not that good-looking. I was thrilled with Patrick’s response—he had said yes!—until I turned around and saw Kelly standing in the doorway. Until I saw the look her father had put on her face.
BY THE time I drop Catharine off at the assisted-living center and fill the head nurse in on what happened, the day is shot. I sit in my truck in the parking lot for a long minute, arguing with myself. What I should do is drive straight home and tell Kelly what happened. What I want to do is drive to Wyckoff, the next town over. I want to drive into the maze of residential streets and pass the rows of nice, but small, homes, and pull up in front of the house with the yellow shutters. Eddie’s house.
Earlier this week I called in a favor from a competitor of mine and had him stop by and offer to do some fixing-up work for a ridiculously low fee. I had wanted him to clean out the gutters, which I could tell were clogged, and check the roof and the basic structure. Obviously I would have offered to do it myself, or sent one of my guys, but I suspected that Eddie’s widow wouldn’t accept a handout from her late husband’s crew. I’d been pleased when my competitor called and said Mrs. Ortiz had accepted his offer. I want badly to stop by now and check on his work. To check if the lawn needs cutting. To check if the kids are playing outside, and if they look happy.
In my several drives by his house since the funeral, I’ve only seen Mrs. Ortiz and her children once. They had just arrived home and were unloading groceries from Eddie’s old white Cadillac. Eddie’s wife was wearing her nurse’s uniform. There was a boy, who must have been about seven years old, and a slightly older girl. The kids were both dark-haired and hyperactive, bouncing around the car and then chasing each other into the house. Mrs. Ortiz had long hair, so dark it was nearly black, but her skin was several shades paler than her husband and children’s. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. I watched her duck in and out of the car, adjusting the bags. It was clear from the slope of Mrs. Ortiz’s shoulders that she was tired, but she held her thin frame upright. She gathered an impossible number of brown grocery bags into her arms, shut the car door with her foot, and then made her way into the house. As she passed the shrubs beside the front door, I noticed they needed trimming. When she climbed the front steps, I thought I saw the railing wobble slightly under her hand.
I restart the engine of the truck and drive out of the parking lot, the ache in the back of my head telling me that I am not going to allow myself any relief today. I am going to do what I should do. But, as a small rebellion, I take the long route home, which passes all the pieces of land I own in Ramsey. The route grows longer all the time. I have done a lot of buying lately. Eddie’s death soured me on construction. I still do it—the business makes me too much money to stop—but I prefer to buy and sell or rent out land. It’s a cleaner business. There are no faulty plans, rusty nails, loose boards, bad weather, incompetent workers. No one is going to lose life or limb over a real-estate deal. You stand only to gain.
I drive the route slowly. I pass the bank on Main Street, the Green Trolley, the vacant lot beside the fire station, the apartment building on Dogwood Terrace, the two houses on Lancaster Avenue, and the house on Holly Court, where Gracie lives. As always, when I pass by her house I consider stopping in, but don’t. I think it’s important to give Gracie and Lila their space. Most of my friends’ kids have flung themselves across the world in an attempt to put as many miles as possible between themselves and their parents. I don’t know why my girls have stayed in Ramsey, but I’m glad they have. I don’t want to chance making any mistakes that might drive them away.
After I pass Holly Court I turn left, a tactical decision that adds an extra three minutes to my trip. This final detour is different from the others—it is