Dolly All the Time(10)

Major grocery shop, produce heavy.



Sand singed wood.



Find YouTube on reframing a screen, otherwise get duct tape.



Q: Is it possible to DIY a whole roof?





I review my list, and it centers me. There’s nothing on here that’s more than a task. I changed a millionaire’s tire yesterday. I can figure out the roof.

I get up, pull a hoodie over my nightgown, and head into the kitchen to turn on the gas under the teakettle. I set the oven to three-fifty and pull Maud’s mixing bowl out of a low cupboard. There were three overly ripe bananas by the sink last night, perfect for a breakfast loaf of banana bread. I smash the bananas, add the eggs and the soft butter, and mix in the dry ingredients with Maud’s big wooden spoon. When it’s in the oven, I creep past my dad’s door to the laundry closet and pull last night’s wash out of the dryer. It’s still damp, so I head to the sleeping porch and add “take dryer apart to remove rogue lint” to my list. This happens at least once a year.

Christopher is the first to wake up. He stops on the stairs when he smells the banana bread, and I watch the smile spread across his face. There is no quicker way to wrap someone in love than by creaming sugar and butter and flour.

“Chocolate chips?” he asks before sitting down.

“Of course,” I say, serving him a still-warm slice right from the pan. “I’m not a monster.”

Christopher laughs and eats his whole slice in one bite.

My dad emerges in his old flannel robe. “I thought I was dreaming that smell, and then I remembered you were home.” He hugs me and I feel the joy of having warmed the kitchen. I can’t wait for Gus to wake up.



* * *





I leave the fish house at four because there are no deliveries. Dad insists he can mop and Rikki showed up to do the till. It’s cool for late June, and I grab Dad’s extra gray fleece from the back of his office chair on my way out. I pull it on and tie my hair in a knot on top of my head as I walk out onto Main Street and let the sun warm my face for a second, eyes closed. These are micro-breaks, I recently read, and are helpful for overdoers. I spent the rest of the morning pulling lint out of the disassembled dryer and then redrying and folding the laundry. I helped Gus oil the chain on his bike. Christopher’s doctor adjusted his meds without asking to see him, which was a small win, but twice today my dad half joked about turning the dingy storage space above the fish house into two bedrooms and a bath. The roof is feeling like an unsolvable problem, and picturing them there with no kitchen and no yard is giving me a low thrum of anxiety behind my chest. I open my eyes because someone is standing in front of me, blocking the sun.

“Hi,” he says.

Stewart Whitfield’s in a tissue-thin blue button-down, broad on his shoulders but slim along his sides, perfectly following the way his body tapers there, like a swimmer’s. I pull my eyes away. His sleeves are cuffed just once, like he was about to get relaxed but then forgot how.

“How’s the car?” I ask.

“Fine, I got a new tire.”

“Yeah, good,” I say, and hike my straw bag up my shoulder, purposely not looking at how his shirt hugs his torso.

He’s wearing glasses, horn-rimmed, and they frame his chocolate-brown eyes and masculine brows just so, while also making him look two percent more vulnerable. But the way he stands there like he owns the whole street reminds me that Stewart Whitfield has been to the White House to advise the president.

“Okay, so are you here to thank me again? I think we covered it.”

“No,” he says. He takes off his glasses and puts his phone in his pocket. He’s looking down at me, and I am annoyed by his interrupting my micro-break, standing there being handsome and rich. I’m annoyed by the thing my mother loved so much—how easy it is for these people. I need to come up with fifty grand, and I bet my 2003 Volkswagen Jetta cost less than his belt. “You really don’t read the Post, do you?”

I’m about to say something about my limited budget for random out-of-state newspaper subscriptions when my Good Sports phone trills the Rocky theme song. “Shit,” I say, fumbling in my straw bag. “Good Sports. You’re on a recorded line. How can I help you?” I put up a finger to let him know I’ll be a minute and sit on the cedar bench. Stewart stands, arms crossed, and watches me. “Yes, people are loving that vest. Okay. How long have you been using it? I don’t know. I mean, it’s difficult to tell if your bone density has increased. You’d need to see a doctor for that. No, I am not a doctor.” I look up at Stewart and roll my eyes, I can’t help it. I wrap it up by asking how else I can possibly be of service and hang up.

“What was all that?” he asks.

“Side hustle,” I say, getting up. “I’m the call center for a small sporting goods company.”

My personal phone pings, it’s Gus. “Oh, that’s my son.” I read the text: Christopher’s in a beach chair on the front lawn and he’s not wearing pants

“I’ve got to get home,” I say. “Glad your tire’s fixed.” I hike my bag back up on my shoulder again and start walking.

“Son? Are you married?” He’s walking alongside me, his long legs matching my pace.