FORSAKEN WIFE, NOW A BILLIONAIRE'S GREATEST REGRET
“The wood will show through. The painting will be a collaboration with the pier itself. With the weather, the salt. It’ll change. Fade. That’s part of it.”
Lanc, the builder, was circling the piling, assessing structural integrity. “You’re not drilling into load-bearing members, are you?”
“Only using marine adhesive for the primer,” she assured him. “It’s skin-deep. A tattoo.”
We watched her work for an hour, the banter flowing around her like water.
“Hope you’re not painting over any good barnacles,” Miranda fretted. “They’re a distinct micro-habitat.”
“She’s painting a bluff, Miranda, not a chemical spill,” Arthur chided gently.
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