Identity

Out of his pocket he took the bracelet he’d found in Morgan’s drawer, and he slipped it on Quinn’s wrist.

“Here, you can have this. I want to remind her I’m coming for her.”

He took the keys to the Mercedes, drove it the short distance to his rental to load up the luggage he’d already packed. Just as he’d already shaved, as he’d already dyed his hair black and generated a new identity.

By the time anyone found her, he’d have traded the convertible to a contact he had in North Carolina, and with a new ride, head west for a while.

As he drove off into the night, he smiled to himself.

“And that’s how it’s done.”



* * *



Morgan didn’t want the summer to end. Every day, rain or shine, offered her another building block in her new life. A life, she’d discovered, she genuinely loved.

Nothing could change the tragedy that had set her on this new path, but she could, and would, not only walk it but appreciate the scenery on the way.

She could and would be grateful.

On a sunny Sunday, she intended to show some gratitude with a surprise.

“I really appreciate you helping out.”

As they drove, Morgan reached up to stroke Howl, who pressed against her seat in Miles’s burly SUV.

“I know you have a weekend routine.”

“It’s a routine, not a commandment carved in stone.”

“Either way, I’ll never move that concrete base alone, which is why it’s been sitting in my grandfather’s workshop for a dozen years. But the three of us can move it.”

“Yeah, the dog’ll be a lot of help.”

“He’s here for moral support, aren’t you, Howl? And he gets an outing. It’s like a little vacation.”

“Every day’s a vacation when you’re a dog.” He pulled into the drive at the Tudor.

“My ladies won’t be back until after three, probably later. This is going to work.”

“Every time you say that it comes out a little less confident.”

“I just need to get started. I’m nervous, but that’ll pass once I get started.”

She led the way around the house, with Howl looking everywhere, sniffing everything on his doggie vacation.

“I set the solar panel for the pump out yesterday so it would charge, but everything else is in the workshop. There’s a dolly, but I was afraid to try to move it by myself.”

She grinned at Miles. “You’re the muscle.”

“Looks good back here,” Miles observed.

“And when we finish this project, even better. It’s the one thing that’s missing. Or the one thing until I think of another thing.”

The workshop, a faded cedar square with a bright blue door, stood at the back of the property, tucked among the trees and backed by a narrow stream.

“Just like I remember it. The dog your grandfather had when I was a kid liked to stretch out in the stream. Our grandfathers sometimes sat on a couple of old folding chairs, had a beer, bullshitting. He always had a cold Coke for me when I tagged along.”

“He loved kids.” She opened the shop door. “They wanted a big family, but Gram had complications.”

“That’s a shame. Jesus, it looks just like I remember in here. ‘A place for everything, Miles,’ he’d say. ‘And everything in its place. Because when you need a tool, you don’t want to waste time hunting for it.’”

Running her hand over a worktable, she glanced around at the power tools, the pegboard holding hand tools, the big red tool chest, the labeled mason jars holding screws, nails, washers.

“It still, somehow, smells like him. I think that’s why Gram hasn’t given away any of his tools, or sold them. It’s been handy for me, with the little projects.”

Miles walked over to a concrete pedestal, easily three feet high with a wide top.

“This thing?”

“That thing. I don’t know why he had it—neither does Gram. I hope he approves of what I do with it. I’ve already drilled the holes in the frog.”

Now he walked to the concrete frog on another worktable.

It sat cross-legged on a perch inside a wide copper bowl. Its hands lay cupped, palms up on its knees. It wore a beatific smile.

The holes in the cupped palms offered a clue.

“You’re going to pump water out of his hands?”

“I knew what he should be as soon as I saw him. The submergible pump goes under his seat, and the wire for the panel goes down through the base—see the holes I put in? The sunshine runs it.”

“Did your grandfather teach you how to work a drill that way?”

“Not really. I didn’t spend that much time here—and that’s a regret. But some basics—hammer, nail, measure twice, cut once. Then there’s always a tutorial on YouTube. It’s going to work.”

While the dog explored the shop, Miles walked over to get the dolly. “Do you know where you want it?”

“The exact spot.”

“Said every woman ever.”

“That’s very sexist. Possibly true, but very sexist.”

He started to tip the base to slide the dolly under, stopped, and shot her a look. “Jesus, Morgan.”

“I know, it’s a ton, which may be why it’s still in here. We’ll get it.”

Together, they maneuvered it onto the dolly. While Miles rolled it, she balanced it.

“If it goes,” he warned her, “don’t try to catch it. It goes, it goes.”

“It’s not going to.”

It took some doing, a lot of muscle and sweat, but it turned out she did have an exact spot. In the full sun, beyond the shade of a weeping peach, and in front of a swath of thriving Nikko Blue hydrangeas.

“Okay, just hold it there!” She ran back for a slab of slate—hole drilled—then the pump and wire.

Once she had the pump set, they eased the base onto the slab of slate.

Miles gave it a push. “It’ll take a tornado to knock this thing over.”

“Exactly.”

She ran back, Howl running with her, to get the frog and bowl.

“See, the pump fits into the seat, the seat in the copper bowl—that came from the shop, a local craftsman—and the frog on the seat, with the pipe going up, and into his butt. Could you get the hose?” She gestured. “It’ll reach, I checked.”

“I’m sure you did.”

She didn’t miss a trick, he thought, when he hiked over to turn on the hose, walked back with it.

“It’s going to work,” she muttered.

“Fill it up?”

“Please. I love how the sun plays off the copper. I thought about getting a regular birdbath bowl, but the copper just pops out. The frog’s so cute. Totally Zen—which is what I call him. I think they’ll love it. Okay, moment of truth.”

She turned on the pump. Waited. Waited.

Water spurted out from the cupped hands in pretty fountains that spilled back into the copper bowl.

“It works!” She spun a circle, grabbed Miles, kissed him, spun another. “Oh, it’s adorable, right? Adorable and quirky and unique.”

“You’re handy. You built a damn fountain.”

“I learned to be handy, and it was more like putting pieces together. I love it. If they don’t, they’ll say they do, but I’ll know. Let’s sit on the patio, see how it looks from there. I’ll get us a drink.”





PART III

Roots





Beauty, strength, youth are flowers but fading seen;

Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

—GEORGE PEELE

Love is strong as death;