Chapter 23
The farmhouse sat at the end of a gravel lane, its white paint a little tired, its front porch tilting with the weary charm of something that had held a lot of stories.
Bree climbed out of Hank’s truck and stood for a moment, letting the place settle into her bones. A line of old maples bordered the property, their leaves just beginning to hint at gold. Beyond the house, a weathered barn and a long, low outbuilding stretched toward a fringe of trees.
“Okay,” she said under her breath. “I see why you liked the pictures.”
Hank came around the front of the truck, keys jingling. “Good bones,” he said. “Kind of like you, Spencer.”
She elbowed him lightly. “Flatterer,” she said.
The realtor, Kara, waved from the porch. She was Diaz’s assistant’s cousin, early thirties, efficient, and tablet in hand.
“Hey!” Kara called. “You must be Bree and Hank. I’m so glad the timing worked. The sellers are already out, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Bree mounted the three creaking steps, hand skimming the rail. The porch boards flexed a little, but held. The front door’s paint was chipped around the handle, the kind of wear that came from use, not neglect.
Inside, the air held a faint mix of dust and lemon cleaner. The front room opened into a big, square living space with hardwood floors and tall windows that looked out over the fields.
“It’s… bigger than I expected,” Bree said.
“The square footage is decent,” Kara said. “Three bedrooms, one and a half baths. Kitchen’s dated, but functional. The big draw is the land and the outbuildings. And the fact that you’re still only fifteen minutes from town.”
Hank walked to the nearest window, looking out. “I like the light,” he said. “And the fact that you can’t see the neighbors.”
Bree followed, standing beside him. From here, Copper Moon was a suggestion; a faint line of buildings beyond the fields. Close enough to reach, far enough to breathe.
Her mind flicked briefly to her old apartment; the way the walls had closed in near the end, the way the street noise had felt like an accusation, all those lives moving forward while hers held still.
“This feels…” She searched for the word.
“Open,” Hank supplied.
“Yeah,” she said.
They moved through the downstairs. The kitchen was as advertised: tired cabinets in an orangey oak, laminate counters, and an ancient stove that looked like it had opinions.
But the footprint was good. A window over the sink framed the side yard.
There was space for a small table or, if she squinted, a long counter where someone could spread out sketchbooks while another someone chopped vegetables.
She pictured herself here, barefoot, paint on her fingers, Hank behind her with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, Brian dropping by with takeout and unsolicited opinions. The image settled with surprising ease.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple; sloped ceilings, more hardwood, and closets that would need organization miracles.
“This one could be your studio,” Hank said in the smallest room, where the light hit just right. “If you ever get tired of going into town.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Studio stays with the warehouse. Bryn’s wall belongs there. But this could be a good guest room. Or a library.”
“A library,” he repeated. “Of course.”
“What?” she asked. “You don’t want floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a comfy chair to hide in when my parents come to visit?”
His laugh warmed the dusty room. “Okay, I’m sold,” he said. “Library it is.”
The primary bedroom overlooked the front field. It was empty now, a blank square of possibility. The faint outline of where a bed had once stood marked the floorboards.
Bree walked to the window, pressing her palm against the glass.
“You okay?” Hank asked behind her.
“I keep waiting for the panic to hit,” she said slowly. “For the part of me that likes safe, small spaces to revolt. But it’s… quiet.”
“Quiet’s good,” he said.
She turned. His face was open, hopeful, and a little wary, like he didn’t quite dare believe this might be theirs. The same look she imagined she wore.
“Hank,” she said, heart thudding. “Do you want this? Not just a house. This.”
“Life with you?” he asked. “Yeah. I do.”
The words landed like a stone in a pond; ripples spreading.
“Okay then,” she said, voice steady. “Let’s see the barn.”
The barn door protested when Hank slid it aside, wood groaning against old metal. The smell inside hit them in a wave: hay, dust, and old oil. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the boards, striping the packed dirt.
Bree stood just inside the threshold, eyes wide. “This looks like every Pinterest board you’ve ever denied having,” she said.
“I don’t have Pinterest,” he said.
“Sure,” she replied.
The main space was big enough to host a small wedding reception, which she suspected would delight her friend Janice if she ever saw it. Loft space ran along one side, accessible by a narrow staircase. The far end had a raised platform where someone had once stored bales.
“It’s solid,” Hank said, thumping a support post. “Needs some structural love, but it’s not leaning in the wrong directions.”
Kara leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “The current owners used it mostly for storage,” she said. “There’s electricity, but it’s old. We can request a recent inspection before you put in an offer.”
“What would you do with it?” Bree asked Hank.
He turned slowly, taking it in. “Part of me wants to set up a second lift and turn this into a side shop,” he said. “But that’s probably my inner workaholic talking.” He looked up at the loft. “You could hang pieces from those beams. Install track lighting. Host… whatever art people host.”
She tilted her head, imagining. “Mixed shows,” she said. “Work from other artists, maybe some music, some community events. Not right away. But someday.”
“Workshop weekends,” he said. “Moto-art retreats.”
“You’re terrifying,” she said. “And weirdly persuasive.”
A breeze moved through, stirring dust motes. The barn groaned, but held.
“What about the outbuilding?” she asked, nodding toward the low structure beyond.
“That’s the real prize,” Kara said. “Come on.”
The outbuilding had a concrete floor and three broad bays, each with its own roll-up door. Inside, old shelves lined the walls; a workbench sagged under the weight of rusted tools.
Hank’s eyes lit up. “This,” he said. “This is where my heart lives now.”
Bree laughed. “The shop at home,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said. “We could set up bikes here, do small jobs on the side when we’re not at the warehouse. Or just keep all the personal projects out of your way.”
She walked the length of the space, fingertips trailing over the worn wood of the workbench. The idea of coming out here late at night, mug of tea in hand, while Hank fussed over some stubborn engine part, warmed something deep in her.
“Could I have a corner?” she asked.
“You can have half,” he said.
“Corner’s fine,” she replied. “A little table, some storage. A place to work on messy experiments I don’t want near the studio. Sculptures. Large canvases. Things that get… splattery.”
He grinned. “You planning on splattering the barn?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said. “You won’t know until it’s too late.”
Kara looked between them, something like fondness on her face. “I like seeing people fall a little bit in love with a place,” she said. “You’re both doing that thing with your eyes.”
“What thing?” Bree asked, startled.
“The one where you’re already hanging curtains in your head,” Kara said. “And figuring out where the coffee maker goes.”
Bree felt a blush creep up her neck. “Rude,” she said.
“Accurate,” Hank murmured.
They sat at the rickety kitchen table with Kara, running numbers.
“The asking price is here,” Kara said, pointing at the tablet. “But based on days on market and the inspections we’ve seen so far, we might be able to come in a little under. You’ll need to factor in immediate repairs; roof work within the next five years, some electrical updates, cosmetic stuff.”
Bree thought about her accountant’s voice: calm and practical. About the tightened margins on the warehouse if the board dragged their feet. About the way her chest had opened up while walking through the house and barn.
“We can do it,” Hank said. “If we’re smart. Cut back on some non-essentials this year. Eat more frozen pizza and less restaurant sushi.”
“You don’t like sushi,” she said.
“I was trying to sound sophisticated,” he replied.
She studied the line labeled monthly payment. It was a lot. And also… not insurmountable. Not compared to what her old rent had been in the city for a shoebox with mystery stains.
“When do you have to decide?” Kara asked.
“The sellers are motivated; they’ve already relocated upstate.
They’d like an offer sooner rather than later, but they’re not in full panic mode yet.
If you want this, we can put in an offer tonight with a financing contingency and an inspection clause.
You’ll have outs if the house turns out to be secretly infested with raccoons. ”
“Is that a thing here?” Hank asked.
“Only on Tuesdays,” Kara deadpanned.
Bree met Hank’s eyes across the table.
“We’re already in deep with the warehouse,” she said. “We’ve got the board hearing in two weeks. We’re talking about taking on a mortgage on top of construction loans, permits, insurance…”
“I know,” he said. “If it’s too much, we walk away. We keep looking.”
Her old self, the one who’d frozen after Bryn, would have seized that out like a lifeline. This is too big. Too risky. Stay small.
The one sitting here now thought about waking up in that quiet bedroom with light spilling across the floor. Driving fifteen minutes into town to unlock her studio door and breathe in paint and coffee and engine oil. Walking out to the barn on weekends, Hank’s laugh echoing off the rafters.
Fear sat alongside something else. Desire, simple and clear.
“I don’t want to walk away,” she said softly.