I’m still trying to figure out why Roy divulged those details in the first place.
For distraction?
To warn me away from him?
But I’m not afraid of Roy. And I haven’t repeated his sins to anyone, not even Jonah, who likely wouldn’t be too keen on this arrangement if he knew.
Roy can’t be called a good man, but I also wouldn’t necessarily call him a bad one. The question of what he deserves for his past crimes isn’t up to me to answer, his punishment not up to me to dole out, especially not when he’s spent the last three decades punishing himself.
All I know is the man Roy is now, and that man was there for me.
And one day, if and when he decides he’d like to reconnect with his daughter, maybe I can be there for him, too.
“You think we’ll be ready to move the furniture in on Monday?” I ask, unpacking the soup thermos for Roy.
“More like Tuesday.” His gaze rolls around the space. “Got a few more things I wanna finish, and then it’s gonna take at least two days to clean up this mess.”
“Cuttin’ it close,” Jonah says.
“We’ll be fine. There isn’t a ton to move in.” A queen bed, a futon, propane appliances and kitchen supplies, and plenty of blankets and decorative touches to make it cozy.
“Still think we should be the ones stayin’ here.”
“Your mom is insisting.” I’ve had a dozen conversations with Astrid since they decided they were coming, and she has made it abundantly clear that Jonah and his stepfather would do best with a lake between them. I have to agree.
I’m also learning where Jonah gets his stubbornness from, and I no longer believe it’s his father. Part of me is dreading the wedding discussions. Between Jonah’s accident, renovating this place, and the planning stages of the cabin we’re building for Agnes and Mabel, we haven’t had time to make any nuptial decisions. Jonah is all for eloping, and I’m beginning to think it’s not a bad idea.
“So, meet you back there?” Jonah gives me a steady look—one that can’t be mistaken, his eyes lingering on my mouth—and my heart skips several beats. His recovery time was long for several reasons.
“I’ll be out in a minute.” I smile softly.
“See ya later, Roy,” he calls on his way out the door, not waiting for a response.
Roy grunts, too busy scowling at a corner in the wall to say more. Not that he’s ever been one for the “hellos” and “goodbyes,” anyway.
“Hey, I was wondering if you’d mind hanging this outside, by the door.” Collecting a nervous breath, I slip out the plaque I picked up from Wasilla this morning and hand it to him. “You think they did a good job?”
He pulls out a cheap pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slides them on. His jaw clenches.
“I got the information from town records.” It took me several calls and an afternoon of digging through archives to find the original homestead filing from 1965, made by Roy’s father—Richard Donovan. It took me another week to track down the names of his late mother and younger brother, because I knew that if I asked, Roy wouldn’t give them to me.
The plaque is modest—cast in aluminum and engraved in acrylic, noting the year the cabin was built and the four family members who first lived here.
I hold my breath.
“Where do you want it?” he answers, his voice more gruff than usual.
“Just outside the door. Wherever you think it’d look best. I trust you.”
His eyes flash to me, and an emotion I can’t read fills them. And then he simply nods.
That’s as much as I’ll ever get from Roy Donovan.
But it’s enough.
I back away, eager to spend time with Jonah before we part ways for the afternoon. “Oh, you wouldn’t happen to have a ten-person, live-edge dining table I could buy off you, would you?” My dining chairs arrived three weeks ago, but I know Roy was working on something for me. I’ve known since the day I showed up at his place to ask him to do the cabin’s interior and I found him in the barn, measuring wood while scribbling notes on the catalogue picture.
His gaze cuts to me before shifting back to his work, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “I think I might.”