Emma handed Molly a tablecloth. “After you’ve set the table.”
Molly’s deep sigh made Patrick smile. “It won’t take long,” he told her. “After you’ve finished, you can tell me all about your day.”
“Okay,” Molly said slowly. “But don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” Patrick assured her. After Molly left the living room, he studied the bridge project with the same attention he’d once given to multimillion-dollar construction contracts.
Dylan had a natural instinct for engineering, the same way Jack had shown promise even as a child. But where Patrick had pushed Jack and Noah relentlessly, he was completely different with Dylan.
Patrick eased himself onto the carpet, ignoring the protest from his knees. “Tell me about your biggest challenge, Dylan.”
“The middle keeps sagging,” Dylan explained, his young face scrunched in concentration. “Each time we add a book, it bends down and the book falls off.”
Patrick studied the bridge and then picked up one of the wooden sticks. “That’s because your bridge is trying to become a catenary curve. Do you know what that is?” Dylan shook his head, and Patrick smiled. “It’s the natural shape a flexible material takes when it hangs between two points. But we want a bridge that resists that curve.”
He showed Dylan how to create tension cables using string, how to reinforce the joints with small amounts of craft glue, and how to consider load distribution. But unlike the impatient, demanding grandfather he’d been forty years ago, Patrick let Dylan make mistakes, let him discover solutions, and praised his questions.
“You’re really good at this, Poppa,” Dylan said quietly, focusing intently on gluing a joint just the way Patrick had shown him.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Patrick replied, then added something he never would have said to Jack or Noah at that age. “But you know what? I think you might be better at this than I was at your age. You ask the right questions, and you’re not afraid to try new ideas.”
Dylan’s smile could have powered the lights in the house.
Molly appeared in the doorway. She’d changed from her school clothes into a dress she’d clearly chosen for their family dinner. With its purple tulle skirt covered in sparkles, it was one of her favorites. She perched on the arm of Patrick’s chair, her natural chattiness a stark contrast to Dylan’s quiet thoughtfulness.
“Poppa, you won’t believe what happened at school. So Madison—she’s in my class and she thinks she knows everything about everything—she said that her brother told her boys are better at math and science than girls. That’s completely stupid because I got a higher score on our last math test than anyone in the class, including Tyler, who’s always showing off about how smart he is.”
Patrick wrapped his arm around Molly’s waist. “And what did you tell Madison?”
“I told her that my dad owns a big company in New York City, and that Mom runs her own business and is super smart about money and stuff. She kind of turned up her nose at that, so I told her that you know everything about building, and that being good at things has nothing to do with whether you’re a boy or a girl. It has to do with whether you work hard and pay attention.”
“That sounds like exactly the right thing to say,” Patrick said, his chest swelling with pride. “What did Madison say to that?”
“She got all huffy and said her brother is in high school, so he must know what he’s talking about. But then Mrs. Rodriguez heard us and said that some of the best engineers and scientists in the world are women. She told us about a lady who basically built the Brooklyn Bridge when her husband got sick, and Madison got all quiet after that.”
“Her name was Emily Roebling,” Patrick mused. “A long time ago, I read a book about her. She was an extraordinary woman.”
“Did you tell Dad about her when he was my age?” Molly asked.
The question hung in the air for a moment. Jack looked up from the bridge project, his eyes meeting his grandfather’s with understanding and something that might have been forgiveness.
“I don’t think so. When your dad was your age, I spent most of my time at work. Your dad’s Grandma looked after him and Uncle Noah for most of the time.”
Dylan looked up from his bridge. “Did you miss spending time with them?”
“I didn’t realize how much I missed them until it was almost too late,” Patrick said, his voice thick with emotion. “Moving here has meant I can spend more time with my family.” He wrapped his arm around Molly’s waist. “Whatever happens, I’ll always love you and Dylan, exactly as you are.”
“Good,” Molly said matter-of-factly, “because sometimes I’m really annoying. Just ask Dylan.”
“You are really annoying,” Dylan agreed cheerfully, then added, “but I still like you.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Emma called from the kitchen.
As they gathered around the dining table, Patrick sat beside Dylan.
“Poppa,” Dylan said as Emma served the pot roast, “after dinner, can we add another book to test the bridge? I want to see if our reinforcements worked.”
“You bet,” Patrick replied, then caught Jack’s eye across the table. His grandson was smiling, but there was something deeper there—recognition, perhaps, of the man Dylan and Molly were getting to know, the one Jack and Noah had only occasionally glimpsed in their childhood.
