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“The truth. After coffee.”

We ate the sandwiches. They were egg salad and they were excellent, and we were both too polite to say that we’d have eaten a fence post by then.

Somewhere in the second hour I asked him the thing I’d been carrying since the tenth of November. “Tell me exactly what the January repair would involve. If I stopped fighting it.”

He set the cup down. He didn’t ask whether I was sure, which I appreciated, because I wasn’t. “First, we dig out the damaged corner three feet at a time, so the wall stays supported. Then we pour a new concrete support beneath each section and anchor it to the old foundation. While that corner is open, no one can be in the shop or your apartment.”

“How long?”

“Six weeks total. Five of them with the shop closed. The foundation work takes the longest. Afterward, we replace the center beam with one the same size as the original. We also move the electrical panel to the alley wall so you can reach it without shifting inventory.” He drew a rectangle in the air with two fingers. “Then we lift the front third of the shop floor, repair underneath it, and put the floor back.”

“Why does the floor have to come up?”

“Because the damaged foundation has forced it to help support the building. Floors aren’t supposed to do that.”

“You can put it back exactly as it is?”

“Yes. I’ll number every board before I lift it.” He sounded more excited about old floorboards than most people sounded about vacations. “The property file says Adele Fisk’s father laid that floor. One of the old inspection photographs shows a square patch beneath the register where someone cut an opening for a stove pipe around 1950 and later closed it.”

“You bought the building without inspecting it yourself?”

“I bought the block based on the management company’s records and the seller’s reports. I knew the buildings needed work. I did not know the full extent until after closing.”

“And it still has to happen in January.”

“Waiting until February would be worse. The frost would push the excavation into March, and you’d lose the spring work too.”

“There isn’t a spring stock. There’s Christmas and there’s eleven months of getting ready for Christmas.” I pulled the blanket up. “Closing after Christmas won’t cost me the holiday rush. It takes the months when I order and build the next one. So the plain version is you can save my building by taking part of next year or leave it alone and let it break.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going to pretend there’s a third thing.”

“There may be a third option. If I can reach the damaged footing through the party wall from Sweet Provisions’ basement, I may be able to shorten the time your shop stays closed. But I need to inspect that wall before I can promise anything.” He looked at me. “That’s everything I know. I wish the answer were better.”

I thought about Adele handing me the shop keys before she moved to Arizona and dismissing the crooked west wall as ordinary settling.

“Thank you for telling me the truth without dressing it up.”

“Give me a month to inspect that wall. Then I’ll tell you whether the third option is real.”

The storm released us around nine. Mrs. Morrison returned to say the county plow had reached the ridge, and the road should reopen within an hour.

She glanced at the empty hay bale beside us, then collected the thermos without comment. “Take the blankets for the drive. Bring them back another day. I know where both of you live.”

An hour later, Griffin followed the plow tracks down the ridge. He kept both hands on the wheel until we reached the first straight stretch. Then he held one hand out over the console, palm up.

I put mine in it and counted the miles to Holly Creek, where the storm could no longer excuse either of us.

Neither of us spoke until we reached the town-limit sign.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For not telling me I’m different from my father just because I wanted you to.”

“I knew you would take the answer.”