Page 6 of Home Ice

“Because the repair is part of the piece now,” I said. “In fifty years, an expert should be able to tell what happened to it over time. If you hide the repair completely, it’s like lying about your medical history to a specialist.”

Callahan rubbed his hand across the surface. “So the whole story stays in it,” he said.

“That’s the idea.”

He stayed twenty minutes longer. He photographed the drawer sliding in and out while describing his grandmother’s pierogies. When he finally left, he shook my hand with both of his and said the piece would outlive him.

The shop went quiet again, and I pulled out a cherry pastry. I enjoyed about ten minutes of calm.

My phone buzzed once. There was a brief pause, and then several more buzzes. It could only be one person. I wiped my hands and picked it up.

Max: DO NOT start a glue-up

Max: I’m serious. I’m coming over

Max: I have news and it’s good news

Max: it’s GREAT news actually

Max: bringing your gross dark roast, see, I’m thoughtful

Max: you’re going to make the face. don’t make the face

I looked at the six messages. Somewhere in the city, my brother was walking to his car, narrating his entire morning to himself, and by the time he arrived, he’d have worked out an arc, a theme, and probably a title card.

I loved him more than anyone alive. That didn’t make him any easier to handle before nine a.m.

Niko: What face?

The reply came in four seconds.

Max: that one you’re making right now

I had time to wipe down the bench, tuck the pastries into a cabinet, and set out the glue and clamps before his car pulled up at the curb. Max parked with enthusiasm and a cheerful disregard for the lines. The door opened, and my brother burst inside, carrying two coffees. He wore a cream sweater and pressed dark trousers, camera-ready at eight a.m.

For Max, that was normal dress. He looked good. He always looked good, and he worked at it the way I worked at a perfect finish.

“Okay,” he said, in place of a greeting, “before you say anything, I need you to hold all judgment until the end, and I mean the very end, because this builds to a climax, and if you come in early, you’ll wreck the impact.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He handed me a coffee, correctly black, and took a slow lap of the shop, clocking what had changed since his last visit. He stopped at the sideboard and whistled appreciatively. “This came out unbelievable. Callahan’s going to cry.”

“He already did a little. What’s the news?”

“Right.” He set his coffee down, cleared a space in the air with both hands, and delivered his pitch. “So. You know the Ironhawks, the hockey team.”

“I know of the Ironhawks.”

“There’s a rookie on the team. Rafe Mikkelsen. Came out to the team yesterday. The story’s everywhere, it’s a whole thing, and the coverage has been lovely, start to finish.”

He paused. “So my camera guy’s sister does events for one of the Ironhawks’ sponsors, and her best friend is dating a guy in their front office, and apparently my name came up in a meeting. The next day their PR people called me. They want to put us together. Me and him. A few dinners, a few appearances, and some very nice photos of two cheerful people leaving very nice restaurants.”

I looked at him over the coffee.

“It’s not—okay, you’re making the face.”

“This is my face.”