Page 122 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
The entryway is painted a pale yellow and the trim white. A long bench rests against the wall.
The living room stops me in my tracks. The walls are painted a soft blue that reminds me of early morning skies; the crown molding is painted white. The hardwood floors that had been hidden under decades of wear now shine with a warm honey glow, every scratch and dent buffed away. The built-in bookcases that frame the fireplace gleam with polish. The window seat where I curled up to read as a child has been rebuilt, with a new soft white cushion lying on it.
And there, in the center of the room, sits a coffee table I never thought I’d see again.
My breath catches. I move toward it slowly, almost afraid it will disappear if I approach too quickly. The rich cherry wood gleams in the light streaming through the windows. I run my fingers along the edge, feeling the gentle curve Adam had carved by hand. He made this table for my birthday during our last year together in Colorado. I’d left it behind when I fled Mount Pella, too heartbroken to take anything that reminded me of him. Somehow, Adam brought it back to me, all the way from Iowa.
I straighten up, wiping away the unexpected moisture gathering in my eyes, and continue my exploration.
The dining room walls are painted light green. White wainscoting runs around the lower half of the walls. But it’s the table that makes my heart skip. The massive oak dining table that I had thought damaged beyond repair dominates the center of the room, its surface gleaming under a fresh coat of varnish. Every water ring, every scratch, has been carefully sanded away, the wood restored to its original beauty.
I run my hand along the edge, remembering Sunday dinners, homework spread out while Grandma made dinner, board games played during power outages. This table was the heart of the house, and Adam has brought it back to life.
My feet carry me to the kitchen next, and the sight that greets me nearly brings me to my knees. The original cabinets that I was afraid would need to be replaced have been painstakingly restored and painted a crisp white. The walls are the same soft green as the dining room, creating a seamless flow between the spaces. The restored hardwood floors glow, making the white cabinets pop.
The butcher block countertops that had been scratched and stained and burned over decades of use now look brand new, sanded down and oiled to a soft sheen that invites you to run your hands across them. And Grandma’s cast iron sink, the one I was determined to save no matter what, still holds pride of place, though the ancient faucet has been replaced.
In the breakfast nook, where Grandma and I ate most of our meals together, stands a new table with benches built into the wall. I recognize Adam’s handiwork immediately. He’s built it to fit the space perfectly, as if it grew there organically.
Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back. This kitchen was where my grandmother taught me to cook, where I learned to roll out pie dough and make a perfect roast chicken. It was where I found refuge after my mother left, where I learned that foodcould be love made tangible. Adam has preserved every inch of its soul while making it beautiful again.
I wander through the rest of the house in a daze. The bedrooms upstairs are painted in soft, soothing colors that complement the original woodwork. In the upstairs bathroom, sits a clawfoot bathtub that looks like it could have always been here. Every room has been thoughtfully renovated, modernized where needed but with all the original character preserved.
But where is Adam? His truck is outside, but the house is silent. Making my way back downstairs, I listen for any sound that might betray his presence, but hear nothing.
I wander back outside and head towards the back of the house, wondering if I might find him in the old garden sheds. However, when I pass my grandfather’s old workshop, I see the door is propped open with a brick, and the sound of a sander drifts out. I’d almost forgotten the old workshop existed. Grandpa died before I was born, and after his death, Grandma simply locked the door. As far as I knew, no one had been in there for years.
I peer inside, and there he is, bent over a workbench, completely absorbed in his task. He’s working on what looks like a chair, one of several in various stages of completion arranged around the space.
I watch him for a moment, the careful precision of his movements, the intensity of his focus. This is Adam in his element, creating something beautiful with his hands. He’s so lost in his work that he doesn’t notice me until I step inside, the old floorboards creaking under my weight.
He looks up, surprise giving way to a smile that lights his entire face. “Caitlin,” he says, setting down his tools and dusting his hands on his jeans. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“I just got here,” I tell him, moving closer. “Adam, the house… it’s incredible. When did you do all this?”
He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “I’ve had some time on my hands.”
“Some time?” I laugh. “You’ve completely transformed the place. The exterior, every room inside, and now you’re working on furniture?”
“Just a few chairs for the dining room,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Peter gave me the keys when I mentioned wanting to restore the old table. He said I might as well have access to the whole place since I was working on it, anyway.”
“But when? Between shifts at the restaurant and helping with the renovations there, when have you had time for all this?”
“I hired a local contractor to help me with some of the heavy lifting, and your uncle helped as much as he could,” Adam admits, fidgeting. “Plus, I don’t need that much sleep.” He’s joking, but the shadows under his eyes tell a different story. He’s been pushing himself, working here during every spare moment.
“Someone obviously needs to take better care of you,” I say, my voice softening as I reach up to brush back an errant lock of hair.
His eyes lock with mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. “Are you applying for the position?”
My heart thuds against my ribs. “Maybe I am.”
“I have something for you,” he tells me. “Turn around.”
I give him a puzzled look at the odd request, but do as he asks. “Lift your hair,” he says softly, his mouth near my ear, making me shiver. I do and a second later I feel something cool and metallic drape around my neck.
Looking down, I see the silver pendant that I’d left behind in Iowa. Turning it over I can see the familiar engraving, ‘home is where you are.’
“Adam,” I say turning back around and looking up at him
