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Daphne winced.
Richard whistled.
“You paying for the replacement if I can find someone to recreate it?” I spread my hands out. “Because big, tall Burke with the giant hands probably won’t.”
“Uh-oh.” Daphne set the spindle down. “Was it bad?”
While Richard got the dough into a bowl to rest and Daphne grabbed some snacks from the pantry, I told them what had happened. Facial expressions varied, from horror to muted laughter to pity.
“I thought I recognized him,” Richard said. “He was good. Never won a trophy, but he was always one of those solid players who everyone seemed to respect. He set the sack record at Michigan, broke one that was probably thirty years old when he did. No one’s touched it since.”
I blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
Richard grinned. “It means how many times he sacked the other quarterback in his college career. Thirty-six, I think.”
“The quarterback is the main dude, right?”
Richard nodded patiently. “Yes.”
Daphne snorted.
“Don’t give me that look,” I told her. “When would I watch football? By the time Mom and I moved here, she refused to watch anything Dad would’ve watched. I don’t think we had sports on our TV for a solid five years before she finally caved and allowed baseball because she loved the Tigers.”
“Do you know where on the field a pitcher stands?” Daphne patted my hand. It was only mildly condescending.
I rolled my eyes. “Knowing about sports does not make a person inherently more interesting.”
“No, but your patent refusal to have even the slightest awareness of them probably does explain why you struggle going out on anything remotely like a date.”
“Men should be able to hold conversations about something other than sports.” I held up a finger. “It’s also not why I’m single.”
“Oh, honey, we know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Daphne smiled. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing. You’ve got a very particular idea in mind of what kind of man could possibly hold your interest more than your job does, and you don’t seem to have met him yet. Nothing wrong with that.”
My skin started to itch. It always did when she wanted to do a deep dive into why I was never in a relationship. I stood from the table. “Bread be ready later?”
Richard nodded. I ignored the knowing look in his eye. “I’ll pop it in the oven in about an hour. I’ll send you a text when it’s done.”
“I’ll come back,” I said. “Besides, I lost my phone.”
“Again?”
We both looked at Daphne. “It wasn’t me,” she said, hands raised.
“I’m sure I’ll find it soon.” I waved as I left their house—a small ranch set back off the road, just like the Campbell House. Instead of four acres and a long stretch of waterfront, Daphne and Richard had a small, rocky piece of beach just at the curve of the arm of the bay. And when they moved into the house, he installed a deck long enough that you could jump into the water.
It was where I spent all my summer days, once my mom and I moved here. Via the beaten-down path in the woods, I’d sneak over to the Campbell House during the few months my mom worked there before Chris’s grandma died.
I could close my eyes and walk that path effortlessly. I knew where to avoid the root sticking out of the dirt. Knew where it veered off past the forsythia bush that always bloomed bright yellow in the spring.
Not all my jobs were like this; the four before it kept a little piece of me, but the Campbell House had my heart.
All of it.
And the thought of it remaining unchanged was worth handcuffs and protests, as much as Daphne had gone about it wrong.
