He looked embarrassed.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He kicked gently at a curled wood shaving that might have been older than either of us.
“I could move the restoration work here.”
I said nothing.
He quickly added, “If Dad wanted. If the trust allowed it. If we figured out permits.”
“You already designed it in your head, didn’t you?”
“Only approximately.”
“How approximately?”
He pointed.
“Main restoration tables there. Finishing room separated for ventilation. Storage racks along the north wall. Office in the front corner.”
I laughed.
“You’re impossible.”
Dad had been listening.
“What about new furniture?”
Derek turned.
“What?”
“Restoration is fine. But you should build new work too.”
Derek stared at him.
“You’d work here?”
Dad looked offended.
“I’m seventy-two, not dead.”
Mom called from outside.
“You are not working six days a week!”
Dad raised his voice.
“Four.”
“Three.”
He looked at us.
