29. Chapter 29
Adam
The morning mist still clings to the trees as I pull up to the farmhouse, my truck loaded with tools and supplies.
The sun hasn’t fully broken through the clouds yet, casting the old farmhouse in a gentle, diffused light that softens its worn edges.
I sit for a moment, and just take it in.
I promised Caitlin I was going to save this place, and I am.
She loves it. And that means I love it too.
I grab my thermos of coffee, and the key Caitlin gave me and head toward the front door.
It sticks, and I have to shove my shoulder against it to get it open — another thing to fix on my growing mental list. The door groans as I push it open, and I step into the quiet stillness of a house that’s been mostly empty for too long.
It has a particular smell of places left unloved; dust and neglect and the faint sweetness of decay.
But underneath that is something else, something that reminds me of Caitlin. Cinnamon, maybe. Or vanilla.
The kitchen draws me first. It feels like the right place to begin, the heart of any home, but especially this one.
I can picture Caitlin here as a child, flour on her nose as she helps her grandmother roll out pie dough.
The image comes so vividly I almost feel like an intruder, stepping into memories that aren’t mine to share.
The kitchen is in rough shape. The linoleum floor is bubbled and peeling near the sink, a sure sign of water damage.
The cabinets are solidly built, but their once-white paint is yellowed and chipping.
They’ve definitely seen better days. The countertops are scratched and stained, but I run my hand along the butcher block section, feeling the history in its grooves.
This can all be saved, I think. Sanded down, oiled, brought back to life.
I crouch down to get a better look at the floor, pressing my fingers against the soft spots. The damage is extensive but localized around the sink. I’ll need to pull up the flooring to check the subfloor and find the source of the leak. If I’m lucky, it’s just a pipe that needs replacing.
Standing, I survey the rest of the kitchen.
The cast-iron sink is a beauty, deep and wide with an apron front.
They don’t make them like this anymore. The faucet is shot, but the sink itself can be restored.
The cabinets are solid wood, not the particleboard garbage they use in new construction.
Strip them, sand them, repaint them, and they’ll be good for another fifty years.
I start hauling in tools and supplies from my truck, stashing them in the dining room.
I line up tools on the table that Caitlin insisted wasn’t worth saving but that I’m determined to prove otherwise.
It’s scratched and stained, yes, but the wood is good, oak I’m pretty sure, and with some elbow grease, it could be beautiful again.
My plan is to work systematically. Today I’ll assess and document everything, take measurements, and begin demolition on the parts that can’t be saved.
The floor needs to come up first to address the water damage.
I’ve brought plastic sheeting to seal off the kitchen from the rest of the house and contain the dust.
As I work, taping up the plastic sheeting at the doorways, I find myself thinking about Caitlin.
This house is full of her, even though she hasn’t lived here in years.
I can feel her presence in the worn spots on the edge of the counter where someone would lean while talking to whoever was cooking.
In the height marks scratched into the doorframe of the pantry, documenting a child’s growth.
In the windowsill above the sink, where herbs were probably grown, catching the afternoon sun.
I finish setting up, grab a crowbar, and return to the floor.
Kneeling, I carefully pry up a section of the linoleum near the worst of the damage.
The subfloor beneath is indeed wet, darker than it should be.
I keep working, removing more of the flooring to reveal the extent of the damage.
It’s not as bad as I feared, but not as good as I’d hoped.
The water has been leaking for a while, but it seems to be coming from a specific spot — the connection between the sink drain and the pipe below.
I get on my back and shimmy under the sink, flashlight in hand. The pipe is corroded at the joint, a slow leak that’s been dripping for months, maybe years. The good news is that it’s an easy fix. The bad news is that I’ll probably need to replace sections of the subfloor.
Under a particularly stubborn section of linoleum, I find something unexpected; hardwood.
Not just any hardwood, but what looks like the original flooring, preserved beneath layers of more modern coverings.
I pull back more of the linoleum, revealing more of the hardwood.
It’s damaged in spots from the water, but much of it appears salvageable.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I whisper to the empty kitchen.
I sit back on my heels, a plan forming. If enough of the original hardwood can be saved, I could restore it instead of putting in new flooring. It would cost less and preserve more of the house’s history. Caitlin would love that, I think.
I pull up another section of the damaged linoleum, revealing more of the original hardwood underneath.
My muscles burn with the effort, but it’s a good kind of pain; purposeful and productive.
As I work, my mind drifts to the conversation I had with Peter a couple of nights ago at his house.
That talk changed something in me, opened a door I’d kept locked for too long.
I’d stopped by to finalize plans for the house renovation. Peter and I had spread the blueprints across his kitchen table. He’d nodded approvingly at my suggestions for preserving as much of the original house as possible, only occasionally questioning a timeline or a material choice.
“I think that covers it,” he’d said finally, straightening up with a small grunt that betrayed his tired back. I’d started gathering the papers, expecting to head home, when he surprised me. “You want a drink before you go? I’ve got some beer in the fridge.”
I’d hesitated only briefly before accepting. In the month I’d been working at Louise’s Table, Peter had been fair but reserved. This felt like a shift, an offering.
He’d sat me down in his small cozy living room, the same one I’d been sitting in when Caitlin had informed me our relationship was over, just a few short months ago.
I’d been too miserable and distracted to really get a good look at the room then.
Now I could see the framed photos of his family that covered most surfaces, Caitlin prominent in many of them.
When Peter had come in with two bottles of beer, I’d had to tear my eyes away from a picture of Caitlin at what looked like her high school graduation.
Her smile had been bright as she stood with Peter, Charlene, Rachel, and an elderly woman who I assumed was her grandmother.
Peter had handed me a beer, and we’d sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before he’d spoken.
“I can see you’re putting in the work, Adam,” he’d said, his voice quiet but clear in the stillness. “With the restaurant, with the house. You clearly regret what happened before with Caitlin.”
“I do,” I’d replied, surprised by the sudden tightness in my throat. “More than I can say.”
Peter had nodded slowly, rocking his chair slowly back and forth. “But you should know that regret isn’t enough. Caitlin needs to be able to trust you again. And for that to happen, she needs to be one hundred percent sure that nothing like Iowa will ever happen again.”
I’d looked down at my own glass, feeling the weight of his words. “I know.”
“Do you?” he’d asked, not unkindly. “Because I’m not sure you understand why you let it happen in the first place.”
His question had hung in the air between us, demanding an answer I wasn’t sure I had. But sitting there in the quiet of his house, something had compelled me to try.
“Millie has been part of my life for as long as I can remember,” I’d started, the words coming slowly at first. “Our mothers were best friends before we were born. My mom used to tell me stories about how they dreamed of their children growing up together.” I’d taken another sip of beer, trying to organize my thoughts.
“When Millie was born with heart problems, it changed everything. Both moms became obsessed with protecting her, with making sure she was happy. And somehow, that became my job too.”
Peter had watched me steadily, his expression neutral but attentive.
“From the time I was little, I was told I was responsible for Millie. If she cried on the playground, I was supposed to comfort her. If she wanted to play with me, I was supposed to stop what I was doing and go with her. If she wanted the toy I was playing with, I was supposed to give it to her. If I didn’t…
” I’d paused, surprised by how vivid the memories still were.
“If I didn’t, my mom would tell me I was a disappointment.
That she knew I could be better than that. ”
“That’s a heavy burden for a child,” Peter had observed quietly.
“It got worse when Millie was diagnosed with leukemia. I was fifteen; she was thirteen. My mom was frantic. She’d tell me, ‘Millie might not have much time left, Adam. You can’t say no to her now.
Don’t you want her to be happy for whatever time she has left?
’” The bitterness in my voice had surprised even me.
“If I had plans with friends and Millie wanted me to stay with her instead, how could I say no? What kind of monster would that make me?”
I’d drained my bottle. Peter hadn’t said anything, just silently offered his support.