Chapter 32: Gerrity

On Friday morning I filled in the father line.

The records clerk at the county building slid Maggie's birth form across the counter with a pen on a chain.

The line sat where I had left it, empty, under Margaret Walt Gerrity.

Rafe stood a step behind me with Maggie in the sling, and he did not say a word.

"Are you sure?" the clerk asked.

"He said it out loud in front of three hundred people," I said. "I promised him I'd write it."

I wrote Boone Tarrant on the line, and my hand didn't shake.

"The surname stays Gerrity?"

"It stays Gerrity."

She stamped it.

It took less than a minute.

Maggie yawned against Rafe's chest.

On Sunday the rain came back.

It was a thin gray drizzle that fell all the way down the county road.

I rode through it in my father's jacket with my visor wet.

I wasn't afraid.

The oldest wife had Maggie, and the garage was locked up with the sign over its door.

Rafe rode behind me on the black Harley, one length back, where I had asked him to be.

The Triumph ran steady and loud under me.

At mile eighty-six the road bent along the water, and I saw the fairground fence.

Beside it was the spot at the edge of the gravel, with the drainage ditch next to it.

I eased off the throttle and coasted to the shoulder.

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