I almost smile. Almost. I catch it in time and redirect it into a frown, but Dad sees it—of course he does, the man has radar for any crack in my defenses—and files it away without comment.
“Speaking of the reinforcement schedule,” he says.
“No.”
“I haven't said anything yet.”
“You were about to say her name.”
“I was going to ask about the timeline, actually, but since you went there first?—”
“I didnot?—”
“You did. You assumed I was headed that direction, which means she's already on your mind, which means I can sit here and let you do all the work for me.” He leans back, looking exactly like a cat that just knocked a glass off the counter on purpose.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The water stain on the ceiling stares down at me. Florida has never looked more judgmental.
“Your mother yelled at me about the yard for thirty years,” Dad says. “I married her on the third argument. You're behind schedule, son.”
“That's not?—”
“She's pretty. She's kind. She has nice kids. If you can't figure out the next step from there, I failed somewhere.”
“You didn't fail.”
“Then stop making me wonder.”
He pushes himself up from the chair and moves toward the door. Outside, an egret lifts off the railing, circles once, and settles back down like the effort wasn't worth it. The sun has climbed high enough that the dock boards are radiating heat, the baked-wood smell that means afternoon is coming.
Dad stops in the doorway. Turns back. The humor drains from his face, and what's left underneath is bare.
“Holly would have loved this,” he says. Not gently—just factually. The way you'd report the weather. “The kids on the dock. The noise. All of it.” He pauses. “She wouldn't want you like this, Paul. You know that.”
My throat closes. I don't say anything. I can't.
“Dock at two,” he says. “Dolphin tour. You're welcome to come. Or you can sit in here and stare at that ceiling. Your choice.”
He leaves.
The office settles back into its own sounds—thetick of the wall clock that's been five minutes fast since 2019. The low groan of the dock shifting as the tide pulls out. A boat passes in the channel and the wake rocks my chair a minute later, rolling the pens across my desk. Through the window, my father is on the dock teaching the twins knots—that particular patient authority I grew up on. The voice that made me believe, at eight, that he had all the answers, and that if I listened closely enough, I would too.
Holly would have loved this. He's right. She'd have been out there with him, teaching the twins, making sure Olson didn't end up in the water again. She never missed one of Dad's dolphin tours—even the ones where nobody spotted a single fin and Dad had to invent an elaborate excuse about seasonal migration patterns.
She was better at all of this than I am. The people part. She just knew how to show up—with coffee, with your name memorized before you'd finished introducing yourself. And that look she used to give me.I know you're scared. I love you anyway. Stop being ridiculous.
I can't hear her voice anymore. Nobody tells you that part of grief—not that you'll miss them, because everybody tells you that. That you'll forgetthe sound of them. That one morning you'll try to remember exactly how she said your name, and it'll be gone.
I press both palms flat against the desk. Hold them there until the wood pushes back.
Emma is on the houseboat deck. She's put her camera down and she's watching my father with the kids. The way she's standing—arms wrapped around herself, leaning against the railing—tells me she's seeing what I'm seeing. A seventy-two-year-old grandpa who isn't hers, showing up anyway.
I look away before she glances toward the office.
But before I do—before I can stop myself—I notice the way Millie is sitting at the end of the dock, her book closed in her lap, watching Harold with the twins. Not reading. Just watching. With an expression that's quiet and hungry at the same time. The expression of a kid who knows exactly what a grandpa is supposed to look like and hasn't had one in a while.
My hand moves before my brain catches up. I pick up my phone and text Dad.
Me:Millie likes A Wrinkle in Time. Bring the sequels tomorrow.
