PART 2 — THE WATCH
Old Mr. Thornton held the gold pocket watch up to the firelight. His hand shook, but the watch ticked, clear and steady, in a room full of people who had stopped talking.
In March, he said, his voice thin, he had carried a broken watch into a little shop on Queen Street. It had belonged to his own father, and it had not run since 1978. Three jewelers had told him it could not be saved. Then a quiet man with a magnifying glass took it in, worked on it for three weeks, and handed it back running like new.
When he asked what he owed, the watchmaker would not take a dollar. The man only asked who the watch was for.
It was for a great-grandson getting married in the spring, and the watchmaker Mr. Thornton had just mocked was the only reason that watch would be ticking in the boys pocket on his wedding day.
The old man turned the watch over. Engraved on the back, fresh, were the words Paul had added at no charge. For the next generation. Wind it with love.
Mr. Thornton looked at his son, the hedge fund man who checked his phone every five minutes, and said, you laughed at the one person in this room who gave my family back its heart.
The groom crossed the room and shook Pauls hand with both of his.
My son fixes watches in a shop the size of a closet. That night he fixed something a good deal bigger than that.