The other day, Hannah suggested that he was grieving the loss of the dairy and his beloved cows. That was ridiculous. He’d made his decision rationally after weeks of deliberation. Then she had said that perhaps that loss, plus the emotional impact of Zachary’s verbal attack, followed by his disappearance, added to the stress, and stress could wipe you out. He knew that. And now this confounded cold letter his son had sent Sarina. Max wanted to wring Zachary’s neck.

Still, there were nights lately when he awakened in a cold sweat, worrying that at his age, the role of surrogate father to an infant had been thrust upon him. He would probably be dead before Sarah finished elementary school. It didn’t seem right.

Odd that Sarina felt she couldn’t go home. The belief systems of other cultures had always seemed strange to him, but this was too peculiar, that her parents would not welcome a wonderful girl like Sarina and this beautiful baby. It was their loss. Sarina would always be welcome here.

Raised voices, angry voices, reached him as he entered the reception area of the office. Jose argued in Spanish with someone responding in English. When Jose was upset, his grasp of English drained away, increasing his frustration. Max hastened into the soon-to-be restaurant.

Upturned on the floor, a five-gallon can discharged thick yellow paint onto the drop cloth. Jose grasped one end of the cloth, a soppy mess, sending paint dripping onto the new floor. The painter yelled at him to drop the cloth, saying that he would clean it up, which seemed to further agitate Jose, for he dragged the cloth with its mess, leaving a trail of yellow spots and streaks behind him.

Max put an arm about Jose. “Jose, mi amigo. You can let it go now. It’s going to be okay.” He repeated “okay” several times, until the word sunk into Jose’s consciousness, and he allowed the cloth to fall with a swishing sound to the floor.

“Señor Max. I knock it over. I try to fix.” He looked with accusing eyes at the painter. “He no comprende.”

“It’s okay.” Max nodded at the painter, who threw up his arms and turned away. “He’ll take care of it. You come with me.” He led Jose, who chattered in Spanish, from the room. Too often, lately, he was called upon to settle disputes. Too big, this whole park thing. Too many people involved. Too darn much work.

Jose was distraught. “I no good at this business, Señor Max. I make big mistake.” He was close to tears.

Max led him to a seat in his office and handed Jose a Coke. “Relax. Let’s talk about this.”

“It bad mistake, restaurant. I miss cows. They do like I tell them, no argue with Jose.”