Page 85 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
“Are you going to keep her?” he asks as we head back toward the house, the cat still cradled in my arms.
“If I can’t find her owners,” I decide, stroking her matted fur. “She needs a good meal and a trip to the vet, but she seems friendly enough.”
“To you, maybe. I think she’d happily use my face as a scratching post.” Adam hangs back a bit, eyeing the cat warily. “She’s got that look in her eye. You know the one.”
“What look is that?”
“The ‘I’m plotting your demise’ look. All cats have it, but hers is particularly intense.”
I laugh, surprised by how easy it feels. “You’re ridiculous. She’s just a cat.”
“A cat with very strong opinions about me, apparently.” He grins, and for a moment, it’s like we’re back before. Before Mount Pella, before Millie, before everything fell apart. Just two people who enjoy each other’s company, who can laugh together.
The moment passes as we reach the cars. I place the cat carefully on the passenger seat, then turn to hand Adam the folder of contractor reports.
“Here,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward again. “These are all the estimates and assessments I’ve collected. It’s not great reading.”
He takes the folder, his expression turning serious. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Caitlin. And for giving me a chanceto help.” He holds my gaze, and there’s no guile in his eyes, just sincere determination. “I promise I’ll save your grandmother’s house. Whatever it takes.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because despite everything, despite all my attempts to stay detached and practical, I believe him. And that scares me more than anything else could.
29
Chapter 29
Adam
The morning mist still clings to the trees as I pull up to the farmhouse, my truck loaded with tools and supplies. The sun hasn’t fully broken through the clouds yet, casting the old farmhouse in a gentle, diffused light that softens its worn edges. I sit for a moment, and just take it in. I promised Caitlin I was going to save this place, and I am. She loves it. And that means I love it too.
I grab my thermos of coffee, and the key Caitlin gave me and head toward the front door. It sticks, and I have to shove my shoulder against it to get it open — another thing to fix on my growing mental list. The door groans as I push it open, and I step into the quiet stillness of a house that’s been mostly empty for too long. It has a particular smell of places left unloved; dust and neglect and the faint sweetness of decay. But underneaththat is something else, something that reminds me of Caitlin. Cinnamon, maybe. Or vanilla.
The kitchen draws me first. It feels like the right place to begin, the heart of any home, but especially this one. I can picture Caitlin here as a child, flour on her nose as she helps her grandmother roll out pie dough. The image comes so vividly I almost feel like an intruder, stepping into memories that aren’t mine to share.
The kitchen is in rough shape. The linoleum floor is bubbled and peeling near the sink, a sure sign of water damage. The cabinets are solidly built, but their once-white paint is yellowed and chipping. They’ve definitely seen better days. The countertops are scratched and stained, but I run my hand along the butcher block section, feeling the history in its grooves. This can all be saved, I think. Sanded down, oiled, brought back to life.
I crouch down to get a better look at the floor, pressing my fingers against the soft spots. The damage is extensive but localized around the sink. I’ll need to pull up the flooring to check the subfloor and find the source of the leak. If I’m lucky, it’s just a pipe that needs replacing.
Standing, I survey the rest of the kitchen. The cast-iron sink is a beauty, deep and wide with an apron front. They don’t make them like this anymore. The faucet is shot, but the sink itself can be restored. The cabinets are solid wood, not the particleboard garbage they use in new construction. Strip them, sand them, repaint them, and they’ll be good for another fifty years.
I start hauling in tools and supplies from my truck, stashing them in the dining room. I line up tools on the table that Caitlin insisted wasn’t worth saving but that I’m determined to prove otherwise. It’s scratched and stained, yes, but the wood is good, oak I’m pretty sure, and with some elbow grease, it could be beautiful again.
My plan is to work systematically. Today I’ll assess and document everything, take measurements, and begin demolition on the parts that can’t be saved. The floor needs to come up first to address the water damage. I’ve brought plastic sheeting to seal off the kitchen from the rest of the house and contain the dust.
As I work, taping up the plastic sheeting at the doorways, I find myself thinking about Caitlin. This house is full of her, even though she hasn’t lived here in years. I can feel her presence in the worn spots on the edge of the counter where someone would lean while talking to whoever was cooking. In the height marks scratched into the doorframe of the pantry, documenting a child’s growth. In the windowsill above the sink, where herbs were probably grown, catching the afternoon sun.
I finish setting up, grab a crowbar, and return to the floor. Kneeling, I carefully pry up a section of the linoleum near the worst of the damage. The subfloor beneath is indeed wet, darker than it should be. I keep working, removing more of the flooring to reveal the extent of the damage. It’s not as bad as I feared, but not as good as I’d hoped. The water has been leaking for a while, but it seems to be coming from a specific spot — the connection between the sink drain and the pipe below.
I get on my back and shimmy under the sink, flashlight in hand. The pipe is corroded at the joint, a slow leak that’s been dripping for months, maybe years. The good news is that it’s an easy fix. The bad news is that I’ll probably need to replace sections of the subfloor.
Under a particularly stubborn section of linoleum, I find something unexpected; hardwood. Not just any hardwood, but what looks like the original flooring, preserved beneath layers of more modern coverings. I pull back more of the linoleum, revealing more of the hardwood. It’s damaged in spots from the water, but much of it appears salvageable.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I whisper to the empty kitchen.
I sit back on my heels, a plan forming. If enough of the original hardwood can be saved, I could restore it instead of putting in new flooring. It would cost less and preserve more of the house’s history. Caitlin would love that, I think.
I pull up another section of the damaged linoleum, revealing more of the original hardwood underneath. My muscles burn with the effort, but it’s a good kind of pain; purposeful and productive. As I work, my mind drifts to the conversation I had with Peter a couple of nights ago at his house. That talk changed something in me, opened a door I’d kept locked for too long.
I’d stopped by to finalize plans for the house renovation. Peter and I had spread the blueprints across his kitchen table. He’d nodded approvingly at my suggestions for preserving as much of the original house as possible, only occasionally questioning a timeline or a material choice.
