“A dog drowned in the Bestlers’ swimming pool over on Laurel Lane,” Fox told him, and Brian stopped working to turn.

“That’s a damn shame. Anybody know how it happened?”

“Not really. It was one of those little poodles, so they think it must’ve fallen in, then it couldn’t get out again.”

“You’d think somebody would’ve heard it barking. That’s a lousy way to go.” Brian set down his tools, smiled at his boy. “Gimme one of those Slim Jims.”

“What Slim Jims?”

“The ones you’ve got in your back pocket. You’re not carrying a bag, and you weren’t gone long enough to scarf down Hostess Pies or Twinkies. I’m betting you’re packing the Jims. I get one, and your mom never has to know we ate chemicals and meat by-products. It’s called blackmail, kid of mine.”

Fox snorted, pulled them out. He’d bought two for just this purpose. Father and son unwrapped, bit off, chewed in perfect harmony. “The counter looks good, Dad.”

“Yeah, it does.” Brian ran a hand over the smooth eggshell surface. “Mrs. Larson’s not much for color, but it’s good work. I don’t know who I’m going to get to be my lapdog when you head off to college.”

“Ridge is next in line,” Fox said, thinking of his younger brother.

“Ridge wouldn’t keep measurements in his head for two minutes running, and he’d probably cut off a finger dreaming while he was using a band saw. No.” Brian smiled, shrugged. “This kind of work isn’t for Ridge, or for you, for that matter. Or either of your sisters. I guess I’m going to have to rent a kid to get one who wants to work with wood.”

“I never said I didn’t want to.” Not out loud.

His father looked at him the way he sometimes did, as if he saw more than what was there. “You’ve got a good eye, you’ve got good hands. You’ll be handy around your own house once you get one. But you won’t be strapping on a tool belt to make a living. Until you figure out just what it is you want, you can haul these scraps on out to the Dumpster.”