“A trip to the sea is an emergency, Clara,” he said. “The only kind that matters right now.”
I looked at the framed photograph of my mother on the mantelpiece, her smile frozen in the summer of eighty-eight.
“Diane says you cannot afford to help me,” I said.
He did not answer, but his fingers tightened against his knee until his knuckles turned white.
“Diane does not manage my ledger,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
“But she is right about the farm,” I said. “The barn roof needs work before the first snow.”
“The roof will stand,” he said, standing up to adjust the damper on the woodstove.
The metal handle scraped against the iron, sending a brief shower of sparks behind the glass.
“You let me worry about the money, Clara,” he said, without looking back at me. “I will have the cash for you by tomorrow morning.”
He did not mention how he would get it, and I did not ask.
I watched his reflection in the dark windowpane, his shoulders slightly hunched under his flannel shirt.
“We need his signature on the form first,” I said.
“He will sign it,” my father said. “He knows we do not have time to waste.”
