“You have dogs?” I put tea on the newel post of the stairs and he takes it without comment when he comes back up.
“Yeah,” he says.
“It’s cold, shouldn’t they come in?”
He shrugs his massive shoulders. “They’ll be ok. They know to be patient.”
Around one-fifteen, the scratching at the front door begins. Something small and persistent.Apparently not too patient.
He sets down his tea. "Sorry," he says, and goes to the door.
Three dogs come in. A large Lab mix who moves with the dignity of a dog who has learned that being good gets you access to more places. An ancient beagle, small and slow, who immediately finds the driest section of parlour floor and folds herself down onto it. And a terrier, wire-haired, restless, who comes through the door and stops, and then looks at me with the expression of an animal running a rapid assessment and arriving at a verdict.
The terrier trots directly to me and sits on my foot.
"That's Rivet," Nash says. He looks at her, then at me. "She doesn't usually do that."
"I have biscuits," I say. I pull out a somewhat crumbled shortbread from the tupperware on my table. "Can she have this?"
He watches me hold it out to Rivet. "She can."
The Lab mix, meanwhile, has found the stairs and put his head in my lap.
"Wrench," Nash says.
"Hello, Wrench." I scratch the big dog's ears and he makes a sound of profound satisfaction. "And the beagle?"
"Penny. She's deaf. She won't come to you unless she's in the mood."
Penny opens one eye from her spot on the floor, assesses me, and closes it again.
It is now nearly two in the morning. Nash has managed the immediate crisis: emergency patches on all three sites, solid enough to restore water pressure carefully for the night, nothing that will give way before he can get back to do the real work.
We end up in the kitchen with more tea. He sits at the table and opens his notebook and shows me the scope: three pipe sections need replacing, not just patching. The work is a week minimum. He goes through each item with the same flat precision — materials, access points, drying time for plaster repair.
When he's done he looks up at me. I've gone still, running the math.
"I’m sure you know, but this is going to be expensive.”
I look at him. He looks back, steady and unapologetic.
"Can we talk about the scope in the morning?" I ask, suddenly feeling very tired, "When I have all my project files in front of me?"
"I'll be back at seven," he says.
He stands. He calls Wrench, who peels himself off my leg with visible reluctance. He picks up Penny, who doesn't object, and tucks her under one arm. Rivet follows him to the door and then turns back and looks at me.
"Rivet. Come."
She goes. But she looks back twice.
I stand in the doorway of the house my great-aunt Ruth left me, in my rubber boots and my plaid pajama shirt and myhair half-escaped from its pins, and I watch the truck's taillights disappear.
The house is quiet. The pipes are still.
I look down at the floor of the front parlour. The water stain has already started to lighten at the edges as it dries.
I go find the mop.
