Leave a Trail (Signal Bend #7)(148)

“Would you like to?”

An emphatic nod, complete with wide eyes. Isaac felt something there. Not a connection, not yet, but something.

“Okay. Let’s do it, then.” They left the room and crossed the yard, Isaac pulling his keys from his pocket as they went. Even putting keys in his pocket, and his wallet, on its chain, had been an event worthy of a missed heartbeat or two. Hooking Mj?lnir around his neck and wrapping his cuffs around his wrists this morning had put a lump in his throat. Sliding his wedding ring on his finger had been damn near a religious experience.

The lock was stiff, but he worked the key patiently, and the hasp released. The door squeaked open, and Isaac reached in to hit the lights.

The aroma of wood shavings and stain and polyurethane that had pervaded this space for years was still there, muted by the smell of still, stale air and accrued dust, but strong enough to ease an ache in his heart.

“Will you help me get the windows open, so we can air the room out?” He knew to ask complete questions that had clear answers. Lilli had written a lot about Bo in her letters.

Bo nodded, and they opened up the room.

There was a lot of dust, but it didn’t matter. Isaac could feel his heart slowing, his frantic head settling.

Here was something that had not changed. Here was nothing but familiarity, of the best sort, a space that had always given him joy and comfort. A retreat. He went to his work table and put his hand on his lathe.

Then he stroked it. Why the f*ck had he been anxious about coming in here?

Because he’d been afraid it, too, would have become different, even locked away as it had been.

Bo moved around the room, his eyes wide. He touched everything. Every dusty gewgaw and knickknack Isaac had stored for the next art fair, all the stores of wood, the cans of stain, the tools, the supplies, the projects. Isaac thought he might have literally touched every single thing. And he stood at the table and just watched, waiting to see if Bo would seek him out in any way.

When he got to the racks of gouges, Isaac had to stop him. “Hey, Bo. Don’t touch those. They’re sharp.”

Bo turned and finally looked at him, and Isaac had an idea. His boy loved patterns. A gouge could make a pattern in wood.

“Would you like to see how they work?”

Bo nodded, and Isaac went to his pegboard and pulled two pairs of goggles off the wall. “You have to wear a pair of these. Will you?”

A nod, and Isaac handed him a pair. Then he went to his wood stock and found a thee-inch diameter dowel that hadn’t dried out too much. He pulled a few different gouges from the racks and brought everything to the lathe.

After carefully explaining safety rules and describing what a lathe did, he hooked a leather apron over Bo’s neck and set him back a step. “Hands in your pockets, little man.” Bo did as he was told, and Isaac chucked the dowel and started the lathe.

Bo watched, rapt, as Isaac shaped the wood. He didn’t work with any kind of purpose except to keep his kid interested, but when he shot a glance or two Bo’s way, he realized that the spinning of the dowel, the movement of the gouge and the way the wood was shaped, rather than the shape itself, was what had his interest.

When the dowel was turned from one end to the other with undulating shapes, Isaac turned off the lathe. Bo didn’t move. Isaac released the wood and held it out to him, but Bo didn’t take it. Instead, his face obscured by the goggles, he looked up, his eyes not quite meeting Isaac’s.

“C-can. Can. I try?”

The sound of his son’s voice, something he’d lost for years, dug deeply at him. With one brief thought to what Lilli would say about letting their ten-year-old son play with a wood lathe, Isaac smiled. He was about to answer in the affirmative when he remembered that Bo responded to quid pro quo. “If you will sit and have a conversation with me for fifteen minutes after supper tonight, then yes. You can try.”

Bo eyed him suspiciously. “How long. How long…can I try?”

Isaac got it. Okay. He could work this way to get Bo back. “Do you know what a conversation is?”

Bo nodded.

“Tell me.”

“When one person…says something and…the other person says something back.”

“Back and forth like that, right?”

Bo nodded. Isaac was going to have to remember not to use yes/no questions.

“Okay. For fifteen minutes of conversation with me after supper, you can try the lathe for fifteen minutes. Deal?” He held out his hand.

Bo considered. “Deal.” And they shook on it.



oOo



The first Friday back in the clubhouse felt surreal to Isaac. With SBC a going business, Show at the helm, the lot and building were hopping in ways he hadn’t seen in…ever. Not even when SBC had been running before. It wasn’t a big company, just doing home builds and renovations, but they were fully staffed and had a full complement of equipment.

The Horde itself was bigger and more robust than it had been in years, with Show, Len, Badger, Nolan, Dom, Double A, Tommy, Thumper, Kellen, Saxon, Mel, Cox, and Darwin—and Isaac—now taking seats, filling the table he’d made. Zeke had had a fatal heart attack two years back. His big, red chopper had joined the row of quiet warriors that still guarded the bays. Isaac had never met Saxon, Mel, Cox, or Darwin before they’d been standing outside the bus station—or, anyway, they’d been young kids and mostly outside his notice before he’d left. They all still seemed impossibly young, but they were clearly comfortable at the table.