Mara groaned.
Lucy laughed.
If it is something else, Hammer is required to pretend it is interesting.
Hammer said:
“Absolutely not.”
Most of all, I hope you understand the thing I wrote underneath the patch.
Lucy looked toward Hammer’s vest.
He still wore it.
The silver letters were barely visible now.
LET HER CHOOSE THE ROAD.
Owen continued:
I spent too much of my life thinking roads meant leaving.
Sometimes the brave road is staying.
Sometimes it is coming home.
Sometimes it is changing your mind halfway.
The important part is that somebody who loves you should help you choose, not choose for you.
Lucy finished the letter silently.
Then folded it.
Hammer asked:
“That it?”
She nodded.
“What’s the ending?”
Lucy looked at him.
“He says you still owe him forty dollars.”
Colt burst out laughing.
Hammer’s face went red.
“He cheated at poker.”
Mara laughed.
For a moment Owen was in the room again.
Not as a voice from a recorder.
As a man who owed and was owed money, argued, lied about being fine, loved badly sometimes, loved deeply other times, made jokes, made mistakes.
A person.
That was the gift Lucy finally received.
Not eight letters.
Not a vest.
Not a patch.
Permission to remember her father without turning him into something perfect.
At thirteen, Lucy asked Hammer the question Mara had feared for years.
“Will you teach me to ride?”
Mara dropped a coffee mug.
It did not break.
Hammer looked from Lucy to Mara.
Then back.
“No.”
Lucy stared.
“What?”
“No.”
“You ride.”
“Yes.”
“Daddy rode.”
“Yes.”
“You said I choose.”
“Yes.”
“Then I choose.”
“When you’re older.”
“That’s not what Dad wrote.”
Hammer smiled.
“Your dad also wrote that twelve-year-olds are not adults.”
“I’m thirteen.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’ve been told.”
Lucy looked toward Mara.
“Mom.”
Mara folded her arms.
“Eighteen.”
Lucy looked betrayed.
“Sixteen.”
“Eighteen.”
“Seventeen.”
Mara considered.
“Eighteen.”
“This is not negotiating.”
“Correct.”
Hammer nodded.
“Your mother is excellent.”
Lucy looked at him.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I enjoy being alive.”
At eighteen, Lucy reminded both of them.
Of course she did.
By then I was older.
The Copper Lantern had new stools because the red vinyl finally became impossible to repair.
I kept one old stool in storage.
The one Lucy stood on while cutting the patch.
I never told her.
Sentiment makes people uncomfortable when they are eighteen.