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Her Etsy bio suggests she also designs high-end human jewelry. Our PI thinks that’s part of what brought her to the city. Dreams of a fashion career.
After lunch, Brett and I head out to the site of an Olympic-sized ice arena and hotel complex in south Brooklyn that’s an important joint venture with our Canadian partners.
Brett and I still like to walk the sites when we can.
It’ll be a good thing to do. A walk through a massive construction site will center me, get my brain off pink tongue tips and soft sighs.
It goes well for a bit. We talk over plans for making up a rain delay and go over some plumbing issues.
Then I see the griffin on the side of the truck of one of the concrete contractors. I snap a picture of it, imagining texting it to Vicky. Imagining her face when she sees it, wondering where she is.
Is she making dog collars? Where does she make them? Does she listen to music while she works? I want in on her dreams, her keeper bookshelf, her playlists, her comfort TV show, her hated foods. I want in on her.
I turn off the phone and shove it in my pocket.
Kaleb shows up with the Canadians. We put on the blue Locke hard hats and head on in.
Brett’s side of the family was never interested in the Locke business—it was my dad and my grandfather who ran it.
But Brett got bitten by the building bug early, so he spent a lot of time with my dad and grandfather and me out on the sites when we were boys.
After things got busy, it was Renaldo we’d tag along with. Renaldo was the master builder, overseeing the superintendents who oversaw the projects.
We spent a lot of summers with hammers in our hands under the watchful eye of Renaldo.
While we’re out on the site, the partners ask about the Smuckers stunt—that’s the way they put it.
I catch Brett’s eye. “It’s been everything we could’ve imagined,” I say. “A unique way to honor Bernadette’s memory.”
“We’re having a ceremony where Smuckers endows a shelter,” Brett says. “We’ll normalize things after that.”
They look over at me and I smile. “But Smuckers is in complete agreement with us as far as a project like this goes.”
“Two paws up,” Kaleb adds, and everybody laughs.
Kaleb and the partners take off. Brett and I hit the falafel stand a few blocks down. “I can’t believe it’s working this well,” he says. “The Smuckers thing. It’s brilliant. As long as you can keep her under control.”
“It’s brilliant as long as nobody talks,” I say, avoiding the keeping-her-under-control part.
Again I’m back there. I thought I’d die when she broke off the kiss.
But with Vicky, I actually am interested.
How did I get back to Vicky?
I update Brett on my efforts to reach out to everybody who was at the will reading, reminding them to keep the real story about Smuckers and my mom to themselves. “One drunken conversation with the wrong person and we’re seriously hosed.”
Brett turns to me. I know he’s thinking of my father even before he says it. “He’d roll around in his grave.”
Meaning, if he knew what Mom did.
“He’d kick right out of his coffin,” I growl.
We get our falafels and eat them side-by-side, leaning against the car, watching the workers. It never gets old. In some ways, Brett and I are still those boys who can’t get enough of diggers and cranes.
When I finish my falafel, I fish out my phone. I just need to send the picture and be done with it.
“Who are you sending a Morrison truck to?”
