Page 83 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
I turn to go back inside, but before I leave he calls my name. “Caitlin?” I turn back towards him.
“I regret so many choices I’ve made in my life, but this? Being here with you? Never.”
I don’t know how to answer that. For a moment we stare at each other and then I escape, slipping back inside and leaving him to his fate.
Uncle Peter glances up as I pass him at the grill. “You tell him about the bathroom?”
I grin, feeling a petty little thrill of satisfaction that he’s about to confront the aftermath of Mr. Mills’ digestive issues.
“Jenny did,” I confirm.
He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Good. Consider it a test of character.”
I laugh, grabbing an order ticket. “If he survives that bathroom, he can handle anything.”
“That’s the idea,” Uncle Peter says, his eyes twinkling with mischief I rarely see. “That’s exactly the idea.”
28
Chapter 28
Caitlin
I pull up to Grandma’s house at five minutes to ten on Saturday morning, surprised to see Adam’s truck already parked in the gravel drive. He’s leaning against the hood, hands in his pockets, gazing up at the house with an expression I can’t quite read from a distance. I take a moment before getting out of my car, reminding myself of the boundaries I’ve set. This is about the house. Only the house.
He turns at the sound of my car door closing, straightening up with a smile that’s equal parts eager and uncertain. “Morning,” he calls, pushing off from his truck. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m early.”
“It’s fine,” I say, reaching into my backseat for the folder of contractor reports. “I didn’t expect you to beat me here.”
“I wanted to get a feel for the place. The light, the setting.” He gestures around the property, the old maple trees, the overgrown garden beds. “It’s beautiful, Caitlin. Really beautiful.”
The genuine admiration in his voice catches me off guard. The contractors we had out seemed to see only the peeling paint and the missing shutters, the sagging steps and the weeds pushing through the gravel. But Adam is looking at it as if it’s something precious.
“You don’t have to say that,” I tell him, walking up the drive. “I know it’s a mess.”
“No, I mean it.” He falls into step beside me, careful to maintain a respectful distance. “Look at the proportions of the windows and the roofline. Absolutely perfect. Whoever built this house knew what they were doing.”
I glance at him, surprised by his enthusiasm. “My great-grandfather had it built. For my great-grandmother as a wedding present. She supposedly cried when she saw it.”
“I believe it.” Adam nods, his eyes still roaming over the facade. “You can feel the love in the details. The way those porch columns are turned, the dentil molding under the eaves. Nobody builds like this anymore.”
There’s something about the way he’s looking at my grandmother’s house that makes my throat tighten unexpectedly. It’s like he’s seeing it not just as it is now but as it was, as it could be again.
“Should we go inside?” I ask, fishing the key from my pocket.
“Lead the way.”
The front door sticks, as always, but before I can shove against it with my shoulder, Adam does it for me.
Inside, the house smells musty with a faint undertone of mildew, just as it did the last time I was here. Only a little sunlight gets through the dusty windows.
“Let me show you what we’re dealing with,” I begin, but Adam’s already moving through the space, his attention caught by the built-in bookshelves.
“These look original,” he says, running his hand along the edge of one shelf. “Solid oak, hand-built. You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore.” He crouches down to examine the base, fingers tracing the ornate carving. “This isn’t just a house; it’s a piece of art.”
I watch him move from room to room, taking his time, examining crown molding and window frames, testing floorboards and inspecting the plaster walls with gentle fingers. He taps, listens, peers into corners, opens and closes doors. His focus is complete, and I follow behind, seeing the house through his eyes.
In the kitchen, he spends a long time looking at the old cast iron sink and the worn butcher block counters. “This is all salvageable,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “It just needs some care.”
