She blinks. Then looks down at the extension cord running through her window like she's seeing it for the first time. “That's Lottie's tablet charger.”
“It's not one device. It's everything running at once. Fairy lights, fans, chargers, the tablet, and I'm guessing the coffee maker and the toaster were going at the same time.”
“I haven't made coffee yet. That's theproblem.”
She says this with such genuine distress that my ribcage does a thing I refuse to acknowledge.
“The circuit is twenty amps,” I say. “It's been twenty amps since your aunt docked here. If you want more capacity, that means rewiring the junction box, running a new cable, and probably replacing the inlet on the boat.”
“How much would that cost?”
“More than it should.”
She's quiet for a second. Then she looks at me over the rim of her empty mug—both hands wrapped around it even though there's nothing in it—and says, “Can you at least turn it back on? I have three children and a recently divorced woman in there who needs caffeine more than oxygen.”
“I can turn it back on. But if the coffee maker and the toaster run at the same time again?—”
“I will stagger my appliances. I will create a schedule. I will establish a rotation system with color-coded time slots if that's what it takes.”
I almost smile. Catch it just in time and convert it to a nod. “I'll reset it from the office.”
“Thank you.”
I turn to leave.
“Paul.”
I stop. She's leaning against the doorframe, themorning light hitting the side of her face in a way I am choosing not to notice.
“Thanks for checking on it. Instead of just leaving a note.”
“That would have been more efficient.”
“But less you.”
She goes back inside. The door closes. I stand on the dock for approximately three seconds longer than necessary, then walk back to the office.
Dawson isin the boathouse when I get back, already working. He's got the outboard from the rental skiff pulled apart on the workbench, parts laid out in the precise order I taught him when he was thirteen. The kid's got good hands—better than mine, if I'm honest, though I'd rather eat a barnacle than say it out loud.
“Breaker trip?” he asks without looking up.
“Slip twelve.”
“Shocker.”
Deadpan. No expression change. Just keeps working on the impeller housing. But I can hear the amusement underneath becausehe's my son and I know what his version of a smirk sounds like even when it doesn't reach his face.
“Don't start.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask if the fairy lights are still up.”
“They are.”
“Cool.” He holds the impeller up to the light, checking for wear. “Grandpa called. He wants the boys at the boathouse this afternoon. Knot lessons.”
