Page 72 of Dropping the Ball

He smiles, a small but real one. “Something like that.”

“You said ‘your boys.’ Is that your store staff?”

“Kind of. It’s guys I grew up with around here. We got construction jobs together. Worked them through high school and college when I could. They still do. I started a salvage business, and I subcontract with a few builders and demolition companies. My guys know what to pull from a demo site, and their supervisors don’t care what they haul off. I pay my friends by the truckload. Earns them some extra bucks.”

“You have sheds, plural? All full of stuff waiting to become something else?”

He points to the back door of the garage. “Three sheds. If I can’t find what I need in here, we’ll go out there.”

“Mind if I look around in here while you do your thing?”

He looks over. “That’s fine.”

I want to explore the workbench with the assorted bins. I glance through them, most containing pieces of mirror and ceramic. This must be where Micah does his mosaic work.

The picture of the woman on my wall flashes through my mind, and heat washes over my cheeks. This might be the bench where he made her, picking out the curves and dips of her resting body.

Micah is behind the other pegboard. I can’t see him, but I hear muted clangs and scrapes.

The door leading from the house opens, and a middle-aged woman in jeans stands on the threshold, plucking at her paint-stained Hillview Academy T-shirt.

“Hey, Ma.” Micah keeps his voice neutral.

“It’s a mess in here. Who is this? You shouldn’t have people over when it’s messy.”

“This is my client, Kaitlyn,” Micah says. “Kaitlyn, this is my mom, Tori. Ma, do you need help with something?”

“Can’t I go in my own garage? Is this a business now? Do I need an appointment? Or is this still my house?”

“You can.” Micah’s tone doesn’t change. Still level. “We won’t be out here long. I need to find something and head back to work, but you want me to get us some salads on the way home for dinner?”

Her lip curls. “So you can show off how much money you make? No. I’ll make a damn ham sandwich.”

“That sounds good.” He says it like they’re having a normal conversation. “Will you make me one?”

“Why? So you can eat out here in the garage like a slob?”

“Good point. No sandwich for me.”

“I wasn’t offering you one. I don’t have time for that. Painting. I need to paint. More orders.” She shuts the door hard.

After a moment of silence, I walk around the workbench so I can check on Micah. He’s standing with some thin metal rods in his hand, staring at the wall.

“Micah?”

He looks over. “I better show you the options and get you back to the warehouse.”

“If you need to take care of her right now . . .”

A shadow crosses his eyes. “No. We need to go to one of the sheds.”

My heart hurts for him, but I’m not sure how to make him feel better. “Sounds good. What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Come on.” He leads me into the backyard. It’s enclosed by a wood privacy fence, and the sheds are the only things back here. The lawn is tidy, but like mine, it’s not landscaped. Just plain grass except for a worn dirt path from the sheds to the side gate.

Each of the wooden sheds is about ten by ten, painted a green several shades deeper than the house, with the doors and a few horizontal planks trimmed in black or white. They’re flat-topped, with each door offset from the center, each located at a different point along its shed’s front plane. The overall effect with lines and balance is . . .

“Why do these give me Mondrian vibes?” I ask.

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