“Son, I’ve been running this marina since before you could tie a bowline. I notice everything.” He settles into the chair across from my desk. “The ex-husband.”
“Matt.”
Harold frowns. "Did you see him shake her hand? Like she's a client he's closing. Smile that doesn't reach his eyes. That's not a manwho came to see his kids. That's a man making a presentation."
“Dad.”
“I’m observing. Observation is free.”
“Your observations always come with opinions.”
“Opinions are free too. That’s the beauty of being seventy-two. Nothing I say costs a dime, and nobody can send me a bill.”
I don’t respond. Harold takes this as an invitation to continue, because silence has never once stopped a Spencer from talking when they’ve decided a point needs making.
“Your mother wore perfume to our third date,” he says. “Nice stuff. Expensive. She never wore perfume—said it gave her headaches. But she wanted me to notice her, so she suffered through it. I noticed. I also noticed the headache she got an hour later and the way she powered through dinner pretending her skull wasn’t splitting open.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“People perform when they want something. The question is whether the performance has anything real behind it.”
He picks up a tomato from the Tupperware. Examines it. Sets it back down.
“Holly never performed,” he says. “Not once.She showed up exactly as she was every single day. That’s why you fell for her. And that photographer on the houseboat—she’s the same kind. No performance. Just real.”
“Dad.”
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving.” He stands up. Doesn’t leave. “One more thing.”
“Of course.”
“The man in the pressed khakis brought her coffee. You bring her solutions. There’s a difference between caffeine and commitment, son. Make sure she knows which one you’re offering.”
He takes a tomato from the Tupperware—one of Emma’s tomatoes—pops it in his mouth, and walks out whistling.
I love my father. I also want to launch him into the harbor on a regular basis.
The morning goes sideways atten.
I’m replacing a section of railing near slip two—actual work, useful work, the kind of work that keeps my hands busy and my brain from spiraling—when Aidan appears.
“Mr. Paul!”
“Hey, bud.”
“Dad’s here. He showed up before we woke up. He brought Mom coffee and they’ve been talking on the deck for like an hour and Mom’s doing the thing where she holds her mug really tight, which Millie says means she’s thinking hard.”
I set down my drill. “That’s nice.”
“He said he wants to talk about being around more. Like, visiting more. Maybe even moving closer.”
The drill slips off the dock and falls into the water.
We both watch it sink. It’s a good drill. Cordless. Milwaukee. Two hundred and forty dollars.
“Was that important?” Aidan asks.
“Nope.”
