His nose crinkles. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure? Never?”
“A few cats at some of the small bookstores that my mom’s managed, but no dogs. I’ve never really had a pet. Never been anywhere long enough, I guess.”
“Well, if you ever want to practice dog ownership, Bean is happy to oblige. And the good thing is, he’s got a short attention span,” he says as the dog scampers off, tongue lolling as he chases a paper airplane. “Come on. Let’s eat before someone else corners us.”
We pile plates with food—a mishmash of everything from spanakopita and moussaka, to pork egg rolls from Mr. and Mrs. Wong, and not one, butthreekinds of potato salad—and find an unoccupied table. It’s a little awkward between us while weeat. We don’t have much to say, and it’s so noisy … so much going on in the small backyard. Conversations. Laughter. And it continues like this until one of his uncles—George, who is a little tipsy—trips over a water sprinkler. Thank God, because it attracts everyone’s attention, and Lucky finally breaks the awkward silence between us, reminding me of funny stories about Uncle George embarrassing himself at other Sunday dinners.
“You hate this,” Lucky suddenly says, toying with the tab on top of a can of grape soda. “Being here. You were worried about being here today, and I said it would be okay, but now you’re not talking, so I’m pretty sure you hate it.”
I think for a moment. “You know what? I actually don’t. It’s just that I forgot what it’s like. I’ve been used to just me and Mom. It’s been weird since we’ve moved back here for Evie to be added into the mix. Not bad-weird. Just …”
“An adjustment.”
“Yeah.”
“This is my normal,” he says, gesturing toward the yard. “Always loud, always people coming and going. At home. At the boatyard … You may remember that my dad also has two sisters and a brother, and they all moved into town two years ago, so I have a million cousins. Someone’s always needing something. Money. Help. Attention. Sleeping on our couch. Dinners. Errands. Favors. Drama. Babysitting … I get so tired of all the chaos. I would kill to have the kind of refuge you have there. That’s my dream—living above the Nook? That seems amazing.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yeah. Why do you think I love coming in there? One of the few places I can enjoy some peace and quiet and get away from my family.”
“You haven’t recently, you know. Been in the bookshop. Not since …”
“Well,” he says, shrugging as he pushes his plate away. “Been a little busy, chartering boats and whatnot.”
“And whatnot,” I say, smiling. I’m just happy that we’re talking, and it’s not awkward like it was when we first sat down to eat.
He glances over his shoulder, then says, “Hey. Wanna see something?”
“Are you going to show me where the bodies are buried?”
“I’d be surprised if there weren’t at least one.” He gestures with his head, and I silently follow him around the edge of the yard, through a pair of tall bushes, and into a side door that leads into the detached garage, where he flicks on an overhead light that takes a second to illuminate the dark space.
I look around while he closes the door behind us, shutting out the din of the backyard. It’s a one-car garage with no car parked inside, same as it always was when we came in here to play games on rainy days. But that’s all that’s the same. Next to the door is a beat-up couch and a tiny dorm-sized fridge being used as a side table, a stack of books and a lamp on top. But that’s not the bulk of what’s taking up the room in here.
Salvaged metal parts.
Everywhere.
Spokes. Wheels. Bars. Fenders. Pipes. Sheets. The walls are lined with industrial shelves that are packed with metal parts of all shapes and sizes. Metal hangs from the rafters. It’s stacked in the corner next to a large rotary machine that looks like it cuts or grinds—both, maybe. A large table in the center room stands near welding equipment; I recognize the small orange machine and nearby mask from seeing a similar one in use at the boatyard.
At the end of the garage, opposite the door, Lucky flips on a lamp over a workbench. Hammers and saws and a variety of strange tools hang from a pegboard. Rows of tiny drawers.
I look around in amazement, feeling his eyes on me. He doesn’t say a single word. Which is kind of weird. That’s when it hits me.
“This is your thing,” I say. “This is your photography.”
He nods.
“Metalwork.”
“Yep.” He pulls out the steel stool from under his workbench. “I made this.”
It’s not fancy. Simple, clean lines. And I can see where it was welded together at the joints. But it’s beautiful. And it doesn’t squeak like the stool behind the counter at the Nook.
Before I can open my mouth to say anything, he points to other things and explains what each is for and how they came to be: A basket-shaped dome around a light fixture that was once a tin can. A cage he salvaged from a crab trap that holds more scrapparts. A set of drawers from a 1950s paint shop that he cut up and reassembled. He melts down metal. Cuts it up. Joins it. Makes it into something new.
“You’re an artist,” I finally say, stunned. “Like me.”
