He waves me up. I look at the ladder. Look at the roof. The pitch is lower here than Danny's craftsman. Four metres off grade, dry weather, no wind. I know the routine now: weight downslope, feet on the batten lines. I've done this.
I go up.
The top of the McDougall house in the afternoon light stops me for a moment. The whole town below, the valley, the mountains with their October snow, the river catching the light somewhere in the trees. I can see the memorial garden on the hillside — the path, the central stone, the plantings going into their first winter.
Atlas is sitting on the ridge beam, hands loose between his knees, in no apparent hurry.
"The cap?" I say.
"In a minute." He moves over. "Sit down."
I sit on the ridge beam beside him. It's narrow. I'm not going to fall. I know this because I know where my weight is and because Atlas has never let anything fall that he was responsible for holding.
"I built my house to last a hundred years," he says. "Metal roof, double-glazed, storm straps on every truss. Built it after the Chilcotin fire because I wanted to live somewhere hard to damage."
The scar on his forearm catches the afternoon light.
"I've done things partway," he says. "In my life. Not in the work. Never in the work." He looks out at the valley. "I don't want to do this partway. I want you to stay and build your firm here and live in Silver Ridge, and I want to stop driving home alone. Those are the specific things I want."
"Those are very specific things."
"I'm a specific person." He turns and looks at me. "I'd never let you fall."
Something opens in my chest. Quietly, the way a window opens and the air changes.
"I know," I say.
He kisses me on top of a house in the afternoon light, and I don't let go.
seven
Atlas
Myhouseatnightis quiet in a way I built deliberately. The metal roof turns rain into white noise. The double-glazing cuts the wind. The stone floor holds heat from the woodstove through the whole main level. I know every sound this house makes.
I'm learning new ones.
I walk her back to the bed and the lamp on the nightstand is the only light and her face in it stops me for a second. Three weeks of watching her and I'm still not done. I put my hand along her jaw and she turns into it and that's enough. I'm done waiting.
I take my time with her shirt. The buttons are small. I don't rush them.
"You're being very deliberate," she says.
"I'm a deliberate person."
"I've noticed." The dry voice she uses when she's paying close attention. "Is this on purpose?"
"Yes." I get the last button and push the shirt off her shoulders and look at her. "The hotel was real. But I was still running on the roof." I put my hand flat on her sternum, feel her heart under my palm. "I want to know what this is when we're both just here."
She looks at me. Then she puts her hand over mine. "Okay," she says. "Then be here."
I take her at her word.
I get her shirt off and her jeans and I stop. Just look at her. All of her, in the lamplight, unhurried. She lets me do it, which I notice — Willa who manages everything, still under my hands, letting me take my time.
"You're staring," she says.
"Yes," I say. "I am."
