Page 56 of A Song for Another Woman

"You looking to develop?"

I look at the tree again, then at the folder on the passenger seat of my truck. "I'm looking to keep a promise."

He doesn't ask what that means. People in Harmony Ridge have enough manners to pretend they aren't dying to know something. Most of the time.

The builder's name is Lyle McCreedy. He has hands like fence posts, a measuring tape clipped to his belt, and the expression of a man who has already decided famous people make foolish choices with money. He studies Emmy's sketch at apicnic table outside his shop while Cy stands beside me drinking coffee from a paper cup.

"You got architectural plans?" Lyle asks.

"I can get them drawn from this."

His brows lift. "From a nineteen-year-old's dream drawing?"

My jaw tightens before I can make it behave. Cy cuts his eyes toward me, warning without moving.

"From my wife's specifications," I say.

Lyle looks back down, and I see it. The shift. Not pity exactly, and not softness either. It's just the moment a man understands he's holding something that isn't his business but matters anyway.

"Wraparound porch," he says.

"Yes."

"Reading nook over the kitchen."

"Yes."

"Windows here facing the tree."

"Exactly there."

"Nothing too big."

"No."

"No cathedral ceiling, no stone fireplace the size of a church, no movie-star nonsense."

"No," I say. "Nothing that photographs better than it feels."

Cy's coffee pauses halfway to his mouth.

Lyle studies me for another second, then nods once. "We can build it."

"I don't want press."

His face hardens like I've insulted him. "I build houses, Mr. Tyler. I don't call reporters."

"Just needed that clear."

"You want your name off the permits?"

"No." I swallow. "I won't lie about it. I just won't announce it."

Lyle taps one blunt finger against the sketch. "And if folks ask?"

"They can ask me."

Cy finally speaks. "That's going to go great."