Miles thought of the Saturdays. Everyone for 30 years, Frankie had been unreachable by noon. Golf, he’d always said, and Miles had believed him. There had never been a golf club in Frankie’s truck. Only tool boxes.
“It’s not in the books.” Miles said it wouldn’t be. “He used his own hours and his own parts. Said if it went on the books, somebody would want to make it a program, and a program needs a press release.”
Lou almost laughed. “Last December, he told me, ‘One more year, Lou. I’ve got a few to finish.’ Then spring came and I hung up the suit in my head. But this December, I couldn’t stay home. Somebody had to sit in that chair. And then she leaned in.”
Miles looked at the girl. Holly held the cocoa in both hands and kept her eyes on the steam. She had not once looked up at him. She was wrapped in Winnie’s purple scarf, and beneath it, her thin coat looked like paper.
He unwound his own gray wool scarf. He did not walk over. He held it out at arm’s length toward Winnie for the train. if she wants it. Winnie studied him a moment, then took it and settled it around the girl’s shoulders. Holly touched the wool with one finger, the way you check whether a stove is hot.
Miles reached for his coat pocket. The hour was over. In 20 years, he had never let it run one minute past. His thumb found the phone, cold and dark, and he held it a moment. Somewhere in it were 40 messages about a supplier and a shipment and a meeting on Monday. He slid it back into the pocket.
