Chapter 34 - The Boat Named Silas
Grief changed the studio.
For weeks, everyone expected Silas to walk down the stairs complaining about crooked handles or poorly wedged clay.
His chair remained empty.
Nobody moved it.
Hope stopped working on her boat.
Vincent understood.
He did not pressure her.
Winter passed.
Then spring.
One morning, Hope opened the boat shed using Silas’s brass key.
The unfinished cedar skiff sat beneath a canvas tarp.
She stood there for twenty minutes.
Then picked up a plane.
Vincent found her.
He said nothing.
He grabbed another tool.
They worked.
Every Saturday.
Sometimes Claire joined.
Sometimes they barely spoke.
The skiff slowly took shape.
Silas had taught Hope well.
The ribs became clean.
The hull curved properly.
The bow, finally, was not too fat.
When the boat was finished, Hope painted one name along the side.
SILAS.
They launched it on the first warm day of June.
Half the town came.
Hope stood at the bow.
Claire broke a small clay bottle against the hull.
Vincent held the stern rope.
“Ready?”
Hope looked toward the harbor.
“Ready.”
The boat slid into Penobscot Bay.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then it floated perfectly.
Hope laughed.
Vincent cried.
Claire did both.
That summer, Hope turned eighteen.
College acceptance letters arrived.
Boston.
New York.
California.
Then one envelope came from the Rhode Island School of Design.
Hope opened it at breakfast.
She stared.
Claire leaned forward.
“Well?”
Hope looked up.
“I got in.”
Vincent dropped his coffee.
Claire screamed.
Hope laughed.
Then Vincent realized what it meant.
Providence.
Leaving home.
Dormitory.
Distance.
He recovered quickly.
“Excellent.”
Claire watched him.
“You okay?”
“Perfect.”
“You look like someone died.”
“I said I’m perfect.”
Hope groaned.
“Dad.”
Vincent stood.
“We should research dorm security.”
“Dad.”
“And vehicle safety.”
“Dad.”
“Providence crime statistics—”
Claire grabbed his laptop.
“No.”
He looked betrayed.
Hope hugged him.
“I’m coming home.”
“For holidays.”
“And summers.”
“That’s insufficient.”
She laughed.
On move-in day, Vincent drove the truck himself.
He carried boxes.
Assembled shelves.
Tested the dorm window locks.
Twice.
Hope’s roommate watched with fascination.
Finally Claire dragged him into the hallway.
“You have to leave.”
“I’m checking the smoke detector.”
“It works.”
“What about carbon monoxide?”
“Vincent.”
He looked through the doorway.
Hope was unpacking.
Suddenly she was not a child.
She was eighteen.
Confident.
Independent.
Ready.
Vincent swallowed.
Claire touched his arm.
“Go say goodbye.”
He returned inside.
Hope looked at him.
“You’re crying.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Dust.”
“There’s no dust.”
He hugged her.
For a long time.
Then he whispered, “Never make yourself smaller for anyone.”
Hope nodded.
“Never beg someone to choose you.”
“I know.”
“Call if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Anything.”
“Dad.”
“Anything.”
She pulled back.
“I love you.”
Vincent’s face broke.
“I love you too.”
Claire hugged Hope next.
Then they walked away.
At the end of the corridor, Vincent stopped.
Claire took his hand.
“Don’t turn around.”
“I need one more look.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“If you turn around, she’ll see you.”
He breathed.
Then kept walking.
Outside, the campus buzzed with new beginnings.
Vincent stared at the empty passenger seat of the truck.
“What do we do now?”
Claire smiled.
“We go home.”
“To what?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“To each other.”
He looked at her.
Then smiled.
For the first time in eighteen years, their house would be quiet again.
But unlike the old Fifth Avenue penthouse, this silence would not be a tomb.
May you like
It would be space.
And together, they would learn how to fill it.
