Most of all, and most stressful, was that it left him alone on the job with his father for the best part of the day.

Bob O’Connell was under the sink to his waist. His ancient work boots had had their soles glued back in place countless times. He’d staple them back on, Brody thought, before he’d spring for another pair.

Don’t need what I don’t need, the old man would say. About every damn thing.

His business, his way, Brody reminded himself and wished he could stop digging up reasons to be resentful.

They rubbed each other raw. Always had.

Bob clanged pipes. Brody measured drywall.

“Turn that damn noise off,” Bob ordered. “How’s a man supposed to work with that crap ringing in his ears?”

Saying nothing, Brody stepped over and snapped off the portable stereo. Whatever music he’d listened to was considered noise to his father’s ear.

Bob swore and muttered while he worked. Which was, Brody thought, exactly why he’d had the music on.

“Damn stupid idea, cutting this kitchen up this-a-way. Waste of time and money. Office space, my ass. What’s anybody need office space for to teach a buncha twinkle-toes?”

Brody had put off working on the kitchen side of the partition as long as possible. Now he hefted the drywall section he’d measured and cut, set it into place. “I’ve got the time,” he said and plucked a drywall nail out of his pouch. “The client’s got the money.”

“Yeah, the Kimballs got plenty of money. No point in tossing it away, though, is there? You shoulda oughta told her she’s making a mistake sectioning this kitchen off.”

Brody hammered wall to stud. Told himself to keep his mouth shut. But the words just wouldn’t stay down. “I don’t think she’s making a mistake. She doesn’t need a kitchen this size down here. It was designed to cook up bar food. What’s a dance school going to do with a small restaurant kitchen?”

“Dance school.” Bob made a sound of disgust. “Open and close inside a month. Then how’s she going to sell this place all cut up like this? Kid-height sinks in the bathrooms. Just have to pull them out again. Surprised the plumbing inspector didn’t bust his gut laughing at the rough-in.”

“When you teach kids, you have to have accommodations for kids.”

“We got the elementary school for that, don’t we?”

“Last I heard they weren’t teaching ballet at the elementary school.”

“Ought to tell you something,” Bob muttered, rankled by his son’s tone.

Bob told himself to keep his mouth shut, to mind his own business. But, like Brody, the words just wouldn’t stay down. “You’re supposed to do more than take a customer’s money, boy. You’re supposed to know enough to point them in the right direction.”

“As long as it’s your direction.”

Bob wormed out from under the sink. His faded blue gimme cap sat askew on a head topped with short, grizzled gray hair. His face was square and lined deep. It had once been sternly handsome. His eyes were as green as his son’s.