Why are you wet? " "I was outside in the snow. " "Dad says you should always dry off fast or you get sick. " Sophie looked at her father. "Dad, she's wet. " "I know," Daniel said. "Sophie, it's past 9:00. I heard the door. " Sophie came fully into the garage and stationed herself beside the stool, studying Riley with continued interest. "Do you want hot chocolate?
I know how to make it. Dad showed me. " Riley blinked. "That's very kind. Yes, actually, I'd love that. " Sophie looked at her father with triumphant satisfaction, as though she had solved a problem he hadn't gotten to yet. He didn't look up from the fuel line, but the corner of his mouth moved.
"Use the good mugs," he said. Daniel Carter had lived in Aspen for 11 years. He'd come from Tucson originally, following a girl Lauren, who he'd loved since they were 22 and who had wanted to see snow. They'd driven up in a truck with everything they owned in the bed of it and arrived in February, and Lauren had cried a little when she saw the mountains for the first time, and Daniel had decided on the spot that he'd stay here as long as she wanted. They'd been married 4 years when Sophie was born.
They'd been married 6 years when Lauren was diagnosed. They'd been married 7 years, 3 months, and 12 days when she died. Sophie had been 4, old enough to understand that her mother was gone, too young to understand anything else about it. Daniel had kept the garage. Lauren had always said it was the thing he loved most, even when he pretended otherwise, and had reorganized his entire life around the axis of his daughter.
He learned to braid hair badly and then adequately. He learned which brand of grape juice Sophie considered acceptable and which brand she silently moved to the back of the refrigerator as a form of protest. He learned the name of every stuffed animal. The rabbit was Gerald. There were 11 others.
He learned to check the snow report every morning before deciding whether to have Sophie picked up by the school van or drive her himself. He was not, by nature, a man who talked about his feelings. He processed things by working by the physical language of wrenches and torque and the satisfying click of a problem resolving. In the two years since Lauren died, he'd rebuilt three vintage motorcycles, replaced the entire engine of a 1965 Ford Mustang for a client who couldn't afford to pay him what it was worth, and reroofed the garage himself over a long summer weekend. He'd also cried exactly once, alone in the garage at 11:00 at night, with a glass of whiskey he didn't drink and an old photograph he'd found behind the workbench, Lauren at 24, standing in front of the same building the day they opened it, laughing at something off camera.
He'd put the photograph in a drawer. He'd poured the whiskey down the drain. He'd gone back inside and checked on Sophie, who was asleep with Gerald tucked under her chin, and he'd stood in the doorway for a long time. He told himself he was fine. By most measurable standards, he was.
He was just very, very tired of being fine alone. He didn't think about this consciously. He thought about fuel lines and brake pads and the particular problem a 1978 Triumph presented when the ambient temperature dropped below 20 degrees. He thought about Sophie's parent-teacher conference next week and whether the leftover chicken in the refrigerator was still good. He did not think about the way the woman on the stool near his space heater had looked at him when he opened the door like she was surprised a warm thing existed in all that cold.
He was almost finished with the fuel line when Sophie came back with two mugs of hot chocolate. Navigating the garage with the focused seriousness of a surgeon carrying organs. She handed one to Riley with both hands and set the second one on the edge of Daniel's workbench without being asked. "I put extra marshmallows. " Sophie said. "Because you were outside a long time. " Riley looked down at the mug.