Chapter 10

At the end of the summer session, Nicholas took stock. His little business was generating good money. He’d just hired an employee, Miguel, who, it turned out, was a community college student who needed flexible hours. He’d taught him his systems, his standards, his approach to client service. Miguel wasn’t him, but he was good, and clients seemed satisfied.

Nicholas even had a small circle of acquaintances, despite his lack of social graces. People who nodded when they saw him, who asked about his classes. Not deep connections—he still kept most people at arm’s length—but more human contact than he’d had since before juvie.

Physically, he was the same. He was 6’2”, 210 pounds of lean muscle and bone. His reddish-blond hair was bleached white from the sun, his gray eyes clear and bright. His lifestyle—always moving, lifting, climbing, fixing—plus his exercise habits had him in perfect shape.

His broken nose from the fights in juvie and before sometimes made people nervous. He made up for that by being scrupulously honest and polite. No unnecessary words, no false promises, just direct communication and reliable work. People came to appreciate the straightforwardness, even if they found him unusual at first.

Women sensed the innocence and kindness behind the battered features and were attracted, but he kept them at arm’s length, afraid of losing focus.

Nicholas was still writing every day, jotting observations and thoughts during a break or lunch. A habit that had started as survival in solitary had evolved into something else—a way of processing the world, of making sense of what he saw and experienced.

He’d long ago taken to carrying a digital camera. At first, it was to document his time with Al. But it quickly became a way to capture a mood or emotion, so he would later write about it. The shoulder slump of a homeless man, the gnarled hands of an elderly woman, the way morning light hit the quiet faces of iron workers starting their shift building a new dorm on campus.

It was the middle of October when Nicholas found himself back at Mrs. Harrington’s house. Her deck needed repairs—some boards had rotted through, and the railing was becoming unstable. He’d quoted her a fair price, and she’d hired him on the spot.

He was replacing a section of railing when she brought out a glass of iced tea. This was her habit. She never let him work at her house without offering a drink. He always accepted, touched by her kindness.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking the glass and stepping back to take a short break. The June heat was intense and even he needed to pace himself.

Mrs. Harrington was in her early sixties, elegant in a casual way that spoke of old money. She had been Nicholas’s first client and had referred him to at least a dozen others over the past year. Today, she seemed interested in conversation rather than just checking on the work.

“You’re taking classes at the University, aren’t you, Nicholas?” she asked, settling into one of the deck chairs in the shaded part of the space.

“Yes, ma’am. Last summer just two courses. But this semester, I’m taking a full load of 18 credits. Mostly psychology and philosophy with a couple of writing courses-poetry and fiction.”

“Philosophy,” she repeated, looking intrigued. “Any particular school of thought you’re interested in?”

The question surprised him. Most clients kept their inquiries surface-level—how’s business, how are your classes, how long will the job take? They didn’t ask about philosophical preferences.

“Virtue ethics,” he replied after a moment. “Particularly the Greek concept of arete—excellence or virtue. The idea that there’s an excellence specific to each thing, or job or person. And the idea that a good life comes from living and trying to reach that potential.”

Mrs. Harrington’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s quite specific. And how does that philosophy inform your work?”

Nicholas took a drink of tea, considering his answer. “It gives meaning to doing things right. Not just to make money or satisfy a client, but because achieving excellence in your work is valuable in itself.”

She nodded thoughtfully. Then she noticed the notebook next to his lunch pail.

“You’re always writing,” she observed. “I’ve seen you jotting things down during breaks since the first time you worked here.”

He shifted, slightly uncomfortable with the personal observation. “Just thoughts. Observations.”

“Are you keeping a journal? Or working on something specific?”

“It’s my way of learning things,” he explained. “Writing helps me process information, make connections. Been doing for a while now.”

Mrs. Harrington looked at him with new interest. “My family is in publishing business, you know. A small press called Hartwick Publishing.”

Nicholas hadn’t known. Clients’ professions rarely came up in his work.

“Would you mind if I asked what you write about?” she continued.

No one had ever asked before. Not Al, not his professors, not the other guys at work sites. Writing was private, something he did for himself. But Mrs. Harrington seemed genuinely interested, and thinking this might be a way for him to learn more about the publishing world, he decided to share.

“I’ll show you,” he said, and went out to his truck.

In his truck, he had a couple of his notebooks in the glove box. He selected one from a few months back, a spiral-bound notebook that contained his thoughts on the unconscious perfection of a woman named June’s daily life.

Back on the deck, he handed it to Mrs. Harrington. “This one’s about Ms. June. She’s the waitress at the diner where I used to get coffee and most every morning back in Chicago.”

Mrs. Harrington opened the notebook and began to read. Nicholas felt a strange vulnerability, watching someone else’s eyes move across his private thoughts. He wanted to take it back, but he forced himself to remain still, to let her read.