Chapter 24: Home for Thanksgiving

A year later, I drove up the gravel road to the lake house on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

I had driven up from the bridge job in Columbus that morning with a duffel bag and a box of pies.

I worked bridges across Ohio now, three counties wide.

I had a truck I'd paid for myself.

I had an office over the florist with a coffee maker I'd bought on sale.

I had sold the lumberyard in the spring to the men who worked in it.

They paid me in installments, and they called me Cal.

My father worked for them now, at the saw, in the same flannel shirt, and nobody gave him a title.

My mother sent a pie with him every Sunday, and I ate one slice and said thank you.

That was as far as we had gotten.

It was more than I'd expected.

Natasha had pleaded guilty in March and was serving five years, and I had not written to her.

Monique's last money order had come in October, with a note that said, "Paid in full. I hope you're happy."

I was.

I stopped the truck at the end of the drive and sat there for a minute.

Every window of the lake house was lit.

Smoke came out of the chimney, and a line of cars stood along the gravel.

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