Page 9

A sharp, acrid smell cut through the scent of melted butter. Ben turned toward the toaster, his eyes widening as a thick plume of black smoke billowed from the chrome slots. The mechanical spring had jammed again, trapping the sourdough crusts against the white-hot wires.

“Oh, darn,” Ben muttered under his breath, dropping the spatula onto the stove top.

He grabbed the mechanical lever and tugged upward, but the rusty catch held fast. Dense gray smoke rolled up toward the cedar ceiling beams. Within seconds, the round white smoke detector mounted near the pantry let out an ear-splitting shriek that echoed off the white walls.

Theo didn’t scream or duck under the table. He simply set his spoon down, covered his ears with both hands, and watched Ben with calm, wide eyes.

Ben snatched the blue dish towel off the rack and moved into the hallway, waving the fabric frantically beneath the white plastic disc.

“It’s just bread!” he yelled over the alarm, swatting the air until the thick haze dispersed toward the back porch. “It’s just burnt crusts!”

The screeching alarm sputtered, gave two short beeps, and finally went silent. The sudden stillness in the kitchen felt tangible, filled only with the smell of charred grain and the refrigerator’s comforting hum.

Ben let his arms fall to his sides and drew a long breath as he moved back to the counter. He used metal tongs to fish the blackened rectangles of sourdough out of the slots, dropping them into the iron trash can beneath the sink.

“We’ve got plenty of crackers,” Theo noted quietly from the table, taking another bite of his oatmeal.

“We’ve got eggs,” Ben corrected, scraping the scrambled eggs from the pan onto a plate. He set the plate down near Theo’s bowl. “And I’ll buy a fresh loaf from the bakery when we go down to Harbor Square.”

Before he could sit down, the wall-mounted landline phone near the pantry door let out a sharp ring. The black plastic receiver vibrated against its cradle.

Ben checked his watch. It was barely half past seven. There was only one person who called at this hour on a Saturday morning and used the landline, as they knew his cell phone was probably still beside his bed.

He lifted the receiver, pulling the coiled black cord tight as he brought it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Dad! Did I hear a smoke alarm through the receiver?” his daughter Laura’s voice came through the line, clear and immediate from her apartment in Boston. “Is everything okay down there?”

“Did Theo send you a message that I was burning things in the kitchen again?” Ben closed his eyes, his thumb rubbing the bridge of his nose as he turned his back to the kitchen table. “The toaster caught and jammed on the sourdough. Everything’s completely under control.”

“You need to throw that old metal toaster away,” Laura insisted, her tone filled with the sharp anxiety of a daughter trying to manage her father from over fifty miles away. “It’s old and the wiring’s dangerous. I can order a new one online and have it delivered by Tuesday.”

“The wiring’s fine,” Ben said, keeping his voice low so Theo wouldn’t pick up on the tension. “It’s just a sticking lever. I’ll smooth the catch with a metal file down at the shop this morning.”

“How’s Theo doing?” Laura asked, her tone softening slightly. “Is he eating well? Has he mentioned anything about his winter coat? I bought the blue parka last month, but I’m worried the sleeves are getting short.”

“He’s sitting right here eating his breakfast,” Ben replied, glancing over his shoulder at Theo, who was carefully wiping his spoon with a paper napkin. “The coat fits fine. He wore it to the square yesterday without a problem.”

“And you?” Laura pressed quietly. “How are you handling the weekend? It’s the first Saturday after Thanksgiving. I know how hard these weeks are for you.”

A tight, familiar pressure built behind Ben’s ribs, the barely manageable weight he carried every single day since Ruth died. He hated being fussed over. He hated the idea that his child viewed him as a fragile old man who couldn’t manage his own kitchen without setting the house on fire.

“I’ve got a full day of work waiting in the shop,” Ben said, his voice hardening into a calm, unyielding wall. “The dory hull needs three new cedar planks before the Monday tide, and the hardware store order is coming in at noon. We’re doing fine. Everything’s entirely on schedule.”

A long pause lingered on the line. Ben could hear the distant city traffic through Laura’s phone, a stark contrast to the harbor breeze rustling the shutters outside his window.

“Alright,” Laura said at last, letting out a small, resigned sigh. “Call me tomorrow evening after dinner. And please don’t use that toaster again until you fix the lever.”

“I won’t,” Ben promised. “Have a good weekend.”

He hung the receiver back on its wall hook, his hand lingering on the dark plastic for a moment before he turned back to the room. The kitchen still smelled faintly of burnt toast, but the morning light was brightening against the windowpanes.

Ben looked at Theo, who had finished his oatmeal and was now stacking his empty bowl neatly on top of his plate.

“Ready to walk over to the shop?” Ben asked, reaching for his canvas coat hanging on the wooden pegs near the door.

Theo stood up, grabbing his blue wool cap from the bench. “Ready.”

One of Ben’s eyebrows rose as he looked his grandson over. “Are you sure you’re ready?”