the room was suffused with the smell of a century and a half of wood.
There were other smells, too, of course … polyurethane, smoke from the woodstove on the far wall, the pleasant, oily smell of Noah’s tools and occasionally that of wet dog, since Bowie stayed with Noah during the day. But lording over everything, the strong, wonderful scent of wood, cedar and pine and oak. Even when I lived in Boston, the smell of freshly cut wood had me turning to look for my grandfather.
At the moment, Noah had three boats in various stages of completion. One was a kayak, the type that had made him quite revered in the world of wooden boat paddlers. Long, sleek and lean, the bow so slim that it would slice through the water, this one was for ocean racing. Another one was, in Noah’s terms, “for idiots like yourself, Callie,” by which he meant for people who enjoyed paddling around a lake looking at the pretty birdies and trees. Very hard to tip, that model, but still graceful and lovely. The third boat was quite pretty, too … this one was an Adirondack fishing boat, and even though it was only half finished, I could picture Jay Gatsby in it, casting a line over the side while he yearned for that shallow tramp, Daisy.
“Noah?” I called. Bowie’s head popped up, and he yipped twice as he leaped to his feet, trotting over to see me. “Hi, boy,” I said, petting his big and beautiful head. “Where’s Noah, huh?”
“Right here, right here,” my grandfather grumbled, emerging from the back room where he kept his supplies. “What do you want?”
“I’m great, thanks! You’re so sweet to ask.” He rolled his eyes, unamused. “I just wanted to remind you, dear Noah, that everyone’s coming here for dinner, so you should come in and wash up.”
My grandfather scowled—Santa with a pounding hangover. “Do I have to?” he asked. “Seem to remember I can’t stand half the people in my own family.”
“Stop whining,” I said. “Yes, you have to. And it’s not half. It’s more like a third.”
“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Who’s coming?”
“The usual suspects,” I said. “Freddie, Hester, the girls, Mom.” I paused. “Dad.”
“What?” Noah said. “Both your parents? Does your mother know?”
“No,” I answered. “I figured it’d be better as a surprise.”
“That son of mine is a fuck-up,” Noah grumbled, shaking his head. “And your mother! She’ll gut him with her fork. What are you thinking, Callie girl?” He ran a gnarled hand through his thatch of white hair and gave me a look.
“Well, here’s the thing, Noah.” I took a deep breath. “Dad wants to get back together with Mom, and he asked me to help him out …”
“He never should’ve left her, the stupid fool. I never even looked at another woman once I met your grandmother.”
I smiled. “I know,” I said. “But Dad’s … well, he’s trying, anyway.”
“He’s still goin’ over jackass hill, if you ask me,” Noah said, referring to my father’s eternal adolescence.
“Well, he’s always been a good father,” I said. It was true. If you discounted the cheating-on-Mom part, that is.
“A good father loves his children’s mother,” Noah said.
“Okay, well, everyone’s still coming.”
“I’ll take dinner in my room.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” I said firmly. “This is a family dinner. Even Freddie’s coming.”
“Speakin’ of jackass hill,” Noah grunted. “Hasn’t he finished college yet?”
“No. He’s taking a year off to figure out what he wants to do, as he’s told you eighteen times. Hester’s coming with the girls, and of course, me, your favorite. So you’re eating with us.” I steered him out of the shop and into the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken greeted us warmly.
“I still have sanding to do,” he objected.
“You know I’ll do it for you later, old man. No excuses. You’re eating with us.”
“You’re so cruel, Callie,” Noah said, sitting down to unstrap his leg. “Bowie, your mama, she’s a mean one.”
I straightened from checking the chicken. “Mean? Didn’t I just clean this entire house, including that terrifying abyss you call a bedroom, where, by the way, I found four dirty plates and six glasses, not to mention the bottle of Dewar’s you think I don’t know about. Don’t I cook you dinner every night, old man? Don’t I sand your boats when you complain that your arthritis hurts when we both know that you really just hate sanding? And get that leg off the table.”
“All right, all right, I take it back,” he said. “You’re not half-bad.”
I HOSTED A FAMILY DINNER about once a month, though I alternated parental invitations. Still, my mother didn’t object when she came through the door an hour later and saw dear old Dad standing there, grinning sheepishly at her as he hugged my brother. No. She smiled, which was much more terrifying.
“Tobias,” she said in a mellifluous and deadly tone. If a cobra could speak, I’m sure it would sound exactly like my mom.
“Eleanor,” Dad said. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Attaboy, Dad,” Freddie said, helping himself to some wine. “Flattery’s a good place to start.” Apparently, Fred was in on the plan as well.
“Thank you, Tobias,” Mom said. “You yourself look—” she scanned him up and down “—very well. How’s the syphilis?”
“I don’t have—” Dad began sharply, then remembered he was wooing his lady love. “I’m 100 percent healthy,” he said in a gentler tone. “How are things with you?”
“Wonderful,” Mom answered, not blinking. I swear the air temperature dropped five degrees.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Calliope!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for having us.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “So nice to include … your father.”
“I’m scared,” Freddie whispered, grinning at me. “Hold me, Callie.”
“Would you like some wine, Mom?” I offered.
“Absolutely.”
“How are things at the funeral home?” I asked, hoping to score points with a subject near and dear to her heart.
“Wonderful,” she said, her tone a bit less terrifying. “Louis just did a reconstruction on a man who was hit by a rogue tire iron. His head looked like a bowl of SpaghettiOs.”
“What exactly is a rogue tire iron?” Freddie asked, fascinated. “Shit, that must’ve been a mess!”
“Oh, it was,” Mom said, warming to her subject. “You couldn’t even
