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“Suck up,” Marlow said under her breath.
Mr. Dixon ignored her. “I happen to think you’re the man, as well.”
“Could that have come out any stiffer?” Holt asked, leaning over to look at his dad. “And it goes like this.” He held up his own fist, doing that thing like it exploded after Mr. Dixon bumped it.
“Please don’t teach my son that,” Marlow said, unimpressed.
That was the wrong thing to say. Holt immediately tried to show Blake how to do the move. After a few how’s out of the little boy’s mouth, he perfectly mimicked his uncle.
“You get to show him all the cool stuff,” Andrew said, scooping salad onto his fork.
“I’ll let you teach him how to knot a tie since you’re pretty good at it.”
Andrew snorted. “Thanks. Just the mark I want to leave on my nephew.”
Mr. Dixon frowned. “I wanted to teach him. He’s the next generation of Dixons.”
“You do the honors. But I think we’ve got a few years before he’s ready,” Andrew said, and Mr. Dixon relaxed, taking a bite of his pizza.
“You are good at it,” he conceded after he swallowed, pointing his chin in Andrew’s direction at the perfect knot around his neck.
I angled my head. “Why are you wearing a suit? It’s Sunday.”
“Because every day of the week is an opportunity for business,” Holt answered for him.
Andrew looked a little guilty, even as he opened his mouth to protest. “Strike while the iron’s hot. Isn’t that what you always say, Dad?”
Mr. Dixon flattened his mouth. “I didn’t mean to make work your life,” he said quietly.
“It just kinda happened.” Andrew pushed his glass away.
“What do you do, Marlow?” Baker asked, breaking the awkwardness.
“You’re more curious about her than me?” Holt pointed at his sister.
Baker’s eyes darted to the little lines of frustration, light glittering in them. She leaned closer and raised her voice. “Is there something wrong with your hearing?”
“It’s selective,” Marlow volunteered, taking a gulp of her wine. “And I’m a medical transcriptionist.”
“Is that difficult?” Baker asked as she dipped a breadstick in marinara sauce.
Marlow looked a bit taken aback, but recovered quickly. “It can be. But with proper training and experience, it’s not too bad.”
“Does it take a lot of concentration?”
Marlow blinked a few times. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
Baker turned to Mrs. Quinn. “Do we have any programs like that?”
“No, I don’t believe we do,” she said, a note of pride in her voice.
“Could you train women who might be interested?” Baker swung her head back toward Marlow, her gaze drilling into her.
“Um . . .” For the first time all evening, she looked uncomfortable.
“Paths of Purpose runs a mentor program where we try to retrain women, some of whom have not only been displaced from their homes, but haven’t always received the best education. That’s why Baker is asking you such direct questions,” Mrs. Quinn said, in her soothing and calm voice, offering an understanding smile.
“Maybe you could come talk to a few people if we get some interest. We can keep it intimate if that would be easier on you,” I said, hoping to tone down Baker’s bulldozer approach a notch. At that, Marlow looked a little less terrified. We didn’t want to make her feel pressured to do anything she didn’t want to do. She probably couldn’t relate to having to start all over again in life, either, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she ended up saying no.
