Page 13 of Meeting Up with the Mason

She shrugged. “Of course. Hurricane Darcy’s what, a category two?”

I huffed. “I wish you wouldn’t take it so lightly. Have you looked at the weather map? It’s blanking out half the coast.”

She sighed. “You know how New Englanders laugh that a quarter-inch of snow shuts down all of Georgia? Where I come from, we don’t even blink until a hurricane’s a category three.”

I said, “Even to fly through it?”

“The airlines know what they’re doing.” She squeezed my hand, and it sent a thrill through me. “We can still have fun today. As soon as you finish, I have a plan.”

I got to my feet. “Then I’d better finish.”

With all the stones in place, the final step was to pour paver sand. I spread it between the stones with a push broom, then emerged from the truck bed wielding a leaf blower. “Beware!” I called to Alyssa on the porch, just before blowing the loose sand off the surface.

Alyssa stared with amused horror, then retreated into the house.

Laughing, I finished clearing the sand, then readied the hose.

This was it. Once I finished drenching the sand, Alyssa had a new walkway—laid out and sealed—and no further use for a part-time amateur mason.

Blast it. Maybe that slimy contractor had a point, and I should have tried to sell Alyssa a rock wall. And then refinish the porch. A stair railing for these steps would be a good idea. I could cut down that dying maple. Was it too late to get myself licensed as an electrician and rewire the house?

The spigot squeaked as I twisted the knob. Fifteen years from now, I’d have turned her aunt’s bungalow into a three-story McMansion with elegant landscaping and a mosaic-tiled driveway, and Alyssa would breathe into my ear, “We have to stop meeting this way. The zoning board has complained.”

I sent a shower over the walkway. Once it permeated the paver sand, the sand would expand and lock in all those stones for the next fifty years. Then my grandkids could lay a new walkway for Alyssa’s grandkids and get their own hearts broken. Nice system.

She came onto the porch while I was still spraying down everything. “This is dangerous,” I warned. “I could douse you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I rest assured of my safety. An academic would never harm someone’s laptop.”

I gave the hose a one-second blast straight overhead and let the water rain back over my hair and shoulders. “It feels good, though.”

Abandoning her laptop, she came down from the porch. “You can’t see it, but you’re making rainbows.” Standing behind me, she pivoted me so the sun was at our backs. “Do it again.”

I coaxed a gentle spray from the hose, and the water shimmered through the air before resolving into a band of multi-colored light.

She wrapped her arms around me. “See?”

“I would have missed that if not for you.” I rested my free hand on her arm. “You need to stay.”

She sighed and released me.

“Sorry.” My stomach tightened. “I didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable.”

She only said, “Let me know when you’re finished.”

Yesterday had been roasting. Today was ten degrees cooler, but a thousand percent humidity. On days like today, sweat didn’t cool you down. It just stuck to you.

In the end, all the tools and supplies went back into the truck. I texted Dad photos of every part of the walkway, and Alyssa did the same for her aunt. Dad texted back, “Nice work! You should be proud,” but pride wouldn’t muster up. More like nauseated discontentment.

I’d placed all the stones but six. You can’t do anything with six paving stones, but I put them into the truck with my gear. They felt as heavy as my heart.

The garage door rose in front of the truck, and Alyssa bounded out. “Behold! Bicycles! We can go for a ride and have a picnic.”

Ten minutes later, after searching in vain for a bicycle pump to reincarnate the flattened tires, Alyssa said, “Well, if my job’s taught me anything, it’s the value of having a Plan B.”

Ten minutes after that, we were driving to Johns Pond with a tandem kayak in the back of the truck.

(That was actually Plan C, enacted because Plan B involved the tiny rental sedan hauling the kayak. Plan D meant portaging, which after three days of hauling rocks, I was just as glad not to try.)

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