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voice. “A month ago I actually bought three Butterick patterns.”
    “You? Sew?”
    “Happy-Hands-At-Home March. If I start to play bridge it’s all over for me.”
    He wanted to believe they could shuck everything practical and shoot for the moon. He wanted to work at a job that made him want to set the alarm clock, that made him want to work long hours and take pride in what money he made. But he was a father with two young sons. To chase his dreams felt irresponsible.
    “Look, honey,” March went on. “I believe this letter is a sign. It’s telling us something. Let’s move back to the city. Get a place with space for you to work on your boards. I’ve been thinking all day. Maybe a warehouse or a place where we can live above a shop? It’s only two hours up to the mountains. We can go up to the ski resorts on weekends and you can try to sell your boards. The boys are young now. They’re not in school yet. When they are in school, that’s when we will be tied down.
    “Look. I’d be willing to bet we can get some kind of exhibition meet organized with Rob and his local connections. I can see if we can get support for some kind of race, a special run. Maybe at Northstar ? The resort is new. They need publicity. I can get ad sponsors. What if I could get some good sponsors through my new job? This is our time. Our chance.” She took his hands. “This maybe our only chance. Do you really want to look back and think if only?”
    He was acutely aware that his wife knew exactly what to say to him. She knew which buttons to push.
    “We’ll do this together,” she said so easily and confidently. “You can make the boards and I’ll design the graphics for them.”
    Inside he was warring with himself, what he wanted to do with what he should do. What was right, what was wrong. Could it all be so easy?
    “You’re too quiet. You know you want to. Say yes.”
    “I don’t know, Sunshine.”
    “Say yes. What have we got to lose? We don’t own a house. We aren’t tied down financially. If we fail, what’s the worst that can happen? We start over. But at least you’ll have a chance to be happy, even for a while.”
    “Happy with you supporting the family?”
    She stood up so fast, hands on her hips, glaring. “Since when are you Mister Macho-I-Must-Be-the-Breadwinner? Why is this any different than if I were putting you through med school or law school? That’s pretty small-minded of you, Mike. Are you planning on keeping me barefoot and pregnant too?”
    “Not a bad idea. We had a good time making those two.”
    “Both accidents.” She grabbed the letter and waved it under his nose. “Are you, a smart and talented man with honest vision, really going to ignore fate and probably ruin our destiny?”
    “Destiny? Hell, I don’t want to ruin our lives.”
    “You won’t. I’ve always believed in you. Don’t tell me you can’t believe in yourself, too.” She paused and leaned very close to him. “Let’s do it.”
    Of everything that streamed though his head in those few moments, the most frightening was her complete and absolute faith in him. This whole thing wasn’t a lark to her. For one brief moment he wondered if he would lose her if he failed, but then thinking that way meant he didn’t have the same strength of faith in her she had in him.
    Maybe because she believed in him he could let go of all of his dad’s hauntingly defeatist phrases. But then self doubt was the worse kind of weakness, worse than anything his father had ever said.
    There it all was: his dream laid out before him, door open—come this way—with all the possibilities flashing through his mind in neon letters. Races. Skiboard runs. Sports shops. Endorsements. TV. The Olympics?
    He almost laughed at that last one and couldn’t even say that improbable pipedream aloud, so he took a drink and lifted the beer in the air. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

Chapter Four
     
    A year after champion board racer Hank Knowles