chapter sixteen

“He’s not here yet?” Ellen questioned. Gloria shook her head. Shaun Safford from BikeHouse had been waiting in the conference room for almost ten minutes. Not a good way to impress a client.

“I just tried his cell. He’s running late. He said to get started.”

“Late? Are you kidding?” Disappointment spread across Ellen’s face like an afternoon shadow. She turned to Gloria. “We’re going to start without him. If he arrives within ten minutes, send him in. Otherwise, tell him I have the account covered.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand.”

Dave walked through the door twenty-two minutes later. Gloria glanced up in horror at his appearance. In place of his Armani suit and slacks, he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Stubble showed on his face. His hair was tousled.

“Mr. Riley? Are you all right? You look like . . .” She stopped herself before the word slipped out.

Despite being late, Dave didn’t rush. He seemed to be in no hurry to get to the meeting. “Honestly, I’ve had better weekends,” he replied.

“Is there anything that I can do?” She pitied his condition, hated to see him this way. It was tragic—no, heartbreaking—to watch someone with such potential waste away.

He shook his head. “Thanks, I’m fine.”

“The meeting has started. Ms. Brewer asked me to tell you she has it covered.”

“Thanks, but I’m supposed to be in charge.”

“Yes, but she—”

He ignored her words and walked to the door. He could hear Ellen’s voice inside. He looked back at Gloria and mumbled. She couldn’t tell if he was speaking to her or to himself. Either way, it was an unfolding disaster.

“Just doing the best that I can,” he repeated.

Dave glanced down, as if noticing his appearance for the first time. Then, wiping all emotion from his face, he twisted the handle and pushed himself inside.

At eleven a.m., I grab my jacket and head out the door. The drive to the bridge is short, and I park at the south end, near Lincoln Boulevard. I enter the maintenance offices and walk past the receptionist as if I belong. She looks familiar, but I can’t remember her name. She looks like she is thinking the same about me.

Though it has been two years since my father’s death, many of the same people still work on the bridge. I am looking for one man in particular, Tom Woods.

Tom was promoted to fill the position of team supervisor after my father’s death. The two were close, and though he’s a roughened man, it was especially hard for him to accept Dad’s passing.

I find Tom sitting in the office that was once my father’s. He seems genuinely surprised by my visit. “Katie Connelly? Wait, let me guess, you’re engaged!”

I can’t tell if he is joking, but that is his nature. His subtle wit causes me to relax—to feel at home in a place that now feels foreign.

“Not yet! I’m waiting until you’re available.”

I know he’s amused, but he doesn’t smile—not at his own jokes, and certainly not at mine.

“I just need to check with Millie.” He doesn’t give me time to think of a comeback before he continues, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Two men are sitting close, and my reluctance must be apparent.

“Tell you what,” he says, “I need some fresh air. What do you say we take a walk?”

I nod and we step out to stroll across the bridge. After a moment, I begin. “I appreciate your time.” I’m not sure how much to tell him, but I know that I must start somewhere.

“Katie, the pleasure is always mine.”

I continue, “I’m wondering, does the name Patrick O’Riley mean anything to you?”

He stops and tips his head, as if that will help him think. Seconds pass as he processes the name. “No, not that I recall, but at my age, I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast.”

I add more information, hoping it will help. “I found a journal in some of my dad’s things. It’s an old journal, Patrick’s journal. He was an engineer or a worker on the bridge.”

“You’re trying to find him?”

“I presume he’s dead. I’d just like to know more about him, about where the journal came from. I was hoping that you’d know.”

“I’m sorry, Katie. I wish I could help, but your father never spoke about a journal—at least not one that this old brain can recall.”

He can read my disappointment, but we continue to walk and reminisce. We talk about my father, the good man that he was, and as we do, I see the slightest sign of sadness in Tom’s face.

“Every day!” he finally whispers, though it’s almost a mumble.

“Every day what?” I ask.

“Your father,” he concedes. “I think about him every single day.”

I reach out and squeeze the man’s hand, hoping to comfort, but he wears a halo of hesitation, like the words he needs to say are lodged in his throat.

He turns to face me directly. “Katie, if I had just—”

“Tom!” I demand, stomping on the cement. “There’s nothing you could have done!”

He takes a heavy breath. “That’s hard to say,” he replies as he rocks backwards. “Katie, I don’t believe I ever told you, but I was supposed to be out on the girder with the jumper that day. It was my turn to take the next one, and I would have, except . . .”

It’s news that he shares with such sorrow, my chest tightens. “Except what?” I ask.

“Except that I forgot my gloves. We were just beginning our shift, and so I went back for them. But by the time I’d caught up to your father, he was already out on the beam across from where the boy was standing. He was just talking to the kid like they were friends in the park on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Kid? He was eighteen, right?”

“Yes, and so I guess he should be called a man, though he looked like a scared boy to me.”

“They said it was an accident. Was it?”

Tom nods as he answers. “The kid was out on the far girder and was threatening to jump. I guess he was having family problems. It took just a minute or two for your dad to talk the boy into coming back. Your father was good at that, so approachable—but then the boy lost his footing. As he slipped sideways, he grabbed onto the top of the beam with one hand, screaming and barely hanging on. The only way your dad could get close enough to help him in time was to undo his own harness.”

“I wish he hadn’t done that,” I whisper.

“Katie, not all the workers would have—but your dad was different that way. You see, some of the guys here look down on the jumpers as if they’re . . . I don’t know . . . delusional, or damaged—but not your father. People’s problems didn’t keep him from seeing them as . . . equals . . . struggling with their own issues, certainly, but, as he would say, aren’t we all?”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“It was hard because I couldn’t get there in time to help. He’d reached for the boy and had managed to grab one of his arms, except the kid was stronger than he looked. He was terrified that he was going to fall. Your dad had him, and it would have been fine, but as he swung the kid close, the boy somehow reached out with his free hand and grabbed your father’s boot, and, well . . .”

Tom’s eyes shimmer with guilt, mine with sorrow.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tom,” I reassure.

“As I said, that’s sometimes hard to say. I guess I just wanted you to know that your dad was brave—but you knew that already.”

We stand quietly for a long moment, and then I thank him. When I extend my hand to say good-bye, he surprises me by leaning forward for an unexpected embrace. Then, as I walk away, he calls after me.

“Wait, Katie. Do you remember Ben Bryant? He worked with your dad for several years before I came on board. You may want to give him a try . . . about the journal. He may know something.”

I remember Mr. Bryant as a bald and cantankerous old man, though it has been at least ten years since I’ve seen him. I’m not even sure that I would recognize him, let alone hope that he’d remember me. “Does he still live in the city?” I ask.

“No, as I recall, he retired to Palm Springs.”

“I hope Palm Springs, California, and not Palm Springs, Florida.”

“California, all right. I think he bought a condo there with his wife—don’t remember her name. I can check with Human Resources and see if they have his number.”

I tell him how much I appreciate his help and friendship. For the second time I see a glimmer of emotion—this time, gratitude. We talk for a minute longer, then I say good-bye and head toward home.

On the drive, I am already planning. Palm Springs is eight hours away in good traffic. I have the silly banquet this weekend, but I consider driving down to see Ben the following weekend. Of course, the simpler alternative would be to look up his number and call. And yet, if he doesn’t remember me on the phone, I could blow my only chance. As I weigh the alternatives, I find words from the journal rushing into my head.

“ . . . and so for the balance between speed and quality—I let me own scale tip toward the latter.”

I decide not to rush it. At the moment, Ben Bryant is my only lead.