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By the time anyone found her, he’d have traded the convertible to a contact he had in North Carolina, and with a new ride, head west for a while.
As he drove off into the night, he smiled to himself.
“And that’s how it’s done.”
Morgan didn’t want the summer to end. Every day, rain or shine, offered her another building block in her new life. A life, she’d discovered, she genuinely loved.
Nothing could change the tragedy that had set her on this new path, but she could, and would, not only walk it but appreciate the scenery on the way.
She could and would be grateful.
On a sunny Sunday, she intended to show some gratitude with a surprise.
“I really appreciate you helping out.”
As they drove, Morgan reached up to stroke Howl, who pressed against her seat in Miles’s burly SUV.
“I know you have a weekend routine.”
“It’s a routine, not a commandment carved in stone.”
“Either way, I’ll never move that concrete base alone, which is why it’s been sitting in my grandfather’s workshop for a dozen years. But the three of us can move it.”
“Yeah, the dog’ll be a lot of help.”
“He’s here for moral support, aren’t you, Howl? And he gets an outing. It’s like a little vacation.”
“Every day’s a vacation when you’re a dog.” He pulled into the drive at the Tudor.
“My ladies won’t be back until after three, probably later. This is going to work.”
“Every time you say that it comes out a little less confident.”
“I just need to get started. I’m nervous, but that’ll pass once I get started.”
She led the way around the house, with Howl looking everywhere, sniffing everything on his doggie vacation.
“I set the solar panel for the pump out yesterday so it would charge, but everything else is in the workshop. There’s a dolly, but I was afraid to try to move it by myself.”
She grinned at Miles. “You’re the muscle.”
“Looks good back here,” Miles observed.
“And when we finish this project, even better. It’s the one thing that’s missing. Or the one thing until I think of another thing.”
The workshop, a faded cedar square with a bright blue door, stood at the back of the property, tucked among the trees and backed by a narrow stream.
“Just like I remember it. The dog your grandfather had when I was a kid liked to stretch out in the stream. Our grandfathers sometimes sat on a couple of old folding chairs, had a beer, bullshitting. He always had a cold Coke for me when I tagged along.”
“He loved kids.” She opened the shop door. “They wanted a big family, but Gram had complications.”
“That’s a shame. Jesus, it looks just like I remember in here. ‘A place for everything, Miles,’ he’d say. ‘And everything in its place. Because when you need a tool, you don’t want to waste time hunting for it.’”
Running her hand over a worktable, she glanced around at the power tools, the pegboard holding hand tools, the big red tool chest, the labeled mason jars holding screws, nails, washers.
“It still, somehow, smells like him. I think that’s why Gram hasn’t given away any of his tools, or sold them. It’s been handy for me, with the little projects.”
Miles walked over to a concrete pedestal, easily three feet high with a wide top.
