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“This thing?”
“That thing. I don’t know why he had it—neither does Gram. I hope he approves of what I do with it. I’ve already drilled the holes in the frog.”
Now he walked to the concrete frog on another worktable.
It sat cross-legged on a perch inside a wide copper bowl. Its hands lay cupped, palms up on its knees. It wore a beatific smile.
The holes in the cupped palms offered a clue.
“You’re going to pump water out of his hands?”
“I knew what he should be as soon as I saw him. The submergible pump goes under his seat, and the wire for the panel goes down through the base—see the holes I put in? The sunshine runs it.”
“Did your grandfather teach you how to work a drill that way?”
“Not really. I didn’t spend that much time here—and that’s a regret. But some basics—hammer, nail, measure twice, cut once. Then there’s always a tutorial on YouTube. It’s going to work.”
While the dog explored the shop, Miles walked over to get the dolly. “Do you know where you want it?”
“The exact spot.”
“Said every woman ever.”
“That’s very sexist. Possibly true, but very sexist.”
He started to tip the base to slide the dolly under, stopped, and shot her a look. “Jesus, Morgan.”
“I know, it’s a ton, which may be why it’s still in here. We’ll get it.”
Together, they maneuvered it onto the dolly. While Miles rolled it, she balanced it.
“If it goes,” he warned her, “don’t try to catch it. It goes, it goes.”
“It’s not going to.”
It took some doing, a lot of muscle and sweat, but it turned out she did have an exact spot. In the full sun, beyond the shade of a weeping peach, and in front of a swath of thriving Nikko Blue hydrangeas.
“Okay, just hold it there!” She ran back for a slab of slate—hole drilled—then the pump and wire.
Once she had the pump set, they eased the base onto the slab of slate.
Miles gave it a push. “It’ll take a tornado to knock this thing over.”
“Exactly.”
She ran back, Howl running with her, to get the frog and bowl.
“See, the pump fits into the seat, the seat in the copper bowl—that came from the shop, a local craftsman—and the frog on the seat, with the pipe going up, and into his butt. Could you get the hose?” She gestured. “It’ll reach, I checked.”
“I’m sure you did.”
She didn’t miss a trick, he thought, when he hiked over to turn on the hose, walked back with it.
“It’s going to work,” she muttered.
“Fill it up?”
“Please. I love how the sun plays off the copper. I thought about getting a regular birdbath bowl, but the copper just pops out. The frog’s so cute. Totally Zen—which is what I call him. I think they’ll love it. Okay, moment of truth.”
