to pay off what was left on both mortgages, because Nile always said he wanted the point to be “free and clear” before he died. He didn’t quite make it. So I finished it for him.
I put his picture on the mantel at the beach house the week after the funeral. Nile on the porch in his paint-splattered T-shirt, squinting at the camera, holding up a level like it was a trophy.
It stayed there for fourteen years.
Every time I walked in the door, he was the first
