“I’ve got to get the cottage cleaned. It’s been closed up for so long it’s like a mildew buffet. The first thing I need to do is pry the windows open so I can breathe, but I don’t even have a screwdriver.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be pretty bad, what with the hurricane damage to the roof. Tell you what. Alberto’s shed is still there. We never gave any of the tenants access to it. Maybe his tools and stuff are there. The keys are on that ring I gave you. Okay, well, Wendy and I are about to leave for dinner at the yacht club, but I’ll put the storage unit key in our mailbox for you. Unless you want to join us?”

She looked down at her shredded jeans, tank top and flip-flops, thankful for an excuse to decline.

“Better not,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of carpet to rip out tonight.”

8

Papi’s toolshed was a peak-roofed wooden building he’d built in the side yard of Coquina Cottage.

As far as she could tell, the shed was just as he’d left it. She pictured him here now, puttering away at the workbench that ran along the back of the shed, his bald head bent over his project, the transistor radio blaring his favorite talk radio station. He’d be chewing one of the cigars Nonni banned him from smoking in the house, humming as he worked, or talking back to the radio host, dropping the occasional cuss word in Spanish.

Everything was in order, although coated in dust, cobwebs and what looked like an entire village of dead bugs. A pegboard held his saws, chisels, hammers, vises and screwdrivers. He’d used old wooden cigar boxes with tiny knobs screwed to each to construct drawers for a homemade cubby holding a wide assortment of nails, screws, bolts and washers. The power tools were neatly arranged on the wooden shelves beside the bench. An old nail barrel held scraps of lumber. She inhaled deeply. The shed smelled of cigar smoke, WD-40 and sawdust. It smelled like Papi.

She gathered hammers, screwdrivers, pry bars and a box cutter and loaded up the leather tool belt that hung from a nail near the door.

Back in the house, she used the pry bar to remove a wooden broomstick that had been jammed inside the aluminum sliding-door track in the living room, and with what felt like herculean effort, managed to shove the door open, allowing for a welcome rush of fresh air. She stood in the doorway, looking out past the now rotting deck toward the beach. It had gotten dark while she worked, but she could hear the waves lapping at the shore and that was enough for now. She had work to do.