Chapter 14: The Table

The shed smelled of paint thinner from the road.

The yard's owner met us at the gate with a flashlight and a white face.

"Nobody hurt," he said. "Nothing burned. They just poured."

Gabe walked past him without a word.

The half-planked rowboat sat on its cradle in the middle of the floor.

Every strake was dark and shining.

Cans had been emptied along the bench, across the steam box, into the open drawers of his chisels.

Gabe put one hand flat on the bow plank.

It came away wet.

"Cedar," he said. "It drinks it. The glue lines are gone."

"I'm so sorry," I said.

"It's a boat. It's wood." His voice was steady and his hand wasn't. "I can build it again."

A deputy took our names.

The yard camera had been unplugged on Thursday, and nobody could say by whom.

At four in the morning Gabe drove us back across the bridge with all the windows down.

He didn't turn on any lights in his kitchen.

We stood in the dark by the long oak table, and the smell of the shed came in on his clothes.

"Stay," he said.

"I was going to."

"You said nothing with me while his name is on your deed."

"I changed my mind."

"Did you." His mouth moved at one corner. "I'm told it's a good rule. Nothing with you, Brooke. Not while his name is on your house."

He was throwing it at me.

He was tired and grieving, and he wanted a fight more than he wanted anything else.

I wanted the same fight.

"Shut up and take your shirt off," I said.

He pulled it over his head.

He was broad and scarred, with a line of dark hair down his stomach.

I put both hands on him and walked him backward until the table caught him at the hips.

I kissed him hard.

He kissed me back harder, with his hands under my cardigan.

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