Page 91 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
I stand frozen for a moment, processing the fact that Caitlin’s sweet, free-spirited cousin just casually threatened to murder me. And the most terrifying part? I absolutely believe she means it.
Peter clears his throat, and I realize he’s been watching me. “Rachel had a word with you, huh? I did tell her she wasn’t allowed to scare you too badly.”
“Is she always that…” I search for the right word. “Intense?”
Peter’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “Only about people she loves.” He hesitates, then adds, “The work looks good, Adam. You’re doing right by this house.”
Coming from Peter, it’s high praise, and warmth spreads through my chest. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
In the dining room, Charlene has transformed the dusty space. She’s cleared my tools from the table, spread a plastic tablecloth over it, and somehow produced a full picnic feast: fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced fruit, brownies, and what looks like homemade lemonade in a plastic pitcher.
“Sit, sit,” she urges, pulling out one of the folding chairs they brought with them. “You need to eat while it’s hot.”
I sit, feeling oddly like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. My family dinners were formal affairs, scheduled and structured. This casual abundance, this easy togetherness, feels foreign but wonderful.
Caitlin sits across from me, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looks away. Rachel takes the seat beside her, smiling at me with angelic innocence. Peter and Charlene sit at either end of the table, and for a moment, we’re like a normal family sharing a meal.
“So,” Charlene says, passing me the chicken, “tell us about your plans for the rest of the house. Caitlin mentioned you’re tackling the bathrooms next.”
As I talk about the renovations, I find myself relaxing. Charlene asks intelligent questions, Peter offers occasional bits of practical advice, and even Rachel contributes ideas that are actually helpful. Caitlin is quieter, but I catch her watching me sometimes, with a thoughtful expression on her face.
After lunch, we clear the table together. Charlene packs away the leftovers, while Peter outlines the work plan. “Adam and I will tackle the downstairs bathroom,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “Charlene, you take the girls and head upstairs to start stripping the wallpaper in the bedrooms.” I catch Caitlin’s eye, hoping for some indication that she wants to work with me instead, but she just nods at her uncle’s instructions and smiles briefly in my direction.
As I watch them head up the stairs together, Rachel turns and gives me one last smile coupled with a throat-slitting gesture. I find myself smiling despite Rachel’s threats, or maybe because of them. She terrifies me, absolutely, but there’s something comforting in knowing how fiercely Caitlin is loved. And if I ever do hurt Caitlin again, I’ll probably hand Rachel the shovel myself.
Peter clears his throat. “We should get started. That bathroom won’t demolish itself.”
I follow him down the hallway to the small bathroom tucked under the stairs. It’s in bad shape, water stains are creeping upthe walls, the linoleum is bubbled and peeling, and the fixtures look like they’ve been there since Nixon was president.
“We’ll gut it,” Peter says, pulling on work gloves. “Everything goes except the pipes, and even those might need replacing.”
I nod, donning my own gloves. “Let’s start with the vanity.”
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds the crack of wood being pried loose and the occasional grunt of effort.
The vanity comes apart easily, rotted from years of small leaks. As I pull it away from the wall, a family of spiders scurries for cover.
“Hate those things,” Peter mutters, eyeing the retreating arachnids.
“Not a fan myself,” I admit. “My sister Hailey used to put them in my bed when we were kids.”
Peter snorts. “That’s what sisters are for, I guess. Mine put a snake in my lunchbox once.”
“Did you get her back?”
A small smile crosses his face. “Frogs in her sock drawer. Only problem was, Mom found them first while she was putting laundry away. She was mad at me for a week.”
I laugh, picturing a young Peter planning revenge. It’s hard to imagine him as a mischievous kid. The tension in my shoulders eases a fraction as we return to work.
After another stretch of companionable silence, Peter speaks again. “So what do you do when you’re not working at the restaurant or fixing up old houses? Got any hobbies?”
“I like to fish,” I say, surprised by the question. “Back in Colorado, I would often go when the weather was good. Haven’t been since I moved here, though.”
Peter pauses, crowbar in hand. “You fish? What kind?”
“Mostly fly-fishing for trout in Colorado. But I grew up fishing for bass and catfish in the lakes around Mount Pella. My… well, Millie’s dad Eric taught me when I was a kid.”
Peter nods, his expression thoughtful. A few minutes later he says, “You know, there’s good fishing around here. Better than most people realize.”
