22. Chapter 22
Caitlin
My new-to-me Toyota Corolla hums along the familiar country road toward Grandma’s house.
The driveway comes up faster than I expect, the old maple tree that marks the turn now bare of the tire swing that hung there throughout my childhood.
I ease the car down the gravel drive, wincing at the sound of stones pinging against the undercarriage.
The house reveals itself slowly through the trees, and my breath catches in my throat as I feel the familiar pain in my chest at its condition.
In my memories, this place is always sun-dappled and welcoming, with the garden beds bursting with flowers and Grandma sitting in her rocker on the porch.
The reality is harsher. The gardens are still dead, which is to be expected in January, but there’s a neglect that goes beyond the season.
The porch is littered with piles of dead leaves, and the rocker is long gone.
The white paint is peeling. Two of the green shutters hang at odd angles, and a third is missing entirely.
The screen door flaps loose in the breeze, torn at the bottom corner where it caught on something.
I dig in my purse for the key Uncle Peter gave me and unlock the front door.
It sticks, and I have to put my shoulder into it to push it open.
Inside, the house is cold and smells musty, with an underlying hint of something else — mildew, maybe.
I flick on the lights, but only half of them work.
The hardwood floors that Grandma used to polish until they gleamed are dull and scratched now.
In the living room, I run my hand along the built-in bookshelves where Grandma kept her books, now empty except for a few abandoned paperbacks left by Whitney. The window seat where I used to curl up with books on rainy days has a crack running through its cushion, yellowed foam peeking through.
Despite the decay, I can still see the bones of the house I loved.
If I close my eyes, I can almost hear Grandma in the kitchen, humming while she rolls out pie dough, the radio playing softly in the background.
I can see Rachel and me running through the hallway, playing hide and seek among the bedroom doors.
I can smell Sunday dinners, roast chicken and mashed potatoes, green peas from the garden, and always, always pie for dessert.
The sound of tires on gravel pulls me from my memories.
Through the front window, I watch Uncle Peter’s blue pickup pull up next to my car.
He climbs out slowly, a thick folder tucked under his arm, his face full of concern.
My stomach tightens. That’s not the expression of someone bringing good news.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says as he comes through the door, not bothering to knock. “Been here long?”
“Just a few minutes,” I reply, gesturing to the surrounding room. “Taking it all in.”
He nods, understanding in his eyes. “It’s seen better days.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I try to laugh, but it comes out strained. “So, what’s the verdict?”
Peter sighs, setting the folder on the dusty coffee table. “Not great, I’m afraid. The contractors have been out, and so has the inspector. There’s more wrong than we thought.”
I sink onto the couch, ignoring the puff of dust that rises around me. “Tell me.”
He opens the folder, spreading out photos and reports.
“The electrical needs to be completely redone; it’s not up to code and there’s evidence of mice chewing on the wires in the attic.
Something is blocking the chimney, and the fireplace won’t be safe to use until it’s cleared.
The plumbing…” He shakes his head. “Pipes are corroded, there’s a leak in the upstairs bathroom that’s caused water damage in the ceiling below, and the water heater is on its last legs. ”
Each item feels like another stone on my chest. “What about the roof?”
“Surprisingly okay,” Peter says, offering the one bright spot. “It’s not new, but it’s got another five years or so in it. But the HVAC system probably needs to be replaced entirely.”
I pick up one of the reports, scanning the numbers at the bottom. The estimated cost makes me feel lightheaded. “This can’t be right.”
“I had them double-check,” Peter says gently. “It’s right. And that’s assuming we do some of the cosmetic work ourselves.”
I set the paper down, trying to keep my voice steady. “So what you’re saying is…”
“What I’m saying is that this is a much bigger project than we anticipated. And with the restaurant the way it is right now…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
The weight of it all crashes down on me. The house, the restaurant, my savings dwindling as I pour money into both. “I can’t give up on this place, Uncle Peter. It’s all I have left of her.”
He sits beside me, putting an arm around my shoulders. “You have your memories. Her recipes. You have her spirit. You have her stubbornness, God help us all.” His attempt at humor draws a weak smile from me. “The house is just a structure, Caitlin. What made it special was the love inside it.”
“I know,” I whisper, though the logical part of me knows he’s right. “But I wanted to save it. To make it mine.”
“And maybe you still can,” he says, though his tone lacks conviction. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”
But as we walk through the rest of the house, noting more problems; water damage in the kitchen, warped floorboards in the dining room, evidence of something living in the attic, the task seems increasingly impossible.
Finally, we end up back in the living room. By the time we lock up and head back to our vehicles, I feel hollowed out, my dreams of restoring Grandma’s house crumbling as surely as its foundation.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Peter promises as he climbs into his truck. “Try not to worry too much, okay?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without crying. I watch him drive away, the dust from the gravel settling in his wake, before getting into my own car. The Toyota starts obediently, its predictable reliability suddenly a comfort in a world where everything else seems to be falling apart.
As I drive back toward town, and the townhouse I share with Rachel, I can’t stop the tears from finally spilling over.
I wanted so badly for something to work out, for some part of my life to be under control.
But the house is a disaster, the restaurant is failing, and I’m still waking up in the middle of the night reaching for someone who isn’t there.
I pull over to the side of the road, unable to see through my tears. Pressing my forehead against the steering wheel, I allow myself a moment of complete despair. Five minutes, I tell myself. Five minutes to fall apart, and then I have to pull it together.
The timer on my phone beeps, signaling the end of my allotted breakdown. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and put the car back in drive. Whatever happens with the house, with the restaurant, with my heart, I’ll face it. I have to. There’s no going back to Iowa, to Adam, to the life I left behind.
The only way is forward, even if I have no idea where that road leads.
* * *
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Rachel’s townhouse as I pull into the driveway.
My eyes are still puffy from crying, and all I want is to go inside, take a scalding hot shower, and fall face-first into bed.
But there’s a figure sitting on the front steps, shoulders hunched, head bent, a silhouette so achingly familiar that my heart stutters in my chest before my brain can catch up.
Adam. He stands as I park, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and for a second I consider throwing the car into reverse and driving away.
But I’m tired of running. I kill the engine and step out, squaring my shoulders like I’m heading into battle. In a way, I am.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out harder than I expected, brittle with the remnants of tears and fresh anger.
Adam takes a half-step toward me, then stops, seemingly sensing the invisible wall I’ve erected between us.
He looks different. His hair is longer, curling at the nape of his neck, and there’s more stubble on his face than I’ve ever seen before.
There’s something different in his posture too — he’s less rigid, more at ease in his own skin.
“Caitlin,” he says my name like a prayer, like he’s been practicing it. “I needed to see you.”
“You saw me in November,” I snap, clutching my car keys so tightly the metal bites into my palm. “When I made it very clear, I wanted nothing to do with you. You just can’t take a hint, can you?”
A flash of pain crosses his face, but he doesn’t retreat. “I know. I know I should have respected your wishes. But there are things I need to say to you, things you need to know.”
“Like what? That you’re sorry? That you miss me?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Save it, Adam. You should get back to your girlfriend before she gets sad because you’re gone. I’m sure Millie’s having a meltdown and needs support right about now.”
“I’m not dating Millie,” he says quietly. “There’s never been anyone but you.”
“Right,” I scoff, moving toward the steps. He’s blocking my path to the door, and I hate how my body reacts to his proximity — the quickening pulse, the heat rising in my cheeks. “Look, I’ve had a really crappy day, and I’m not in the mood for whatever this is. Just go back to Iowa, Adam.”
“I can’t.” His voice is steady, certain. “I live here now. In Cedar City.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stop, staring at him in disbelief. “What?”
“I moved here a week ago,” he continues.
Nothing he’s saying makes sense. “What about Kelley Property Management? Your family? Millie?”
“Lauren owns the business now,” he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She always wanted it, and she’s better at it than I ever was. As for my family…” He takes a deep breath. “Things have changed. A lot.”