him that was the corniest thing I’d ever heard. He painted it anyway, standing on the porch with his radio playing beach music, a streak of blue on his cheek.
That door is still blue. I’ve repainted it three times since he died, always in the same color.
Nile died fourteen years ago. A stroke, in the workshop behind the beach house, on a Saturday in March. He was sixty-one. He’d gone out to sharpen a chisel.
His life insurance policy paid out $250,000. I used most of it
