unscrewed all of the knobs carefully, and he painted the doors while Rachel painted the faceless cupboards.
“I hope you’re going to line those shelves,” he said.
“Of course,” said Rachel. “I suppose you want to pick out the shelf paper.”
“I trust you,” said Jake.
“You never told me what you thought about Cannery Row,” said Rachel as she stood on her tiptoes and dabbed at a corner of the cabinetry.
“It was hard to read,” said Jake. “But it wasn’t bad. Not enough sex, though. And everybody was so grimy and filthy.”
“That’s Steinbeck, kid.”
“I didn’t hate it,” Jake said, and began painting the first door. “If you have any other recommendations, I will accept them without question. You have good taste.”
“I know,” said Rachel. “Except all I’ve been reading lately is Nancy Drew.”
“Jesus,” said Jake.
“They’re comforting,” said Rachel. “I can’t believe I never read them when I was a kid.”
“You were too busy causing chaos,” said Jake. “But that’s all over now.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Rachel. “I still feel like a grenade.”
“Don’t make me lecture you again,” said Jake. It was true—Jake had read enough Al-Anon literature that he counseled her like an expert. He demanded that Rachel forgive herself but admitted it was out of his control. He finished the first door and stood up to admire his work. The butterscotch was dazzling. The wet paint shone in the kitchen lights, and Rachel could tell, without having turned around, that he had paused his work, words unsaid. She held a paintbrush, and waited.
“You didn’t kill Billy,” he said. “Stop living like you did. You need to forgive yourself.”
At this, Rachel began to cry, until Jake grabbed for her hand. “I have something for you.”
Jake removed the harmonica from his pocket.
“This belonged to your father,” he said. “He always told me that it was the Special 20, model number 560 manufactured by Hohner, plastic comb instead of wooden. I remember all of that.”
He placed the harmonica in Rachel’s hand, and she closed her fingers around it.
They stood there for a moment, until Rachel pulled Jake close.
“Thank you,” said Rachel. “I know exactly where it should go.”
Rachel placed the harmonica on the tallest stack of bricks around the fireplace, the corner that had become her altar.
The house was completely level now, and they could both feel it.
* * *
The next morning, Rachel prepared to pay the man responsible for all of this.
The grass grew where the seeds were scattered, the furrows she kicked up in anger long since raked over, patted down, put back in place.
Black Mabel had poured cement and created a patio. Rachel bought new patio furniture from the parking lot of the Ben Franklin, and the golden squirrel was placed in the center of a small glass table.
Rachel stared out at the fence line, at the beds bursting with flowers. Orange and white lilies stood proud, unfurling with the morning sun. Clumps of purple and yellow irises, like odd fists, all things her father planted.
The Johnny-jump-ups spread, just like Ginger promised, a carpet wending itself around the roots of the taller plants, tiny striped tiger faces, pale lavender, white, and yellow. The echinacea were in full bloom. The clematis climbed two-thirds of the trellises; the giant purple blooms and snaky green arms glowed against the golden spray paint. Bucky left his ladder behind, and it remained propped against the fence, just for Jake.
Rachel called Bucky early in the morning, when it was still crisp outside. By afternoon, the last days of June were too hot to bear.
“I’ve got a leaky pipe,” she said.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Everything is brand-new, up to code.”
“It’s under the kitchen sink,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s going to warp the wood. And I know how you feel about soft spots and mold.”
“My enemy,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She sat outside and contemplated the corner of the yard that had once been a giant pile of cans. She thought about planting a lilac bush, or maybe an apple tree. She thought she should honor her father somehow.
She imagined the blooms of an apple tree, and it cheered her. She stood when she heard Bucky’s truck.
She waved as he opened the gate and came down the path, no longer jagged and dangerous. The walkway filled in with gravel and the pieces of shale resunk and flattened. He carried his bucket of tools, smiling as always.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Not if you’ve got a leaky pipe,” he said, and set the tools down. He flexed a muscle for