She'd called Wednesday and said she wanted to come back that weekend if it was okay. He'd said it was okay. She'd said she'd be there Saturday morning. He'd said he knew a place that did better biscuits than the Birchwoods waffles. And she'd said that was a bold claim.
And he'd said he was prepared to defend it. She left Atlanta at 5:30 a.m. She drove the 5 hours without rushing. She crossed the county line at 10:23 and felt something happen in her chest that she'd been feeling every time she crossed it in her mind for the past 2 weeks. He was waiting outside the shop, not performing the weight just there, drinking coffee from a travel mug because he'd been working since 7 and had taken a break at the right moment.
She parked and got out of the car. The Honda, the same one. He looked at the car, looked at her. Working fine, he said. Perfect condition, she said.
Look at that, he said. Nothing broken. Nothing broken, she agreed. They stood there for a moment in the October morning. Two people who had covered 5 hours of highway and 10 years of living in 3 weeks of phone calls, and neither of them performed anything.
That was the best part. Biscuits, she said. Come on, he said. The place was 12 minutes from the shop, a diner that looked like it had been there since before either of them were born. Run by a woman named Kora who called Marcus baby and did not ask who Victoria was.
Just brought two coffees and said biscuits this morning and Marcus said yes. And Kora went away and came back with something that was Victoria had to admit worth the 5-hour drive on its own. You win, she said. I wasn't competing, he said. You absolutely were competing.
He smiled full and unguarded. She had not seen that yet. The full smile without the almost. She filed it. They talked through breakfast and into the late morning.
And this time the conversation had the who had covered ground already and were now moving through the landscape rather than surveying it. She told him about the board call and the Georgia trades program. She told him she'd named it something other than what she'd wanted to call it. What did you want to call it? He said.
She looked at her coffee. Something that would have required a longer explanation than I was ready to give to a boardroom. He studied her. What would the longer explanation have been? She said that I met a man in Georgia who reminded me that the work people do with their hands is as worthy of investment as anything I've built with a keyboard and a capital raise.
And that I should have known that already, but I didn't. And now I do. Marcus was quiet for a moment. You could have just called it the Carter Initiative, he said. I didn't want to make assumptions, she said.
About what? She looked at him directly. About what I'm allowed to name after you. The weight of it settled between them. Not heavy, the right kind of weight.
Marcus turned his coffee cup in both hands. The same way he turned his mug that first Friday night in his living room. Ava told me this morning she was going to show you the dinosaur display. He said the rebuilt one. She's been working on it for 2 weeks.
I'd like to see it. Victoria said she'll want your full attention. He said, "No phone. " "I left my phone in the car," she said. He looked at her. "I left it on purpose," she said.
Something moved across his face, something that was not the almost smile and not the full smile, but something in between that was its own thing entirely, and might have been the one she'd remember longest. They were back at his house by noon. Ava opened the front door before the car was fully stopped, which meant she'd been watching from the window, which meant Marcus had been right about the level of anticipation involved in the dinosaur display presentation. "You came back," Ava said. "I said I would," Victoria said.
Ava looked at her father with an expression that communicated with surgical precision her assessment of his judgment in having introduced this particular person into their life. See, Ava said to Marcus. I see, Marcus said. She's not like the ones who say they will and then don't. Ava said in the tone of a woman who has been keeping score.
No, Marcus said. She's not. Victoria stood on that front porch and felt the full weight of what an 8-year-old's approval cost and was worth. And it cost more and was worth more than anything on her board. The dinosaur display was magnificent.
That was the only word for it. It occupied the entire surface of Ava's desk and approximately 1/3 of her floor and had been organized by geological era with handwritten labels that had clearly involved significant research and a ruler. Victoria sat on the edge of Ava's bed and received the full guided tour which took 34 minutes and she did not look at her phone once because she did not have her phone. She asked questions, real ones. Ava answered them with the complete seriousness of a professor addressing a promising student.
At one point, Victoria asked about a small blue dinosaur figure positioned apart from the others. "That's Dana," Ava said. Victoria went very still. "My mom's name was Dana," Ava said matterofactly, repositioning the figure with careful hands. I named her after my mom because she's the biggest brachiosaurus and brachiosaurus are gentle and they take care of everything around them.
Victoria looked at the blue brachiosaurus for a long moment. That's a beautiful thing to name her, she said. I know, Ava said simply without sadness and without performance. Just a child who had found a way to keep her mother in the room. Dad says she's still here, just different.
Victoria felt something unlock in her chest that she hadn't known was locked. She thought about her own mother, about what it meant to keep someone present when their form had changed. About the photograph downstairs on the wall with the laughing eyes. Your dad is right, she said. Ava looked at her.
Do you have someone like that? Someone who's still here but different. My mother, Victoria said. Ava nodded with great gravity. Then she moved to the next section of the display.