“The guys just locked in the rental,” Ryan said, not looking up from his device. He checked his reflection in the dark glass of his phone screen for a second, smoothing his hair before tapping the glass again. “It has a wrap-around deck right on the water.”
“Which beach?” I asked, keeping my hand steady on the knife.
“The one near the inlet,” he said, giving a quick, defensive chuckle that did not reach his eyes. “Miller says we can get the boat out by noon on Friday if the weather holds up.”
“That is tomorrow,” I said.
“Yeah, we are leaving first thing in the morning,” he said, turning the phone toward me to show a picture of a yellow wooden house on stilts. “We need to get ahead of the weekend traffic on the bridge or we will waste half the day in the car.”
“You did not say it was tomorrow,” I said, setting the knife down on the board.
“I told you last week we were aiming for the middle of the month,” he said, picking up his glass of milk and taking a slow drink. He left a white rim on his upper lip, his eyes already back on his screen.
“I have the babies’ six-month checkup on Thursday morning,” I said, pointing toward the calendar on the side of the refrigerator.
“You can handle that,” he said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “It is just a routine weight check and some vaccinations.”
I looked at the brass hook by the back door where the spare keys usually hung, but the space was still empty.
“Where are the keys, Ryan?” I asked.
“In my pocket, probably,” he said, without looking up. “I will leave them on the counter before I go.”
He stood up, carrying his glass to the sink, and patted his front pocket where a small metal ring clinked against his pocket knife.
“The formula is forty-eight dollars a can now,” I said.
“I saw the bank statement,” he said, his voice tightening as he walked toward the hallway. “I put enough in the joint account to cover it.”
Shaun was waiting on the back porch when I went out to empty the green plastic compost bin. He stood near the wooden railing, his collar turned up against the damp wind that was beginning to blow off the fields.
“He is leaving tomorrow,” I said, leaning my back against the door frame.
Shaun did not look at me right away. He reached into his coat pocket and rattled the loose silver coins he always kept there, a steady, metallic sound that filled the quiet space between us.
“How long?” he asked.
“Five days,” I said.
“You need me here?” he asked.
“I need to know about the utilities at the Elm Road house,” I said, keeping my voice low so the sound would not carry through the screen door to where Ryan was packing. “Are the water and electric still in Mom’s name?”
Shaun turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the gravel driveway. “The power was transferred three years ago.”
“To whom?” I asked.
“To you,” he said. “Mom did it when she moved into the apartment.”
I let out a slow breath, my hand going to my bare wrist again as the damp air moved over the porch.
“We need to keep this quiet for now, Shaun,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because he does not know I have the records,” I said.
“He will find out,” Shaun said, his voice flat and sure.
“Not before Thursday,” I said.
Shaun stopped rattling the coins in his pocket and looked down at his boots, then back at the door. “I will check the water meter tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He walked down the three wooden steps without another word, his shadow long against the gray gravel as he headed toward his truck.
The nursery was dark except for the small sheep-shaped nightlight plugged into the wall near the floor. Bodhi had started crying ten minutes ago, a low, wet whimper that usually meant his sleeper was damp.
I lifted him gently from the middle crib, his small body warm and heavy against my shoulder as I carried him to the changing table. The room smelled of baby powder and the lavender soap my mother had brought.
I laid him down on the plastic mat and unbuttoned his blue sleeper, finding the cotton fabric soaked through to his stomach. He shivered as the cool air hit his skin, his tiny legs kicking against the safety strap.
