Chapter 17

Nicholas left school that day and went to work. There were leaky faucets and plugged drains to fix. He was eager to start on a fence project that the customer, Mrs. Jenkins, had been waffling about for weeks. It wasn’t the price—it was the height of the fence that she couldn’t decide on. Meanwhile, he had the post holes dug and Simpson Strong-Ties embedded in concrete, ready for the posts. She had finally made a decision, and he had promised to start today.

His phone had been buzzing constantly since leaving the president’s office. It showed calls from Eleanor, from her brother David, from numbers he didn’t recognize. He muted it and tucked it away in his glove box. Whatever they wanted could wait until the workday was done.

Mrs. Jenkins lived in one of the older neighborhoods on the east side, a 1930s Tudor with character and endless maintenance issues. He’d fixed her garbage disposal, replaced two toilets, and rewired the ancient doorbell system over the past year. The fence would be his largest project for her property—enclosing the backyard to create a safe space for her grandchildren, who visited regularly.

Miguel was already there when Nicholas arrived, unloading cedar 4×4 posts from his truck. He’d been working with Nicholas for almost a year and a half now. They made a good team, both quiet and diligent workers.

“You’re late,” he observed without rancor. “Not like you.”

“Meeting ran long,” Nicholas said. He pulled on his work gloves and helped Miguel with the remaining posts.

They set to work, positioning the posts in their pre-dug holes, checking for plumb with the level, adjusting as needed. The physical labor felt good after the surreal meeting with the university administrators.

Miguel was filling Nicholas in on the latest shenanigans of the foreman at his full-time construction job. He worked with Nicholas part-time but had recently hired on full time with a local construction company.

“This guy, man, he thinks he knows everything,” Miguel was saying as he braced a post while Nicholas checked it for plumb. “Tell me I’m setting the forms wrong, then the concrete guy comes and says it’s perfect. Foreman just walks away, doesn’t even admit he was wrong.”

Nicholas nodded, sympathizing with the universal experience of dealing with insecure authority figures. “Some people confuse confidence with competence.”

“Exactly!” Miguel exclaimed, pleased with the precise articulation of what he’d been trying to express. “He’s all confidence, no competence.”

They continued working steadily, falling into the comfortable rhythm they’d developed over a year of working together. The spring afternoon was pleasant—warm but not hot, a light breeze carrying the scent of someone’s barbecue from a few houses down. The physical exertion, the focus on immediate tasks, the steady progress of posts being set—created a nice counterpoint to the morning’s news, keeping Nicholas grounded in the reality of everyday work.

About an hour into the job, Mrs. Jenkins came out of the house with a tray of tortilla chips and some lemonade. She was in her sixties, a retired high school English teacher with a fondness for gardening and mystery novels. Her grandchildren’s artwork covered her refrigerator, and she always insisted on “feeding her workers,” as she put it.

“Thought you boys might need some refreshment,” she called, setting the tray on a garden table. “It’s my homemade lemonade—the secret is a touch of honey instead of all sugar.”