Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
CHASE
I stood at the edge of bungalow one’s foundation, staring at the muddy puddle that had no right to exist. The afternoon squall had stopped half an hour ago, leaving behind that particular Keys humidity that made my shirt cling to my back like an overeager dance partner.
This innocent-looking collection of rainwater was becoming my nemesis.
Third time in two weeks, same spot, same problem. And I couldn’t figure out why.
“How long’s it been sitting like this?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Bill, the foreman for the bungalow project, shifted his weight, mud caking his work boots. “Since the rain started. Hasn’t budged.” Lifting his baseball hat with one hand, he gestured with it toward the adjacent bungalows. “Rest of them are dry as a bone.”
I nodded, frustration building in my chest. All four bungalows were now fully framed, and their storm-resistant skeletons promised the luxurious accommodations that would soon draw visitors to Sunset Siesta. All of them perfect, except this one.
Bungalow one sat a bit lower than its neighbors, near a patch of dense, untamed brush that marked the property edge.
According to my plans—plans I’d reviewed, revised, and refined until they were flawless—water should flow away from the foundation, not pool against it like an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.
I pulled my tablet from my bag and opened the grading specifications, scrolling through the detailed topographical survey of this section.
“The grade is set for a two-degree slope away from the foundation toward that natural drainage area.” I pointed toward the brush line.
“Water shouldn’t be collecting here at all. ”
Bill wiped sweat from his cheek, leaving a smudge of dirt. “Well, something isn’t right. We followed your specs to the letter.”
“I know you did.”
And that was the problem. If the issue wasn’t in the execution, it had to be in the planning. My planning.
I glanced past the construction site toward the beach, where a family was packing up their belongings as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sand.
Just last weekend, I’d been down there with Harper and Finn, building what Finn had declared was the most awesome sandcastle in the universe.
It had been easy, being with them. Natural, even. The way Harper teased me when I took the turret construction so seriously, or how Finn’s laughter rose above the sound of the waves. We fit together somehow, despite my having zero experience.
Sandcastles were simple. You built them, the tide came in, they washed away. No expectations, no pressure, no persistent puddles undermining your professional competence. Too bad I wasn’t building one with them right now.
“Maybe we need to regrade this whole section,” Bill suggested, breaking into my thoughts.
I shook my head. “Let’s not jump to solutions yet. We need to understand the problem first.”
I examined the puddle, crouching down to get a better look at how the water was interacting with the terrain. My jeans were already spotted with mud, so I didn’t bother trying to stay clean as I pressed my palm against the soil near the foundation.
The earth felt unusually compact, almost impervious. “The water’s not penetrating the soil here the way it should.” I stood, moving toward the brush line, checking the slope. “It should be flowing that way, toward the natural drainage.”
I turned back to my tablet, flipping between the current grading plan and the original topographical survey.
Nothing jumped out. The calculations were sound, the execution precise.
I paced, trying to see what I was missing.
I’d designed dozens of properties in coastal areas, accounting for drainage issues far more complex than this.
The puddle seemed to mock me, reflecting the darkening sky above.
Standing water against a new foundation wasn’t just an aesthetic issue.
It was a potential structural problem waiting to happen.
In the Florida Keys, with our particular challenges of high water tables and hurricane threats, proper drainage wasn’t a luxury.
It was essential. And beyond the practical concerns, there was my reputation to consider.
Latitudes Design was still establishing itself, and the Sunset Siesta renovation was my highest-profile project to date.
I thought of Harper, of the trust she’d placed in me.
Hell, that the whole family had placed in me.
I stood and brushed the mud from my hands onto my jeans.
The Keys sunset was beginning to paint the sky in vivid oranges and pinks, but I hardly noticed.
“We need to solve this before we can move forward with the exterior on this bungalow,” I said more to myself than to Bill.
“I’m not having water damage issues down the line because we rushed past this. ”
Bill nodded, his expression a mix of respect and frustration. I knew the crew was eager to maintain their timeline, but some things couldn’t be rushed. Quality wasn’t negotiable.
I took a deep breath, the heavy, humid air filling my lungs.
“Let’s get some soil from this specific area and compare it to samples from the other bungalow foundations.
I want to see if there’s a detectable difference.
” I glanced at my watch. “We’ve still got some daylight.
And I want to take another look at the historical property surveys, see if there’s anything we missed. ”
Bill nodded, the resignation of a long day getting longer evident in his posture. “Whatever you say, boss. I’ll grab the sample kits from the truck.”
As he walked away, I turned back to the puddle, staring at it as if sheer force of will could make it reveal its secrets. The water reflected the dimming sky.
A movement on the beach caught my eye—a tall figure walking with purpose toward us, the distinctive stride immediately recognizable as Austin Coleridge’s.
Unlike the rest of us, who’d been sweating through the humid afternoon, Austin looked at ease in the Keys heat, his movements efficient and unhurried.
He approached bungalow one, those observant gray eyes of his immediately focusing not on me or Bill, but on the puddle itself, studying it with an intensity that made me wonder what he was seeing that we weren’t.
Austin stopped a few feet away, his gaze shifting from the puddle to the dense brush near the bungalow and back again. He didn’t offer a greeting, just stood there, taking in the scene with quiet assessment.
“Hey, Austin,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Afternoon. Looks a little wet around here.”
“Yeah. Dealing with a surprise drainage issue.”
He nodded once, acknowledging my explanation without commenting on it. Up close, I could see the slight weathering of his skin from years on the water, the careful way he held himself—observant, self-contained.
“We’ve got a persistent puddle that won’t drain,” I continued, gesturing toward the water collecting against the foundation. “According to the plans, the grading should direct water away from the foundation toward that natural drainage area in the brush, but something’s not right.”
Austin’s focus remained fixed on the land rather than the puddle itself.
After another moment of silent observation, he spoke.
“Ground’s always been soggy right there, especially after a storm.
” He nodded toward the thick tangle of vegetation at the property edge.
“That’s where the old well pump house sat.
Before the ’35 hurricane knocked it all to hell. ”
I blinked, processing this unexpected information.
“Pump house?” I opened the site plans on my tablet and scrolled to the survey of this section.
“There’s nothing documented there, just overgrown vegetation slated for clearing later.
” I turned the screen toward him, showing the topographical survey.
“See? The current drainage plan should work. There’s a natural slope that should carry water away from the foundation and into the existing drainage corridor. ”
Austin glanced at the tablet with minimal interest, then looked back at the actual land.
He rubbed a hand over his dark stubble, obviously thinking.
“Plans wouldn’t show rubble. I doubt there’s any record of that old pump house anymore.
Hurricane flattened the shed, but the foundation’s probably still under there.
Granddad likely just pushed debris into the hole and let the brush grow over it. ”
Before I could respond, Austin stepped decisively toward the dense vegetation. He paused at the edge, looking back at us. “Let’s have a look.”
Bill shot me a questioning glance. I nodded and followed Austin, ducking under low-hanging branches as we pushed a few yards into the thicket. The air felt even thicker here, trapped beneath the canopy of tangled growth, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying vegetation.
Austin stopped and used his boot to clear away a patch of fallen leaves and vines. “There.” He pointed down.
I crouched for a closer look. Where I’d expected to find only soil, I instead saw the unmistakable edge of crumbling concrete and ancient timber, barely visible beneath decades of accumulated dirt and plant matter.
Austin pushed aside more debris, revealing more concrete and what looked like rusted metal—the skeletal remains of the pump house Austin had mentioned.
“Holy shit,” Bill murmured behind me.
“Back then, they didn’t haul stuff away—too much work. Just pushed what was left into the hole and let nature take over.”
I reached down, brushing dirt from a piece of concrete as my mind put the pieces together immediately. “So this is acting like a dam, blocking the natural water flow from the bungalow site.”
Austin nodded. “See how the land slopes away past this point?” He indicated the natural contour of the ground extending beyond the hidden foundation. “Water should flow down there, but this junk is holding it back.”
I stood. No wonder my calculations hadn’t accounted for this. I drew a breath, already envisioning the solution. “We need to excavate this area. Clear out the debris, restore the natural drainage path. Maybe add a French drain to ensure proper flow away from the bungalow foundation.”
Bill nodded, relief evident on his face. “So we don’t need to regrade the whole damn area.”
“No,” I confirmed. “We just need to address this specific obstruction. This explains everything. Go ahead and take off for the day, Bill.”
With relief on his face, the foreman headed out.
I turned to Harper’s brother. “Man, I’m glad you walked by. This has been eating me alive for weeks now.”
Austin’s expression remained neutral, but there was a hint of satisfaction at having the answer nobody else had seen. “Excavate this stuff, and water will drain properly.” He said the words simply as if the solution were the most obvious thing in the world. Which, to him, it probably was.
“Thanks. Seriously. You pinpointed exactly what we were missing.”
A glint of surprise crossed his features as we walked back to the worksite—so brief I almost missed it—before he gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
“You’re doing good work here,” he said after a moment, his eyes sweeping over the framed bungalows and grounds beyond.
“The resort needed these changes. Everybody around here is always so scared of changing anything. Looking forward to seeing how it turns out.”
The compliment, delivered in Austin’s matter-of-fact tone, carried more weight than an effusive endorsement from someone else might have. This wasn’t a man who offered praise lightly. And he had his own wealth of experience regarding building.
He glanced toward the pier where his fishing boat, Line Dancer, was docked. “You fish at all, Ashworth? Or just dive with Eli?”
“No time for either lately,” I admitted. Between establishing Latitudes Design, overseeing the Sunset Siesta renovation, and spending what free time I had with Harper and Finn, leisure activities had taken a back seat.
Austin nodded toward his boat. “Water’s been good lately. Tell Harper maybe you two ought to come out on Line Dancer sometime. Feel free to bring the little guy too. Can’t let Eli indoctrinate him too much.”
Warmth that had nothing to do with the humid Keys air filled me. The invitation wasn’t just casual conversation. It was an offering, a gesture of acceptance from the most reserved of the Coleridge siblings. Then again, he had reason to be. “I’d like that a lot, Austin. I’ll talk to her.”
Austin gave a final curt nod, his expression unchanged save for a softening around the eyes. Then he walked away, his tall figure silhouetted against the golden late light as he headed back toward the resort grounds.
I’d come to the Sunset Siesta project armed with expertise, with carefully drawn plans and precise calculations.
But I hadn’t accounted for the history embedded in the land itself.
History that wasn’t documented in any survey or blueprint, but lived in the memories and experiences of people like Austin.
I stood and stared at the puddle, my mind making connections beyond the immediate construction problem.
Relationships were like that too. You could analyze and plan, but without understanding the hidden foundations, you’d miss crucial context.
Understanding Harper meant understanding not just who she was now, but the hidden foundations that had shaped the woman—her role as Finn’s mother, her place within the Coleridge family, her deep connection to this resort.
I glanced back toward the pier where Austin’s boat was docked and considered his invitation. It wasn’t just a fishing trip he was offering—it was a chance to see the Keys through his eyes, to understand his world in a way that couldn’t be conveyed through casual conversation.
As I walked back to bungalow one to make notes for tomorrow’s excavation work, a new appreciation for the complex interconnections between the land, the resort, and the family that had shaped it over generations settled in.
The renovation wasn’t only about updating buildings.
It was about honoring that history while creating space for new chapters.
And I was part of that story. A partner in the resort, yes. But now with Harper, something more.