“I would have started yesterday but I had to work.”
Bob nodded. “Right. I know all about that.”
Declan’s brow knit.
Huh?
Bob had been retired since he’d known him. Declan opened his mouth to ask him what he meant and then shut it again.
Nope. Don’t be an idiot.
Declan spent most of his week talking to his elderly customers, many of whom only came by for conversation. He’d developed a keen sense for when he was about to be tricked into a very long and meandering story. The wrong question at the wrong moment could open a never-ending can of worms.
Right now, he sensed he could bait every rod in Florida with Bob’s can of worms.
Declan tried to return to the roof shingles but the weight of Bob’s presence threatened to pull him down the pitch. He glanced back again. Bob had pulled up a porch chair and now sat below, staring up at him. Steam rose from the area near his hand.
When did he get a cup of coffee?
Declan scooched back down the roof. “Do you need something, Bob?”
“Nope.” He took a sip of his coffee.
Declan grimaced and climbed down his ladder to grab a few tools.
“Need to grab a few things,” he said, unsure what else he could say.
“Uh-huh.”
Bob tilted a little to the left, as if he needed a better view of Declan’s tool choices.
“That a steel hammer?” he asked.
Declan looked at the hammer in his hand. “Um, yeah?”
He assumed it was steel. He’d never thought about it.
Why would I?
“Plastic handle or wood?” probed Bob.
Declan looked at the hammer again. “Wood, I think.”
“Hm.”
Declan looked at him. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” Bob took a sip of his coffee.
Declan took a deep breath and headed back up the ladder. Already, he wasn’t feeling great about his progress. He’d checked inside and found the stain on Charlotte’s bedroom ceiling, and then climbed into the attic and spotted where she’d set up a bucket to catch the drip, but he wasn’t seeing anything wrong with what he was ninety-nine percent sure was the same spot on the outside of the roof. He jerked away another patch of tile and stared with dismay at what looked like perfectly intact roof.
Maybe I shouldn’t have started this.
But what could he do now? He’d already pulled away two dozen tiles. Too late to quit.
“What’s he doin’ up there?” said a voice.
Declan turned and saw Frank joining Bob in Charlotte’s driveway.
Frank looked up at him.
“Whacha doin’ up there?”
“Charlotte had a leak. I thought I’d fix it for her before she got back.”
“This morning?”
Declan took a deep breath.
Grant me the serenity...
“Yep.”
Frank nodded. “Huh.”
He walked behind Bob, and Declan heard the sound of an aluminum chair being pulled from the back wall of Charlotte’s carport. Frank dragged his seat beside Bob and sat down.
Declan stared at them.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
He returned to his work, tapping with his hammer along the stretch of plywood he’d uncovered.
Maybe I’m not lined up quite right.
He pulled away another section of tile with the back of his steel and wood hammer.
“What’s he doin’ up there?”
Declan’s head whipped around so fast he almost slid off the roof. He braced his toes to catch himself, clawing at a patch of loose black tiles with his fingers until his momentum ceased.
For a moment he clung there, panting, and then regained his feet. He peered over his shoulder to see who’d last spoken.
George, the owner of the Pineapple Port retirement community, had joined his rapt audience and at the sound of Declan nearly falling off the roof, he raised his gaze to stare at him.
“Whoa, Nelly.”
Declan’s heart still raced. It wasn’t a far drop from the gutter to the ground, but it wasn’t one he wanted to make, especially with the entire neighborhood watching. He imagined they’d all hold up score cards to judge his dismount like a bunch of Olympic judges.
“Whatcha doin’ up there?” asked George.
“Fixing the roof,” muttered Declan as he clambered to his former spot, higher up the pitch.
Maybe they wouldn’t talk to him if they couldn’t see him.
“Started this morning?” asked George, raising his voice to be sure he was heard.
Declan winced. “Yep.”
“Huh.”
George took a post standing behind Frank and Bob. He had his own mug of coffee.
Declan tried to focus on the roof.
There must be wood under the wood.
That was it. Some inner seal was leaking. A second layer. He cursed himself for not spending a little more time YouTubing roof-fixing videos. He wanted to pull out his phone, but he hated the idea of the three old men down there catcalling him for using technology. He could hear them now. “Whatcha doin’, Future Boy? Lookin’ up how to do it on the Interwebs?”
It wouldn’t end there.
“We never had videos when we were young. When we had to fix something we just fixed it. We were born knowing how to fix a roof because back then men were men!”
Declan glanced down at his fan club. He wanted to scream at them he could field-strip an M16 rifle in less than thirty seconds—maybe slightly over blindfolded. The roof confounding him didn’t make him less of a man.
Roofs are different.
But that would sound very, very desperate.
Don’t let them rattle you.
Somewhere, George found a chair of his own. He guessed it had been shared by the other neighbors who’d shuffled in to join the group, because he sat in an identical beach chair.
Frank waved. Bob looked at his watch and then smiled up at him.
Sonuva—
Declan stood, and seeing the sheet of plywood he’d uncovered wasn’t quite as big
