Page 120

Otto pointed a confirming finger at her. “Accuracy isn’t everything,” he said. “If you were working on the news hour, then sure, you gotta be accurate. But we were telling stories. In a story, you have to make people feel something. That’s your goal. You’re not teaching, you’re evoking. And if that’s the case, you gotta use whatever tool works best. Sometimes that’s a heartbeat. Sometimes it’s a roar. Just depends on what you want to bring out in whoever’s tuned in.”

“Huh,” Cora said. She took another pinch of dough—for rolling, this time, not eating. “So like . . . sometimes the wrong sound makes people feel the right thing?”

“Oh, I love that,” Otto said approvingly. “Yes, that’s it.”

Cora nodded, thinking about how much fun this was going to be to explain to Colibri. “That’s neat.”

“I didn’t always think that way,” Otto said. “When I first got hired, god, I was such a pedantic little twerp. Everything was about accuracy, accuracy. It wasn’t enough to have the sound of a hammer pounding a nail, I had to know what kind of hammer, what kind of nail. And sure, it can be fun to fuss over the details, but I was so caught up in them, I started to miss the whole point. Henry was the one who got me to think about it the right way around. He was a musician, see. Musicians know all about playing tricks with people’s feelings.”

Cora gave him a congenial glance. “He sounds like a really cool guy,” she said. “I wish I’d met him.”

“Well, you are, in a way.” Otto gestured at the lumps of dough between them. “These are his grandmother Lissa’s thumbprint cookies. And he never met her, but his father taught him this recipe.” He looked out the window and smiled wistfully. “He could take or leave cooking dinner, but he did enjoy baking.”

Cora didn’t know anyone who hadn’t lost someone—a lot of someones, usually. Death in the Berth was regular as rain. But the thing that was always hard to guess at was how a person wanted to be about it. Some people shoved their hurt in a lockbox. Some people never stopped crying. Some people liked to talk about the good, but took offense at bringing up the bad. Cora wasn’t sure what kind of person Otto was, in that sense. But she knew what she wanted to do, so she took a stab in the dark. She wiped her messy hands off on her apron, then set one of them on his shoulder.

Otto was surprised, but only for a second. He patted her hand, and let a few tears fall.

Cora kept her hand where it was, and felt grateful in turn. It was a real compliment, to be trusted with tears. She gave him a moment, then gave him an out. “So . . . if a roar was correct, then I guess you don’t want me to record Colibri’s heartbeat for you.”

The old man nearly smashed the ball of dough he’d picked back up. “Oh my god, would you?”

Cora grinned. “I dunno, you just said, accuracy isn’t everything—”

“No dessert for you, young lady,” he snapped. “You spit that dough right back out.”

They were both still laughing as a knock on the door preceded the sound of it being opened. “God, it’s miserable out,” Signy said from the next room over. “I hope Cora doesn’t get stuck on the ferry, I heard they might—”

Cora glanced back over the apron strings on her shoulder and threw a grin to Signy, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Hey, cutie,” Cora said.

“Hey, cutie,” Otto echoed.

Cora slapped his upper arm with the back of her hand. “Back off, bud, you’re not her type.”

“How . . .” Signy began as Otto chortled. She didn’t seem bothered, just confused. “How long have you been here?”

“Uh . . .” Cora put her ball on the sheet and grabbed more dough. “—I guess since about four?”

“You’ve been here two and a half hours?” Signy asked.

“That can’t be right,” Otto said. He looked at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table. “Oh! So it is. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Cora looked over her shoulder again. “He called me this morning and asked me if I wanted to help get dinner ready before you closed the shop.”

Signy crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, befuddled. “He called you?”

“Am I not allowed?” Otto asked.

“Since when do you have her number?”

Otto ignored her. He took a look at Cora’s handiwork and gave a favorable nod. “Looking good there, kid.”

“Eh,” Cora sighed. “Mine are all wonky.”

“They’re lovely,” Otto said. “Nobody’s never done them that good.”

“See, now I know they’re fucked up,” Cora replied.

“They’re lovely,” Otto repeated firmly. “I’m going to get the spuds going. I’ll let you finish those.”