80
Lisa
“If that ceramic duck goes for more than fifty bucks, I’ll eat my hoodie,” Frank says, settling his coffee on the arm of the
couch.
“It’s probably worth more than you got for your caravan,” I say, glancing up at the telly where Antiques Roadshow is playing. “You don’t regret selling it, do you?”
“And moving in with my hot tornado of a girlfriend? Not for a second!”
I blow him a kiss from the kitchen table. Frank’s guitar strap is laid out across my lap, my latest hyper-focus; a skill I
now wear as a badge of honor. It was falling apart at the seams, but I sat down and made one tiny stitch after another. When
I looked up at the clock, hours had gone by, and I held not something repaired, but something new.
“Finished,” I say, joining him on the couch.
Frank picks it up, turning it gently in his hands. He runs a finger along the soft felt lining, then spots the tiny lightning
bolt I burned into the underside of the leather near the buckle, and beneath that, his initials. “You did this?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Lisa, this is beautiful. Thank you.”
“I’ve given it some extra length too, as you mentioned once it was on the short side.”
“You remembered that?”
I nod. “I always told you you’re a rock star. Now you have a guitar strap to match.”
“You’re so thoughtful.” He kisses me.
The duck on Antiques Roadshow, meanwhile, is valued at fifteen dollars; the woman is thrilled anyway. The credits roll, and a news update appears. I gasp
as a photo of Griff flashes on the screen behind the presenter. At first, I think they must be running an old interview, maybe
something from a food segment.
But then footage cuts to a press room, and my brother steps into the frame.