I smiled faintly.
“Sounds like a man who designed buildings for a living.”
“It was more than that.”
She hesitated.
“Sometimes he kept things because he wasn’t ready to explain them.”
That night, I lay awake thinking about my father.
I remembered his hands, broad and rough, with small scars across the knuckles. I remembered him teaching me how to sand a piece of wood without damaging its grain.
I remembered the smell of his garage.
But I didn’t remember him ever mentioning an architect named Mark Carrington.
And I couldn’t imagine why his name would appear in the records of Diane’s husband’s firm.
The attorney’s office was on the third floor of an old brick building downtown.
Diane came with me.
The attorney, a silver-haired man named Richard Bell, greeted us and led us into a conference room.
He placed a thick folder on the table.
“Mr. Walker, I understand you were unaware of your father’s professional connection to Carrington Design.”
