Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MILLER
I look out through my car window at the “Cross & Grain. A Family of Master Carpenters” sign over the door of my dad’s workshop in Southie.
I’ve kept myself as busy as humanly possible for the twenty-four hours since I came back to Boston after Frankie threw me out.
Not that immersing myself in work has managed to lessen the sensation of being stabbed in the chest with a spoon.
The pain is blunt and puncturing and bruising and feels like it will never stop.
After she walked out of the house yesterday morning, all I wanted to do was chase after her, beg for her forgiveness, take her in my arms, explain how crazy I am about her and that, yes, we met under circumstances of me not exactly being the best version of myself, but that it was a one-off brought about by years of pent-up anger over how Skinner treated my parents.
I wanted to tell her I’d make everything right, that I’d take care of her and her grandpa and the donkeys and everything would be exactly as she wants it.
But I’m pretty sure that if I’d tried it right then, I’d have gotten a knee in the chain saw boxers.
So I listened to the sensible corner of my brain that told me to at least give her some time and space.
Right before Skinner showed up, I’d thought there might be at least a remote glimmer of hope that I could explain everything to her in a way that might still leave us teetering on the edge of a chance of a future together.
But that dick-ass snatched it away, ground it to a pulp, and stomped on it.
All with that abhorrent reptilian grin on his face.
But I can’t blame everything on him.
I had so many chances to come clean to her before that morning, but I was too much of a coward.
I’m such a fucking idiot—a fucking idiot who’s fucking fucked up every-fucking-thing.
Last night as I tried to sleep, the image of the way Frankie’s face changed as it dawned on her what had actually been going on haunted the backs of my eyelids.
Again, now, recalling her expression of sadness and hurt combined with a spark of fury makes me hate myself more than I ever thought possible, makes my insides feel like the hollow wreckage of a burned-out car—charred and mangled and beyond repair.
She hates me. I know she does.
And there’s no way for me to fix it.
And no way for me to fix myself. I’ll be blaming myself for ruining this chance for the rest of my life. And I’m not sure I’ll ever get my power of concentration back—it feels like it’s shot for good.
After this morning’s meeting with the city guy obsessed with the sprinkler system in the Seaport project, who finally and grudgingly accepted that our plans are perfectly code compliant, my ability to keep my mind on work was completely drained.
So I thought I’d try to reset my brain by going for a drive, and once I was in the car I felt a sudden need to be around my parents.
But first I need to deal with something else that’s been playing on my mind since I got back.
I pick up my phone from the center console and call Brooke.
“Hey,” she says, through a mouthful of something.
“Still working your way through that box of doughnuts?”
“Yup.” She makes a sound like she’s sucking her fingers. “Stop giving me a hard time. There are worse pregnancy cravings.”
“Yeah, but at this rate that kid’s going to come out covered in pink frosting and sprinkles.”
“Careful, or I’ll extend my maternity leave and you’ll be lost without me. Anyway, what do you need?”
“Remember that idea you had about sending soccer gear to summer camps?”
“Yup. The club merch store is ordering some kids’ shirts for me, and Drew is working on a list of equipment I could send.”
“Great. Carry on with that. But also look into setting up our own soccer camps.”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone.
“Brooke? Is your mouth too full of doughnut to speak?”
“More like my jaw was too slack. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m saying, let’s start a bunch of free soccer camps for kids from families who otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford to send them to one. We can make some day camps, some sleepovers. And they need to be all over the country. We can talk about it when I get back.”
“Free? You mean you want to fully fund it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been day-drinking?”
I ignore that. “It’ll be great. We’ll get Drew involved too. She’ll eat this shit up.”
Just talking about this, voicing these ideas out loud, turns on an adrenaline buzz. My body is kind of tingling with how much good this could do and how much fun it could be.
Of course it could be great PR too but, for once, that’s not my primary concern—doing good is, doing something to bring joy that doesn’t involve marble bathrooms and designer light fixtures to others’ lives.
“Are you saying you want to spend a fortune on this and be involved?”
“Yeah. Like you said before, it’ll be fun for me.”
She blows out a long breath. “If this kid is born with a permanent shocked expression, it’ll be your fault.”
“I’m not that bad.”
She snorts. “You’ll want Maverick Developments and Boston Commoners branding all over this thing, right?”
“Nope. Come up with a new name for it.”
“Not even a teeny tiny ‘brought to you by Maverick Developments’ in the corner of things?”
“Oh hell, yes. But just don’t make it the main thing. Don’t call it Maverick Soccer Camps or anything. Marketing might have a good idea. Let’s brainstorm with them.”
“Well, I don’t know what happened to the Miller Malone who went off to muck out donkeys, but I like the one who’s come back.”
Alongside the angst over Frankie, I do also have this weird kind of giddy feeling. Since I got home, there’s been a certain lightheaded otherworldliness to everything. Like my brain’s rebooting, or resetting itself, or like someone’s gone through it with a Shop-Vac and cleaned out all the shit.
“Okay,” Brooke adds. “I’ll get on it before you change your mind.”
“I won’t. And I’m taking the afternoon off. You do the same. Have a great Thanksgiving tomorrow.”
“If you’re not drunk, are you high?”
“Bye, Brooke.”
I hang up and step out of the car.
As I approach the industrial unit, all I can think is that Frankie would be proud of me for what I just did.
I open the metal-framed door and am met with the hum of a lathe in the back corner where Dad’s working.
I wander around for a moment, taking in the finished and in-progress projects before he realizes I’m there and looks up.
“Great job on these.” I gesture to a row of shaker-style cabinet doors painted in a robin’s-egg blue that are lined up along the wall.
“Yeah, they’re for a house in Beacon Hill. Hasn’t been touched for about forty years,” Dad says over the sound of him hand-turning a round knob. “Full renovation job. We’re doing the kitchen and bathroom cabinetry, two home offices, the works.”
Just being in here, inhaling the earthy natural smell of freshly cut wood, running my hands over finished pieces and rough raw planks, takes me right back to being a kid and my grandad teaching me in his garage—the same man who taught my dad and my brothers.
Mom still has the first thing I ever made with Grandad’s help—a cutting board, with a slightly wonky attempt at planing down one side.
“Is that where Ethan and Luke are?” I ask.
“Yeah. Sent them to double-check the measurements for the laundry room. Sometimes it takes both their heads to get it right.”
The sound of the lathe slowly fades as Dad steps away and lifts his safety glasses to rest on top of his cap. “I would never say it to either of them, and they’re good at what they do, but you had more talent than the both of them put together. Truly gifted. Just like Grandad.”
He tips his head toward the photo of me and my two brothers standing with Grandad next to his lathe when I was probably about twelve. Which would make Ethan and Luke about four.
“He’d be proud of what a success you’ve made of yourself, though,” Dad says. “As am I, of course.” He fingers the knob he’s working on, slightly uncomfortable with such a show of emotion.
“But what I do isn’t exactly creative, like this.” I pick up a box with a lid that’s been carved into an intricate floral pattern.
Man, I enjoyed that bit of woodwork I got to do at the sanctuary.
Even just tightening the screws on the stable door bolt felt good.
That practical feeling of improving something with my hands, not just with my pen and my negotiation skills and my ability to pick the very best contractors for each job.
And having the time—the actual fucking time—to mess around with the wood I used to fix the shed was amazing.
Granted, it looks odd that one plank has been used as a practice piece for about eight different skills, but it’s around the back and in the corner, so no one will ever notice.
I was particularly pleased with how the inlaid shapes of carrots came out.
I even found some scraps of darker wood lying around and used them for the stalks.
I should make more time for this stuff. Rent a workshop. Remind myself what I’m capable of. Maybe take a class or two to update my skills and learn the more specialized techniques I never got to in school.
If there’s anything other than pain and self-recrimination to take away from my time with Frankie, it’s that the sanctuary reminded me of who I am at heart—a practical person who likes making things with my own hands, not just picking the best craftspeople to make things for me.
Dad gestures to the carved box I’m still holding. “Ethan’s been working on that for forever. It was supposed to be your mom’s Christmas present last year. Not confident it will make it for this year either.”
“She’ll love it.” And she will. She loves everything we’ve made for her, with varying degrees of success, since we were kids.
“So, to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit?” Dad asks, wiping his hands on a rag.