Bridge Repair
A small repair uncovers larger problems
This chapter is part of the serialized novel Between Corners. If you’re new, start here.
The next day was Sunday – a day off, with Molly handling chores at the center. Douglas was taking care of his own tasks, so Charlotte had a quiet house to herself. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping a latte. A beam of morning sunlight angled in from the front window, and reflected off some of the pictures hung on a wall. Photos Douglas had taken in the Grand Canyon.
She took out her phone; looked at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then she texted Christopher: “Come by at 4? We can work on the violin then I’m making dinner.”
Then she added, “And thanks again. I really owe you.”
In a few minutes the phone chimed. “4 it is. And no, you don’t.” She shifted in her seat and brushed her hair back.
A few minutes later Douglas came inside, bringing with him a gust of wind. He took off his boots, beat some dust off his jeans, came into the kitchen, and started a latte of his own.
Charlotte tried to gauge the weather. “Hey hon,” she said. “Christopher will be here at 4.”
The espresso machine hissed.
“Wonderful,” Doug said. He wiped his hand on a kitchen towel.
Oh, Charlotte thought.
“Anything you need from me?” he asked.
Charlotte paused for a second. She said, “Just the keys to the shop. And a place where he can work – if, if it’s not too much trouble.”
By now he had a mug in his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.” He rubbed the back of his head.
“Are you sure you want him doing that work at the center?” he asked, his voice low. “If I didn’t make myself clear last night – I don’t like it. Something does not add up. I thought crews like his were swamped with work around here. And he says they can just drop everything and fix your leak?”
Doug sat across from Charlotte at the kitchen table, put his mug down, and folded his arms. He had had cut himself shaving and had a small bandage on his jaw.
“I know you don’t,” Charlotte said. She ran her finger around the rim of the cup, then stopped where it had chipped. She felt the sharp edge, pressed her finger against it. “But it just seems like a gift. I just can’t afford twenty-five thousand – and I believe him when he said they do this kind of thing pretty often.”
The espresso machine hissed briefly. The sun crept along a wall.
Douglas let out an exasperated sigh. “OK,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you if that line blows out again six months. There, or somewhere else. Or if the Forest Service comes looking for its money.”
Charlotte hadn’t thought of that.
“Christopher wouldn’t take that kind of risk,” she said, pressing harder on the crack. “He’s been with the Forest Service for 14 years.”
Doug looked at her. “How do you know that about him? I don’t even know that.”
She pressed harder against the sharp ceramic. Almost cutting herself. “He…he told me at dinner two weeks ago.”
“If you say so,” he said.
A few minutes later she tore the grocery list off a notepad and drove to Central Market. It was a little out of the way, but she liked the way the produce was always so neatly arranged. Cantaloupes here, tomatoes there. Bins of tomatillos. She backed out quickly, and headed again for Highway 71. She drove past clumps of oaks and the occasional stone pillar that indicated where a ranch entrance once stood. Her phone chimed and she glanced at it. Christopher. “What can I bring?”
Charlotte one-handed the phone and hit the mic button. “Maybe a bottle of wine. White.”
A thumbs-up came back.
Central Market was busy – she saw carts full of beer and hamburger buns for cookouts later that day. Charlotte scanned her list, then stopped at the deli for a turkey sandwich. It had a reader board for cooking classes: “Korean Barbecue.” That sounded good. She tapped “Korean barbecue recipes” into her phone. Found one to bake, not grill.
By two Charlotte was home. That shop door was open, and after she carried in the grocery bags, she walked over to it and peered in. Doug was at a work bench, shifting tools. She moved the door enough to make a hinge creak, and he turned around. “I’m making space,” he said, a pipe clamp in his hand. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Charlotte leaned against the door jamb. “Yes – it is. I appreciate it.”
He turned back to the bench.
In the kitchen, Charlotte mixed the sauce for the chicken, arranged chicken thighs in a large baking dish, and poured the sauce over the chicken. She slid that into the refrigerator and looked at the clock. Three. An hour. Upstairs she held up a denim shirt and white V-neck T. The T was cut a bit lower. She put that on. Gave her hair a quick comb. A touch of light blush lipstick. Looked in mirror, adjusted the T. Another touch of blush.
Then she went to the closet in the spare bedroom and took the violin from the top shelf. Charlotte set it on the bed and opened the case, ran a finger along the brown wood, then the cracked bridge. Something added up inside her. She closed the case and carried it downstairs, setting it on the kitchen counter. Doug was in the living room – sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, reading a book. He glanced up.
“I made a little change to dinner,” she said. “Korean barbecue chicken – Central Market is going to teach a class on it, and I found a recipe on Google.”
He set the book on his lap. “OK…but I thought you were going to keep it simple.”
“It is,” she said. “I already have it made up and in the refrigerator.”
The book opened again. “You don’t need to grill it, I hope,” he said.
“No.”
“Good.”
He sank into the cushions.
Charlotte sat at the kitchen counter where she could see the drive. Ran her finger along the neckline of her T. Found a pimple on her skin. A page turned.
Then a red car – an SUV came up the drive, trailing dust. A rental, she assumed. “He’s here,” she said.
Another page turned. “I’m not deaf. I can hear the car.”
Charlotte felt a flare of irritation, then picked up the violin and carried it outside, waving at the car as it came to a stop. Christopher stepped out, a bottle of wine in his hand. He was wearing a red polo and blue jeans. He’d cut his hair since he was last here.
He smiled. “Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“Oh – I’m good,” she said. “And thank you again. For the water line.”
“Nah,” he said, holding out the bottle. “Just happy to help. And I see you have your violin.” He looked around. “That’s the shop. Right?”
“That’s it.” She took his offering.
He reached into the back seat and took out leather canvas bag. Charlotte walked into the shop ahead of him, set the wine down on a bench, and turned on the lights. “He made space for you here.”
He gave a short laugh. “Oh, did he?”
She looked. Maybe two square feet had been cleared.
“No problem – I’ll make it work,” he said.
Christopher set the leather bag on a stool, unzipped it, and took out a swatch of red velour and a tan canvas roll, knotted around the middle. He smoothed the velour on the bench, then untied the knot on the canvas roll. It uncoiled, revealing twenty small wood-handled tools, each in its own pouch.
“OK then,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”
He opened the violin case, took out the instrument, and set it on the velour.
“Be gentle,” Charlotte said.
Christopher glanced at her and smiled. “Of course,” he said.
Then he went to work. First, he backed the string tension off until the bridge was loose. Then he gently lifted the old bridge out of its slot and held it up to the light. “It’s warped forward,” he said. “That drops the string height, so the strings feel mushy when you bow. Very common.”
“I see,” she said, leaning closer.
Out of the pouch came a small round mirror attached to a handled rod. He held it above the F-hole and angled it to catch the light. The reflection fell across the violin – she leaned over to look, her head almost touching his. “I want to make sure the soundpost is aligned,” he said. “And that it has good contact with the wood.” He moved aside a touch so Charlotte could see – she had never really noticed the soundpost before. His warmth was close. “Probably needs a new one,” he said. “I have some in the bag.”
Charlotte saw Douglas’s black sweatshirt, hanging nearby.
“I just thought of something,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be right back.” She walked quickly to the house, into the kitchen, and turned the oven on. Douglas was still reading.
“Want to come out and watch?” she asked. “It’s pretty interesting.”
He closed the book. “Maybe in a minute. Do you have something I can put in the oven?”
“Maybe the chicken – it’s in the refrigerator,” she said. “When the oven gets to temp. And thanks.”
Twenty minutes later the shop door opened behind the two of them. Douglas came in.
Christopher turned around. “Hey Doug,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Marvelous,” he said. “How are you?”
Doug looked at Charlotte. “Chicken’s in.”
“I’m good,” Christopher said. “I’ve been working over in Bascome. Not too far away.”
Doug looked over Christopher’s shoulder for a moment, then turned away and began rummaging through a box of vertically stacked pipe clamps.
Christopher looked at Charlotte, shrugged, and went back to the violin.
From his bag he took a small piece of wood. “New bridge block,” he said. He slipped it under the loose strings and held it in place, looking closely at the fit. Then he took a small knife from the tool bag and began shaving the base of the replacement bridge. A tiny pile of shavings accumulated.
Douglas stood right behind them now – watching. “Delicate work,” he said.
“It can be,” Christopher replied.
Charlotte was used to the whine of Doug’s big power tools, loud even with earplugs in. This was like church. She barely dared breathe.
Christopher finished shaving and held the bridge back in place. He picked up the violin and held it at several angles, eyeing the position of the new bridge. “I think I have it,” he said. Charlotte watched his hands as they worked. “OK, now I need your help,” he said quietly. “Hold the bridge in place right here while I get some tension on it.”
“Here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Charlotte held the bridge with two fingers. He tightened the A and D strings and plucked them.
A vibration coursed through her fingers. Like electricity.
“Got it,” he said. “Thanks.”
Douglas had stepped away. Christopher’s hand brushed hers, and he glanced at her.
“Now the sound post,” he said, reaching into his bag. He retrieved a round wooden peg and retrieved another tool from the bag. It was thin metal with a sharp tip. “Soundpost setter,” Christopher said. He pushed it into the F-hole, caught the old post, and twisted it loose.
Tools rattled from across the shop.
Christopher reached into his bag and pulled out a zippered plastic sack with a half dozen spruce sound posts. He took one out, compared it to the old post. The knife went back to work, making small shavings. When he was satisfied, he pushed the new post into place, then used the mirror and setting tool to push it into place. “There,” he said.
Now Christopher held the violin up and sighted down its back. “Tiny crack here,” he said. His fingers pushed against it. “It’s not opening. That’s good.” He reached into his bag again and withdrew a small plastic tube. “Hide glue,” he said. “It will settle right in the crack.” He ran a thin bead over the crack, then found a palette knife in his kit and pushed the glue in, smoothening it as he did.
The glue had a sharp, pleasant smell.
“That’s good for now,” he said. “After we eat, I’ll come out, sand it, and add a touch of shellac.”
Charlotte turned to Douglas, who now was sorting drill bits. “Honey, we’re done for now. Want to come inside and have a drink? The chicken will be ready in half an hour, and I need to cook some rice.”
He waved a hand but didn’t turn. “Be right in.”
She and Christopher walked to the house. She poured him a Shiner, and he perched on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. “Seems chilly in the shop,” he said as he sipped his beer.
“Oh – don’t worry about it,” Charlotte said, waving a hand. “His shop is kind of his lair. He’s just a little defensive about it. He barely lets me go in there.”
She poured a glass of wine for herself and sat at the counter as well. The chicken smelled warm and spicy.
The door banged and Douglas came in. He had his black sweatshirt with him and hung it on a hook.
“Get you a beer, honey?” Charlotte asked.
“Love one – thanks. Mind if I watch the Rangers?”
He went into the living room and turned on the TV. Christopher joined him. Baseball. They talked, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Charlotte put on kitchen mitts and took the baking dish out of the oven. The sauce was bubbling nicely. Then she set a saucepan on a burner with some water and Jasmine rice and a pinch of salt. Turned on the burner. Roasted asparagus for a vegetable.
“Twenty minutes,” she said to the men.
“This is great,” Christopher said 20 minutes later, as they sat at the kitchen table. The chicken had come out well, she thought; a nice mix of heat and flavor, and the sauce spooned well over the rice.
When the plates were almost clean Douglas leaned back in his chair and looked at Christopher. Charlotte set her fork down.
“So – Christopher,” Doug said. “This proposed repair at Charlotte’s therapy center…”
Christopher put his fork down and looked at him. “Not proposed,” he said. “Settled. The crew will be there in the morning.”
Douglas folded his arms. “A Forest Service crew. Fixing a water line break on private property. For a…a friend.”
Christopher shrugged. “I suppose. But I can justify it.”
Charlotte stood and walked into the kitchen. Looked for something.
“How?”
There. A pot holder.
Christopher cleared his throat. “Well, it’s near a county road. Could undermine it. We’re already working on county roads east of here – they tie into BLM land.”
Douglas leaned forward. “Undermine it. The leak is thirty yards from the road, and there is a drainage ditch right there.”
Christopher took another bite and chewed. “Water can do funny things.” He gestured at a picture on the wall. “Like the Grand Canyon.”
Doug smiled a little. “The Grand Canyon got its start when an ice dam broke and released a lake the size of Nebraska. This is a two-inch PVC pipe.”
Christopher didn’t answer for a moment. “Like I said – water can do funny things. I’ve seen it.”
Silence settled over the room.
For dessert Charlotte spooned out some of the inevitable Blue Bell ice cream and added a splash of rum and Starbucks Via. Decaf.
Christopher looked at his watch.
“I’d better get going,” he said. “Let’s go have a look at that glue before I leave.”
He turned to Doug, who was back at baseball.
“Hey man,” Christopher said. “Good to see you. Take care.”
“Likewise.” Doug didn’t look up.
Charlotte and Christopher walked to the shop. It was a warm evening still, and crickets chirped. Inside, he ran his finger over the glued crack, then took a small square of fine sandpaper from the tool bag. “600 grit,” he said, before gently running it along the crack. “Now, one more thing.” A small glass bottle of shellac. Unscrewed the cap, which came off with a small brush attached. Like nail polish. He laid a thin layer over the crack.
“And that is how we do that,” he said. “Let it all dry here overnight, then back in its case.”
Charlotte looked at the repair. She gently ran a finger over it. The crack had vanished. “Christopher – you have done too much for me,” Charlotte said. Her hand touched his forearm briefly, giving it a squeeze.
Christopher looked at her hand, then her face, and smiled.
“No need,” he said, his voice low. “It was just good to see you again.”
She walked him to his car. They didn’t shake hands. “Well,” he said. Then he got in the Mazda and started it.
Charlotte watched him drive off, then walked into the house. She scraped some plates, loaded the dishwasher, and got a glass of wine. The TV still was on. Seventh inning, Rangers tied 2-2 against the Mariners. “Good game,” Douglas said. He was a Mariners fan – Northwest roots.
She sat next to him. Carefully placed her hand on his knee.
Doug said, “And Christopher is a lying piece of shit.” Then he turned up the volume.