Uncle Gil disappeared back into the kitchen, grumbling along the way, “I’ll get right on that as soon as I’m done unloading all these damn vegetables. Hopefully they’ll still be here by Labor Day.”
I laughed and glanced up to see Vinh’s lips twitch, but Ari just sighed wistfully as she dropped her hands and started toward the kitchen. “The Saturday morning farmer’s market just started back up, and it issublime.They have the freshest microgreens I’ve ever seen.”
Vinh perked up at that and followed Ari into the kitchen, falling into an in-depth conversation in a way that only two people that passionate about cooking could.
Uncle Gil unloaded the last of the bags and started to fold them, so I joined him and grabbed a handful to do the same.
“I hear you’re teaching a class this week?” I asked.
He grunted in a vaguely affirmative way, then glanced over at me, his bushy brows grayer than I remembered. “How’re your shelves?”
“Perfect. They’re working out great.”
He took the folded bags from my pile, combined them into one larger bag, and then stowed them in a drawer. “I’ll send Vinh back with the plans I drew up so you boys can finish them soon.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Uncle Gil.”
His answering smile was reserved but warm, just like the rest of him.
A few minutes later, I followed Vinh to the door as he prepared to leave. “Thank you for bringing me here. I know that’s a lot of unexpected driving. I appreciate you.”
He pushed his messy hair off his forehead, his nón lá and oak tree tattoo on display. “You’re welcome.”
Ari appeared then, a large sketch pad in her hands. “I heard Gil say he wanted to give you the plans for Liem’s shelves.” She gestured with her head toward the living room, where Uncle Gil had passed out in the recliner in record time. “Find the page you need and take it with you.”
Vinh took the book from her and opened it, stopping on a random page. I watched from beside him and took inthe rough drawings of garden planters with dimensions and measurements carefully written beside them. There were little building tips and material details marked with asterisks too. Vinh turned the pages until he got to a series of them dedicated to different types of ramps, including the ones Vinh had built at Ari’s and at Mom and Dad’s rental home.
It was one thing to know how much knowledge someone had, but another to actually see the physical evidence of it.
I leaned against the wall and asked Aunt Ari quietly, not wanting to wake the man, “Where did Uncle Gil learn to do all this?”
She smiled fondly. “His father was a contractor and a hobby woodworker before he passed.”
Vinh paused his shuffling, seeming to have found the page he needed. “He’s okay with me taking this out?”
Ari nodded. “Of course, Bub. It’s no use to him here, and he’ll be happy to know it’s being completed. He hates an unfinished project. He says it makes him itchy.”
Vinh carefully took the page out of the book before folding it and putting it in his back pocket. Ari kissed his cheek goodbye, and then I squeezed my brother tightly and thanked him again.
“Any time,” he replied but then leveled me with a warning look. “But just so you know, hiding in Alabama won’t save you from Bree. Or whoever else.”
I rolled my lips together, the realization dawning on me that I hadn’t considered how Bree would respond to my sudden departure.
He frowned at me in sympathy. “Just make sure you call or text her today, yeah?”
“I will,” I vowed, wondering how much Princess knew about yesterday by now, if anything. She and Cody were, theoretically, getting him moved onto the houseboat right about now.
Then my brother was out the door, and I was left to enjoy a quiet morning of painting sunrises on the balcony with Ari as we made plans for our classes at the Locc, an afternoon of solo exploring the town during her and Uncle Gil’s scheduled nap, and an evening of watching TV and playing card games with Gil, whose only face was a poker face.
It was just what I needed.
The next morning, I rose before dawn, my body attuned to it now, no matter where I was. I took my own sketch pad to the balcony, where I worked on one more piece with only the sounds of the crashing shore and of seabirds for company.
By the time I finished my charcoal impressions of hands that nearly touched, hearts that boomed and beat in symphony, and magnolia blossoms that hadn’t received quite enough sunshine to bloom, two things returned to me, having only abandoned me for a short time.
My peace.
My hope.
