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looking in my direction but not quite at me; his gaze traveled past me, to the scene outside the window, to the lake.
    “He did. Your father did love that place, I know, Lucy.” He drummed his fingers a little harder, and then slapped his hand flat on the counter. “We used to go there when we were boys. It was our go-to place, I guess you could say, whenever we needed to think something through, or just to get away. Fishing wasn’t bad, either,” he said, lost in thought for a moment before he shook his head and rejoined the conversation. “Now, Blake,” he went on, changing the subject. “I’ll see you later today, right?”
    “Not today. I can come tomorrow.”
    “Be early, then. There’s plenty of work.” Art turned to my mother. “Evie, I fixed the window sash in the bathroom, too. I’ll stop back next week to put on a coat of paint. But it should be okay in the meantime. Come and take a look.”
    “I appreciate it, Art,” my mother said, following him into the other room.
    “What was that about?” I asked Blake once they’d gone. “Are you working at Dream Master now?”
    Dream Master Hardware and Locks was the business our great-grandfather had founded in 1919, turning his intuitions about the internal mechanics of locks into a thriving enterprise. In its heyday the Dream Master factory shipped locks all across the country. Like most of the other industries in the area, it was gone now, but the hardware store remained, and Art owned it. My father had once owned it, too, but in 1986, the year the comet came, when I was almost ten, he had come home one morning with a box full of things from his office, and he’d never gone back, or said a word to me about why he left.
    Blake ran one hand through his wild curls and glanced after Art. “Walk me outside,” he said.
    We went through the porch and down the steps, and then Blake kept right on going across the lawn to the shore. The day was clear but windy, the water punctuated with whitecaps like commas, the buoys singing their hollow metal songs. I caught up with him at the end of the dock.
    “What’s going on? Did you quit your job on the boat?” I asked.
    Blake kept his gaze on the water, watching the rippling patterns change, a distant flock of ducks floating light on the surface.
    “Not yet. I’ve agreed to pilot through the summer, but just the evening cruise. I might quit after that, though. I’m thinking about it. Art offered me a job. A good job. He stopped in a couple of weeks ago to ask me in person. Took me by surprise, I can tell you.”
    I didn’t say anything, trying to sort out why this news felt so upsetting.
    “Art’s helped Mom out a lot,” Blake went on quietly. “I know they always argued, he and Dad, and we were never close to Art growing up. But lately I’ve been thinking I haven’t been quite fair to him. Maybe none of us have.”
    “Well, so what? When did anything between Dad and Art ever end up fair?”
    Blake shrugged. “We were kids, Lucy. We don’t really know. Art probably feels bad about the way things turned out. It’s got to haunt him, being on such uneasy terms with Dad before he died. Suppose he’s just trying to make things right?”
    I felt it then, the pull of the family history, an invisible gravity, almost irresistible.
    “But what about sailing, Blake? You love to travel. What about winters on St. Croix? You’re just giving all that up?”
    “Like I said, things change.” Blake glanced at me, embarrassed, assessing. “Long story short, Avery is pregnant. The baby’s due in October. So, I have to think differently now.”
    I was too surprised to say anything at all.
    “That’s right,” Blake said. “We’re having a baby. Good wishes appreciated.”
    “Sorry. I’m sorry, Blake. Of course I’m happy for you. It’s just a lot to take in.”
    He gave a small smile, nodded. “That’s okay. I had the exact same reaction, actually—stunned silence.” We stood in the wind off the