gestured to their full plates with his glass. “Good thing we just got started then.”
Harrisport, Massachusetts
July 1966
T he sun shone without interruption for four straight days. Tucker took advantage of their good fortune and showed Jim every inch of the Cape, leaving plenty of time for lazy afternoons on the beach and games of badminton before dinner.
The construction crew had taken advantage of the sun too, making the most of perfect building weather to frame up the guest house in record time.
Tucker considered their progress from the window of his father’s study on Thursday morning, his gaze drawn again to the movements of the red-haired girl he’d tried to help upon his arrival. While the men scaled the scaffolding to sheet the roof, she’d been relegated to the edge of the lawn with a stack of short boards, an assignment that Tucker could discern by her fierce expression was not an agreeable one.
“I wasn’t aware you had such an interest in construction, son.”
Tucker turned to meet his father’s reproachful gaze; Garrison had arrived in the doorway and now came into the room, pointing his son to the upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” Tucker sat, rubbing his palms expectantly along the carved mahogany of the chair’s arms. He waited while his father shuffled through a pile of papers, frowning down at them as if they held some tremendous mathematical equation that had stumped brilliant minds for years.
“So . . .” Garrison began absently, still surveying his documents. “Your roommate seems to be enjoying himself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He have a girl down there?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?” Now Garrison raised his eyes, which were narrowed with consideration.
Tucker shrugged. “Says he wants to take his time.”
“What for? I guarantee you that boy won’t have a spare minute when he starts working for his father. Now’s the time to get all that squared away.”
Squared away.
Tucker hated the way his father could make finding love sound like something to check off your life’s to-do list, like laundry or a license renewal.
“Speaking of such matters . . .” Garrison snapped open a silver case, slid out a cigarette, and tapped the end against the metal edge. “Your mother just informed me the jeweler called. The ring’s ready to be picked up. I promised her you’d go get it as soon as we’re done here.”
“Now?” Tucker said, oddly panicked at the announcement. “But Florence won’t be here for another month.”
Garrison lit his cigarette. “You know how your mother gets.”
Tucker nodded. He hadn’t even seen this ring—not that it
Jim slowed his chewing, considering the answer. “That’s interesting timing,” he mused. “As luck would have it, Edie said she has a crew looking for work right now. I happened to mention we might be needing help on the guest house, and she offered her services. I could give her a call tomorrow. Wouldn’t hurt to get her over here just to take a look. I’m sure she’d find it amusing, even if she didn’t take the job.”
Cooper drew up his glass. “Why would she find it amusing?”
“You don’t know?” Jim smiled, shifting his gaze reflexively to the lawn, the view of the guest house shrouded slightly by dusk’s dimming curtain. “She and her late husband helped build it.”
“You’re kidding. I never knew that.”
“Ah, yet more secrets I’m spilling.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Cooper picked up the bottle and added more wine to his glass, then some to Jim’s. “Now you can tell me the rest of that fat night crawler of a story you dangled and yanked out of the water the other night.”
“And what story was that?”
Cooper gave Jim a weary look; Jim chuckled. “Oh,
that
one,” he said. “I should warn you, son: It’s long.”
Cooper gestured to their full plates with his glass. “Good thing we just got started then.”
Harrisport, Massachusetts
July 1966
T he sun shone without interruption for four straight days. Tucker took advantage of their good fortune and showed Jim every inch of the Cape, leaving plenty of time for lazy afternoons on the beach and games of badminton before dinner.
The construction crew had taken advantage of the sun too, making the most of perfect building weather to frame up the guest house in record time.
Tucker considered their progress from the window of his father’s study on Thursday morning, his gaze drawn again to the movements of the red-haired girl he’d tried to help upon his arrival. While the men scaled the scaffolding to sheet the roof, she’d been relegated to the edge of the lawn with a stack of short boards, an assignment that Tucker could discern by her fierce expression was not an agreeable one.
“I wasn’t aware you had such an interest in construction, son.”
Tucker turned to meet his father’s reproachful gaze; Garrison had arrived in the doorway and now came into the room, pointing his son to the upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” Tucker sat, rubbing his palms expectantly along the carved mahogany of the chair’s arms. He waited while his father shuffled through a pile of papers, frowning down at them as if they held some tremendous mathematical equation that had stumped brilliant minds for years.
“So . . .” Garrison began absently, still surveying his documents. “Your roommate seems to be enjoying himself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He have a girl down there?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?” Now Garrison raised his eyes, which were narrowed with consideration.
Tucker shrugged. “Says he wants to take his time.”
“What for? I guarantee you that boy won’t have a spare minute when he starts working for his father. Now’s the time to get all that squared away.”
Squared away.
Tucker hated the way his father could make finding love sound like something to check off your life’s to-do list, like laundry or a license renewal.
“Speaking of such matters . . .” Garrison snapped open a silver case, slid out a cigarette, and tapped the end against the metal edge. “Your mother just informed me the jeweler called. The ring’s ready to be picked up. I promised her you’d go get it as soon as we’re done here.”
“Now?” Tucker said, oddly panicked at the announcement. “But Florence won’t be here for another month.”
Garrison lit his cigarette. “You know how your mother gets.”
Tucker nodded. He hadn’t even seen this ring—not that it
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