Page 52 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling up the long gravel drive to the farmhouse. It sits back from the road, surrounded by oak trees, their leafless branches stark against the winter sky. The white paint is peeling; the green shutters faded by the sun. Even in winter, the gardens that once surrounded the house look overgrown and neglected.
“Whitney wasn’t much for gardening,” Uncle Peter says apologetically as we make our way up the creaking porch steps. Dead leaves are piled up in the porch corners, and the screen door is torn.
Inside, the house smells musty and unloved. The hardwood floors that Grandma used to polish until they gleamed are now scuffed and dull. The wallpaper in the entryway is peeling. The once-white walls in the living room are yellowed and dirty, andthere’s a water stain on the ceiling above the dining room table. The kitchen, Grandma’s pride and joy, looks small and outdated, with the linoleum floors curling at the edges.
But beneath the neglect, I can still see the bones of the house I loved. The built-in bookshelves still flank the fireplace. There’s also the window seat where I used to curl up with a book on rainy days. I can see the back staircase that led to my bedroom under the eaves, with its sloped ceiling and window that looked out over the gardens.
“It needs work,” Aunt Charlene says, trailing her fingers along the dusty countertop. “New paint, new carpet in the bedrooms, probably new appliances.”
“The foundation’s solid,” Uncle Peter adds, always practical. “The roof is only ten years old. Plumbing and electric probably need some updating though. Looks like there might be water damage here though. We’ll have to have someone in to check.”
I wander from room to room while they debate what repairs would give the best return on investment if they sell. My mind is elsewhere, filled with memories that seem to rise from the floorboards themselves. Grandma teaching me to make pie crust. Mom, in one of the rare peaceful moments she was present, braiding my hair by the kitchen window. Rachel and I sneaking cookies from the jar on the counter, thinking we were being so clever while Grandma pretended not to notice.
In what used to be my bedroom, I stand in the center of the empty space and close my eyes. If I concentrate, I can almost hear Grandma’s voice calling me down for dinner, the smell of her chicken and dumplings wafting up the stairs.
“Caitlin?” Aunt Charlene’s voice breaks the spell. “What do you think?”
I open my eyes, surprised to find them damp. “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” Uncle Peter repeats, confused. “Honey, it’s a mess.”
“No, I mean…” I turn in a slow circle, seeing not what the house is now but what it once was and what it could be again. “It just needs some love. Some attention.”
“Well, that’s certainly true,” Aunt Charlene says, but there’s something knowing in her eyes. “We should head back before it gets dark.”
The drive back to their house is quiet, my mind still caught between past and present, between memories and possibilities. My aunt and uncle exchange glances in the front seat, communicating in that silent language of long-married couples, but they don’t press me to talk.
As we pull into their driveway, I’m so distracted I almost don’t notice the unfamiliar car parked on the street. But then my eyes catch on the figure sitting on the porch steps, and my whole body goes cold.
Adam.
He stands as we park, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks like hell, with dark circles beneath his eyes. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, and his clothes are badly rumpled, as if he slept in them.
“Caitlin,” he says, my name a question and a plea.
I grip the door frame so hard my knuckles turn white, anchoring myself to something solid as the world tilts beneath me. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for him. I might never be ready to face him.
But here he is anyway, standing on my family’s porch like he has any right to be, waiting for me to say something, to do something.
And I have no idea what comes next.
16
Chapter 16
Caitlin
I stand frozen, staring at Adam, not moving. My heart hammers against my ribs as if trying to escape. Why is he here? Why isn’t he with Millie? What does he want? A thousand questions swirl in my mind, but all I can think is: I’m not ready for this. Not yet. Uncle Peter’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, grounding me. “You don’t have to talk to him,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Say the word and I’ll send him packing.”
Aunt Charlene slams her door shut and comes to stand on my other side. “That’s right, honey. You don’t owe him anything.” Her eyes flash with protective fury. “Not one single minute of your time.”
I watch Adam shift his weight from one foot to the other and rub the back of his neck. His expression is miserable.
“It’s okay,” I say, surprising myself with how calm I sound. “I’ll talk to him.”
Uncle Peter’s brows shoot up. “You sure?”
I nod finally shutting my door. “I need to do this. For me, not for him.”
