Chapter 2 - Her expression closed.
“Everyone is, after somebody dies.”
“I’m his son.”
Mrs. Bell studied him for so long that Dominic almost smiled.
Finally she said, “You’re the one from the newspapers.”
“I suppose I am.”
“He didn’t like those articles.”
“Neither did I.”
“For different reasons, I imagine.”
Dominic looked down the narrow hallway.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Bell’s face softened by one degree.
She disappeared into her apartment and returned carrying a faded green book.
“Treasure Island,” Dominic said.
“He told me to give it to his son if his son ever bothered to come upstairs himself.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He also said if you sent someone else, I was to tell them I lost it.”
Dominic laughed quietly.
“That definitely sounds like him.”
He took the book.
Inside the front cover was the photograph Renley had described.
A boy.
A lake.
A wooden boat.
Behind it were more photographs.
Dominic at ten.
Dominic with his mother at fifteen.
Dominic at his wedding.
And Claire.
His daughter.
At six years old, missing two front teeth.
At twelve, standing beside a birthday cake.
At eighteen, wearing a graduation robe.
Dominic’s hands stopped moving.
There were photographs he had never seen.
Claire had not spoken to him in nearly nine years.
Walter had.
The realization hurt in a way anger never had.
His father had been part of his daughter’s life.
Quietly.
Consistently.
Without telling him.
There was a folded piece of paper tucked behind the final photograph.
Dominic opened it.
It was not in Walter’s handwriting.
It was Claire’s.
Grandpa,
I know you think Dad and I should talk.
Maybe someday.
But please stop telling me he misses me.
Missing someone and making room for them in your life are not the same thing.
I love him.
That is the problem.
If I didn’t, it would be easier.
I need him to understand that I didn’t leave because I wanted a different father.
I left because I wanted my father back.
Dominic sat down in Walter’s old chair.
The apartment was silent.
On the small table beside him sat a blue bowl filled with sugar packets.
There was a repaired lamp.
A stack of library books.
And on the windowsill, almost hidden behind a pot of basil, was a wooden boat.
The same crooked boat from the photograph.
Walter had kept it for forty-seven years.
Dominic lifted it carefully.
On the bottom, in a child’s uneven handwriting, was one word.
DAD.
Someone knocked softly behind him.
Mrs. Bell stood in the doorway.
“There’s one more thing,” she said.
Dominic looked up.
“What?”
“Your father asked me not to give it to you unless you found the boat.”
She held out another envelope.
This one was newer.
And written across the front was a name Dominic had not expected to see.
CLAIRE.
Below it, Walter had added a sentence.
Give this to her only if you are finally ready to listen without defending yourself.
Dominic stared at the words for a long time.
For most of his life, people had waited for him to speak.
Rooms quieted when he entered.
Men reconsidered sentences when he raised an eyebrow.
He had mistaken that silence for respect.
Now his dead father was asking him to attempt something that suddenly seemed far more difficult.
Listen.
That afternoon, at Harbor Street Community Kitchen, Renley was helping stack bread rolls when Ms. Alvarez’s office telephone rang.
She answered.
“Sofia Alvarez.”
A pause.
Then she looked through the glass partition toward Renley.
Her expression became unreadable.
“Yes, Mr. Vale.”
Another pause.
“No. Renley is not available to speak to you.”
Renley mouthed, I didn’t ask to.
Ms. Alvarez held up one finger.
Then she listened again.
Her shoulders slowly relaxed.
“All right,” she said. “That is different.”
When she hung up, Renley hurried over.
“What did he want?”
Ms. Alvarez looked at her.
“He wants to help the kitchen.”
Renley smiled.
“That’s good.”
“He also said I am to refuse any offer that comes with conditions.”
“That sounds like Mr. Pike.”
“Yes.”
Ms. Alvarez folded her arms.
“But that wasn’t the strange part.”
“What was?”
“Mr. Vale asked whether I knew a woman named Claire.”
Renley waited.
Ms. Alvarez glanced at the photograph board on the far wall, where volunteers and visitors had pinned years of snapshots.
Then she walked across the room.
Near the bottom was a photograph taken three Christmases earlier.
Walter Pike stood beside a woman with chestnut hair and thoughtful gray eyes.
Renley had seen her once.
She had helped serve holiday meals.
May you like
Ms. Alvarez touched the edge of the photograph.
“I think,” she said quietly, “Walter’s family story may be much bigger than Mr. Vale realizes.”
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