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.”
“The contractors said it was a gut job,” I remind him. “They said the electrical needs to be completely redone, the plumbing is shot, and there’s water damage everywhere.”
Adam straightens up from examining the sink’s pipes. “They’re not entirely wrong, but they’re not entirely right either. Yes, the electrical needs updating, and yes, there are plumbing issues. But a complete gut?” He shakes his head firmly. “No way. That would be a crime against this house.”
“You sound pretty confident for someone who’s only been here twenty minutes,” I say, skepticism creeping into my voice despite the hope his words are kindling.
“I’ve been building and renovating houses for years, Caitlin. I know what I’m looking at.” His voice is quiet but certain. “The bones of this place are solid. The foundation looks to be in good shape. The roof isn’t perfect, but it’s not actively leaking. The problems are fixable.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying those contractors were looking to make a big payday.” He moves to the window, running his thumb along the sill. “They saw an old house and dollar signs. They didn’t see what was worth saving.”
“And you do?”
“I do.” He turns to face me, his expression both earnest and determined.
It reminds me of the Adam I fell in love with in Colorado.
The one who saw possibilities where others saw problems. “Give me some time with the reports, and I’ll put together a real assessment.
But from what I’ve seen so far, this house doesn’t need to be gutted. It needs to be restored.”
The word settles in my chest like a warm stone. Restored. Not torn apart and rebuilt, but brought back to what it once was.
“Should we look outside?” I suggest pushing past the uncomfortable mix of hope and wariness his words have stirred up.
Outside, Adam is just as thorough, checking the siding, even climbing a ladder someone left leaning against the garage to get a better look at the roof.
We end up at the back of the house, where my grandmother’s vegetable garden used to be. “What’s that?” Adam asks, pointing at a shed that seems to be more leaning than upright.
“Huh? Oh, that’s where Grandma kept her gardening supplies,” I tell him, turning to look at the old shed. “I doubt anyone’s been in there for ages. Doesn’t look structurally sound.”
“Only one way to find out.” He heads down the overgrown path, and I follow.
The shed door creaks as I push it open, dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight that cuts through the dimness. Adam steps in beside me, and we both freeze at a rustling sound from the back corner.
“What was that?” I whisper instinctively, moving closer to him.
“Not sure.” He peers into the shadows. “Some animal might have gotten in.”
The rustling comes again, followed by a soft, inquisitive “meow.”
“Is that a cat?” Adam takes a cautious step forward.
Two luminous green eyes appear in the darkness, followed by a small black face framed by long, matted fur. The cat regards us warily, then rises from its nest of old rags, stretching with deliberate nonchalance.
“It is a cat,” I confirm, crouching down and extending my hand. “Hey there, little guy. Or girl. Hard to tell with all that fur.”
The cat hesitates, then approaches, tail held high. It sniffs my fingers, then bumps its head against my hand, a surprising display of friendliness for an animal that looks feral.
“There’s one sure way to check.” Adam reaches toward the cat, who immediately backs away, ears flattening.
“She doesn’t seem to like you,” I observe, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
“She probably just hasn’t been around people in a while.” He tries again, and this time the cat allows him to pick it up, though it looks distinctly unhappy about the arrangement.
Adam carefully checks under the tail. “Definitely a girl,” he confirms, setting the cat back down. She immediately returns to me, rubbing against my legs and purring loudly.
“See? I told you.” I scoop her up, surprised at how light she feels. Underneath the tangled fur, she is very thin, and one ear has a small tear in it, but her eyes are clear and bright. “She’s been living rough for a while, I think.”
“She seems to have decided you’re her person,” Adam observes as the cat settles into my arms, purring even louder. “Though I’m pretty sure she’s glaring at me.”
I glance down at the cat, who is indeed eyeing Adam with what appears to be deep suspicion. “That just shows she’s a very intelligent animal,” I say, unable to resist the small dig.
Adam laughs, a genuine sound that sets butterflies loose in my stomach. “Ouch. Fair, but ouch.”
“Are you going to keep her?” he asks as we head back toward the house, the cat still cradled in my arms.
“If I can’t find her owners,” I decide, stroking her matted fur. “She needs a good meal and a trip to the vet, but she seems friendly enough.”
“To you, maybe. I think she’d happily use my face as a scratching post.” Adam hangs back a bit, eyeing the cat warily. “She’s got that look in her eye. You know the one.”
“What look is that?”
“The ‘I’m plotting your demise’ look. All cats have it, but hers is particularly intense.”
I laugh, surprised by how easy it feels. “You’re ridiculous. She’s just a cat.”
“A cat with very strong opinions about me, apparently.” He grins, and for a moment, it’s like we’re back before. Before Mount Pella, before Millie, before everything fell apart. Just two people who enjoy each other’s company, who can laugh together.
The moment passes as we reach the cars. I place the cat carefully on the passenger seat, then turn to hand Adam the folder of contractor reports.
“Here,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward again. “These are all the estimates and assessments I’ve collected. It’s not great reading.”
He takes the folder, his expression turning serious. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Caitlin. And for giving me a chance to help.” He holds my gaze, and there’s no guile in his eyes, just sincere determination. “I promise I’ll save your grandmother’s house. Whatever it takes.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because despite everything, despite all my attempts to stay detached and practical, I believe him. And that scares me more than anything else could.