31. Chapter 31
Adam
Three days have passed since Caitlin and I had our conversation, and we haven’t broached the subject of Mount Pella or Millie again.
She comes to help with the house every day, but our conversations don’t go beyond surface level.
I tell myself that she just needs time to process everything I told her, but doubt creeps in during the quiet moments when it’s just me, alone with my thoughts.
I’m kneeling in what used to be the kitchen pantry, prying out damaged flooring, when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel.
My heart jumps as I stand, wiping sweat from my forehead with my forearm.
I cross to the window, expecting to see Caitlin’s blue Corolla, but instead, I see Peter’s truck.
And behind it, Charlene’s SUV. My stomach tightens with a mixture of anticipation and nerves.
By the time I make it to the front door, Caitlin is already climbing out of the truck.
Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, with a few strands escaping to frame her face in a way that makes my breath catch.
Behind her, Peter is reaching into the truck bed for what looks like a toolbox.
At Charlene’s SUV, Rachel is helping her mother remove a large cooler.
“Surprise,” Caitlin says as she approaches, a tentative smile playing at her lips. “Everyone wanted to come help today. And Aunt Charlene insisted on bringing food.”
“Of course,” I say, stepping aside to let her pass. She smells like vanilla, and I ache to pull her into my arms. “The more help, the better.”
Peter follows her, nodding at me with what seems like warmth. “Adam.”
“Mr. Hughes,” I reply, standing a little straighter. “I’ve made some progress since you were here last.”
“Let’s see it, then,” he says.
Charlene bustles up next, her arms full of what appear to be extra containers of food. “Adam,” she says warmly, leaning in to kiss my cheek before I can react. “You look thin. Have you been eating properly? Working on a house like this is hard labor, you know.”
“I—yes, ma’am,” I stammer, unused to this kind of maternal attention. My own mother’s version of care was always more about appearances than substance. “I’ve been eating.”
“Sandwiches and takeout, I’ll bet,” she clucks, pushing past me into the house. “Well, I’ve brought a proper meal today. Caitlin, come help me set up in the dining room and bring that basket.”
Rachel approaches more slowly, her eyes assessing me coolly.
There’s something in her expression that reminds me of a cat watching a mouse, deciding whether it’s worth the effort to pounce.
“Adam,” she says, her voice sweet in a way that immediately puts me on edge. “Looking good. The house, I mean.”
“Thanks,” I reply cautiously. “I’ve been focusing on the kitchen and pantry so far.”
She nods, still smiling that too-sweet smile. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve done while they set up lunch?”
Before I can answer, she’s hooking her arm through mine and steering me toward the kitchen. Caitlin catches my eye over her shoulder, a mixture of amusement and apology in her gaze.
In the kitchen, Rachel releases my arm and turns to face me, the sweet smile dropping from her face like a mask. “So,” she says, her voice low enough that it won’t carry to the dining room. “You and my cousin seem to be spending a lot of time together.”
“We’re working on the house together,” I say carefully.
“Right. The house.” She steps closer, and despite the fact that she’s nearly a foot shorter than me, I have the distinct impression that she’s looking down at me. “Let me be very clear about something, Adam. If you ever make my cousin cry again…they will never find your body.”
I blink, caught off guard by the baldness of the threat. “I—”
“I’m serious,” Rachel continues, her voice still conversational, almost friendly. “I know places in the marshes where the mud is so deep it could swallow a body whole. No one would ever find you. Do we understand each other?”
I swallow, finding my voice. “Perfectly.”
“Good.” And just like that, the sweet smile is back. She pats my arm. “You’ve made great progress so far, by the way. Dad said you found the original hardwood in the kitchen?”
“Yes,” I manage, my head spinning from the abrupt shift. “I found it under the linoleum. Most of it was salvageable.”
“Brilliant. Caitlin will love that. Now, tell me what you’re planning for the rest of it.”
For the next ten minutes, Rachel is all enthusiasm and helpful suggestions, as if she hadn’t just threatened to bury me in a marsh. By the time Peter appears in the doorway to call us for lunch, we’re deep in a discussion about paint colors.
“Lunch is ready,” Peter announces. “Charlene’s gone all out, so you’d better come eat while it’s hot.”
“Coming!” Rachel chirps, then leans in to whisper, “Remember what I said. Marshes. Deep mud. No body.” She squeezes my arm, then saunters to the dining room.
I stand frozen for a moment, processing the fact that Caitlin’s sweet, free-spirited cousin just casually threatened to murder me. And the most terrifying part? I absolutely believe she means it.
Peter clears his throat, and I realize he’s been watching me. “Rachel had a word with you, huh? I did tell her she wasn’t allowed to scare you too badly.”
“Is she always that…” I search for the right word. “Intense?”
Peter’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “Only about people she loves.” He hesitates, then adds, “The work looks good, Adam. You’re doing right by this house.”
Coming from Peter, it’s high praise, and warmth spreads through my chest. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
In the dining room, Charlene has transformed the dusty space.
She’s cleared my tools from the table, spread a plastic tablecloth over it, and somehow produced a full picnic feast: fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced fruit, brownies, and what looks like homemade lemonade in a plastic pitcher.
“Sit, sit,” she urges, pulling out one of the folding chairs they brought with them. “You need to eat while it’s hot.”
I sit, feeling oddly like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. My family dinners were formal affairs, scheduled and structured. This casual abundance, this easy togetherness, feels foreign but wonderful.
Caitlin sits across from me, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looks away. Rachel takes the seat beside her, smiling at me with angelic innocence. Peter and Charlene sit at either end of the table, and for a moment, we’re like a normal family sharing a meal.
“So,” Charlene says, passing me the chicken, “tell us about your plans for the rest of the house. Caitlin mentioned you’re tackling the bathrooms next.”
As I talk about the renovations, I find myself relaxing.
Charlene asks intelligent questions, Peter offers occasional bits of practical advice, and even Rachel contributes ideas that are actually helpful.
Caitlin is quieter, but I catch her watching me sometimes, with a thoughtful expression on her face.
After lunch, we clear the table together.
Charlene packs away the leftovers, while Peter outlines the work plan.
“Adam and I will tackle the downstairs bathroom,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Charlene, you take the girls and head upstairs to start stripping the wallpaper in the bedrooms.” I catch Caitlin’s eye, hoping for some indication that she wants to work with me instead, but she just nods at her uncle’s instructions and smiles briefly in my direction.
As I watch them head up the stairs together, Rachel turns and gives me one last smile coupled with a throat-slitting gesture.
I find myself smiling despite Rachel’s threats, or maybe because of them.
She terrifies me, absolutely, but there’s something comforting in knowing how fiercely Caitlin is loved.
And if I ever do hurt Caitlin again, I’ll probably hand Rachel the shovel myself.
Peter clears his throat. “We should get started. That bathroom won’t demolish itself.”
I follow him down the hallway to the small bathroom tucked under the stairs. It’s in bad shape, water stains are creeping up the walls, the linoleum is bubbled and peeling, and the fixtures look like they’ve been there since Nixon was president.
“We’ll gut it,” Peter says, pulling on work gloves. “Everything goes except the pipes, and even those might need replacing.”
I nod, donning my own gloves. “Let’s start with the vanity.”
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds the crack of wood being pried loose and the occasional grunt of effort.
The vanity comes apart easily, rotted from years of small leaks. As I pull it away from the wall, a family of spiders scurries for cover.
“Hate those things,” Peter mutters, eyeing the retreating arachnids.
“Not a fan myself,” I admit. “My sister Hailey used to put them in my bed when we were kids.”
Peter snorts. “That’s what sisters are for, I guess. Mine put a snake in my lunchbox once.”
“Did you get her back?”
A small smile crosses his face. “Frogs in her sock drawer. Only problem was, Mom found them first while she was putting laundry away. She was mad at me for a week.”
I laugh, picturing a young Peter planning revenge. It’s hard to imagine him as a mischievous kid. The tension in my shoulders eases a fraction as we return to work.
After another stretch of companionable silence, Peter speaks again. “So what do you do when you’re not working at the restaurant or fixing up old houses? Got any hobbies?”
“I like to fish,” I say, surprised by the question. “Back in Colorado, I would often go when the weather was good. Haven’t been since I moved here, though.”
Peter pauses, crowbar in hand. “You fish? What kind?”
“Mostly fly-fishing for trout in Colorado. But I grew up fishing for bass and catfish in the lakes around Mount Pella. My… well, Millie’s dad Eric taught me when I was a kid.”
Peter nods, his expression thoughtful. A few minutes later he says, “You know, there’s good fishing around here. Better than most people realize.”
I stop working, genuinely curious. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Depends on the season, of course. There’s a creek about twenty minutes from here that has some of the best brown trout fishing I’ve ever found.
Then there’s the river for bass—smallmouth, mostly.
Lake Hamilton’s got good catfish if you know where to look.
” He taps the wall with his crowbar, testing for weak spots.
“Got a spot near Miller’s Point that almost never fails.
Caught a six-pound bass there last spring. ”
“Six pounds? That’s impressive.”
“Would’ve been bigger if I’d caught him later in the season.” Peter’s whole demeanor has changed, more animated than I’ve ever seen him. “The secret is to go just after sunrise, when the mist is still on the water. Most folks don’t have the patience to wait out those early hours.”
“Eric used to say the same thing. ‘Fish don’t care if you’re comfortable, Adam,’” I mimic Eric’s gruff voice. “‘They care if you’re in the right place at the right time.’”
“Exactly right,” Peter says with a laugh.
We are quiet for a moment before Peter asks, “Eric was the one who died last year?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “He was like a second father to me. It’s rough. I have so many good memories of him, but I am also seriously pissed at the adults in my life right now. My mother and Rhonda might have been the main offenders, but my dad and Eric never even tried to stop them.”
Peter nods and clasps my shoulder briefly. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks thoughtful as we go back to work.
“Season starts in a couple of months,” Peter says casually, as if the thought has just occurred to him. “I usually go out on opening day. Early start, but worth it.”
I wait, not wanting to presume.
“You could come along,” he adds, not looking at me. “If you want. Got plenty of gear you could borrow.”
The invitation hangs in the air between us, far more significant than a simple fishing trip. This is Peter Hughes, offering an olive branch. This is Caitlin’s uncle, the man who held me accountable for how I hurt her, now inviting me into his world.
“I’d like that,” I say, matching his casual tone though my heart is racing. “Thank you.”
He nods once, matter settled, and points to the toilet. “That thing’s next. It’s been there as long as I can remember.”
We’re wrestling the ancient toilet free from its moorings when we hear laughter from upstairs. The sound of Caitlin’s laugh mixed with Rachel’s and Charlene’s fills the small bathroom, warming the space in a way no heater ever could.
“They sound like they’re having more fun than we are,” I observe.
“Always do,” Peter says with a shrug. “Been that way since the girls were little. There never was a chore or job they couldn’t turn into a game.”
We finish the bathroom demolition as the afternoon light begins to soften. My back aches with tiredness. Peter and I remove our respirators and safety glasses and survey the now empty space with satisfaction. We’ve taken it down to the studs and subfloor, ready for whatever comes next.
Upstairs, the women have completely stripped the wallpaper from the master and made a start on a second bedroom.
Charlene pulls me into another unexpected hug.
“Thank you for everything you’re doing here, Adam,” she says warmly. “You’re bringing this old place back to life.”
Peter extends his hand, and I shake it, noticing the firm grip, the calluses that match my own. “Good work today,” he says simply. “We’ll be back next week. Charlene’s bringing dinner again.”
“And don’t forget fishing,” he adds as they head toward the door. “I’ll text you the details when we’re closer to it.”
I help Peter load his tools back into his truck.
As they get ready to drive away, Caitlin lingers on the porch beside me.
The sunset paints her in gold and shadow, and I ache to reach for her hand, to pull her close and tell her how much today has meant to me.
Instead, I simply stand beside her, and watch the dying light turn her hair gold.
“They like you,” she says quietly.
“I like them too,” I admit. “They’re good people.”
She turns to me, her expression unreadable in the fading light. “Ready for another day of it tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” I tell her, watching as she walks to her uncle’s truck, wondering if she can hear the words I don’t say: I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will love you until my last breath.
But those words will have to wait for another day, when she’s ready to hear them. For now, it’s enough that her family is beginning to accept me, that Peter Hughes has invited me fishing, that Caitlin stood beside me in the golden light of evening, close enough to touch.
It’s more than I deserve, and exactly what I need to keep hoping.