Chapter 4
Christopher Wheeler stood on the deck of a house he already knew he didn't want, staring out at a view that should have been perfect but somehow wasn't.
The water stretched before him, blue-green and glittering under the March sun.
A pelican glided low over the surface, its wings barely moving.
In the distance, a sailboat tacked lazily toward the horizon.
It was the kind of view that belonged on postcards, the kind of view that made tourists fall in love with Southwest Florida and never want to leave.
And yet.
Christopher turned to look at his wife. Becca stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the deck, Eloise balanced on her hip.
Their daughter was seven months old now, all round cheeks and curious eyes, her tiny fist wrapped around a strand of Becca's hair.
Becca's expression said everything her words wouldn't, at least not in front of the agent.
This wasn't the one either.
They had been looking for three months. Every weekend since Christmas, they had driven around Captiva and Sanibel and Fort Myers, following agents through houses that ranged from almost right to absolutely wrong.
Too small. Too expensive. Too far from the water.
Too close to the road. Not enough yard. Too much yard.
No garage. A garage that smelled like something had died in it and possibly still lived there.
Christopher had started keeping a mental list of all the ways a house could disappoint you. The list was getting long.
“What do you think?” the agent asked, appearing at his elbow. Her name was Marcia, and she had the unflappable optimism of someone who had shown houses to difficult clients before and remained convinced that the right one was always just around the corner.
“It's nice,” Christopher said, because it was. The house was objectively nice. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a renovated kitchen, and that view. On paper, it checked most of their boxes.
But when he tried to imagine living here, raising Eloise here, building the life he and Becca had talked about, he felt nothing. No spark of recognition, no sense of home settling into his bones.
“The HOA fees are reasonable,” Marcia continued. “And the community has a pool, tennis courts, a small fitness center. Very family-friendly.”
Christopher nodded, but his attention had drifted back to the water.
Somewhere out there, beyond the mangroves and the sandbars and the endless stretch of blue, was the life he was trying to build.
Summit Compass Florida. Adaptive sports programs for kids with disabilities.
Sailing and surfing and paddleboarding, all the things he had learned to love again after losing his leg.
He needed a house that felt like a beginning, not a compromise.
“Can we have a minute?” Becca asked, and Marcia nodded, retreating into the house with the practiced discretion of someone who knew when to give clients space.
Becca crossed the deck and stood beside him, shifting Eloise to her other hip. Their daughter made a happy sound and reached for Christopher's face, her fingers finding his nose and squeezing with surprising strength.
“Hey there, little one,” he said, gently extracting himself from her grip. “Easy on the merchandise.”
Eloise gurgled and tried to grab his nose again.
“You hate it,” Becca said quietly.
“I don't hate it.”
“Chris.”
He sighed. She knew him too well, had known him since before he deployed, before the IED, before everything changed. She had seen him at his worst and loved him anyway, and she could read his moods like weather patterns.
“I don't hate it,” he repeated. “I just don't feel anything. And I think I should feel something, right? When you find the place you're supposed to live, you should feel it.”
Becca leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his arm. “That's not always how it works. Sometimes a house is just a house. You make it home by living in it.”
“Is that how you feel about this one?”
She was quiet for a moment, watching the pelican make another pass over the water. “No,” she admitted. “This one doesn't feel right to me either. But I'm starting to wonder if any of them will.”
Christopher understood her frustration. They had been staying with her father Crawford and stepmother Ciara since Christmas, which had been generous and helpful and was also slowly driving both of them crazy.
Crawford's house was attached to Powell Water Sports, which meant there was always noise, always activity, always someone stopping by to ask about kayak rentals or paddleboard repairs.
Becca's brothers Luke and Joshua worked at the store, so family was constantly underfoot.
And while Christopher loved his in-laws, loved the warmth and chaos of the Powell family, he and Becca needed their own space.
Especially with Eloise. Especially with Becca's residency starting in July. Especially with Summit Compass Florida launching in the fall.
They needed a home.
“Maybe we're being too picky,” Becca said.
“Maybe we haven't found the right one yet.”
“Those might be the same thing.”
Christopher smiled despite himself. “Since when are you the pessimist?”
“Since I spent last weekend looking at a house where the bathroom was carpeted. Carpeted, Christopher. Wall-to-wall carpet in the bathroom. Who does that?”
“Someone with very cold feet and very poor judgment.”
Becca laughed, and Eloise joined in, her baby giggle high and delighted even though she had no idea what was funny. Christopher reached over and took his daughter from Becca's arms, settling her against his chest. She immediately grabbed for his ear.
“We'll find something,” he said. “We just have to keep looking.”
“My dad mentioned a property last night. Something that just came on the market.”
“On Sanibel?”
“Captiva, actually. Waterfront.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Waterfront on Captiva? That's got to be out of our budget.”
“That's the thing. He said it's priced low because it needs work. A lot of work, apparently. The previous owner was an older man who lived there alone after his wife died. He didn't maintain it, and when he passed, his children just wanted to sell and be done with it.”
“How much work are we talking about?”
Becca shrugged. “Dad didn't have details. But he said Devon Hutchins knows the property. Devon's been handling some of the real estate stuff for the family, trying to help them get it sold.”
Devon Hutchins. Trevor's father. Christopher had met him several times at family gatherings, a calm and steady presence who seemed to know everyone on the islands and had a knack for making deals happen. If Devon was involved, the property was at least worth looking at.
“Did your dad say anything else about it?”
“Just that the location is incredible. Right on the water, private dock, amazing views. But the house itself is rough. He used the word 'project.'”
“Project can mean a lot of things.”
“I know. That's why I didn't bring it up until now. I wasn't sure if we wanted to take on a project on top of everything else.”
Christopher looked out at the water again, thinking.
A fixer-upper hadn't been part of their plan.
They had enough on their plates with the residency and Summit Compass and a baby who was hitting new developmental milestones every week.
Adding a renovation to the mix seemed like a recipe for exhaustion.
But then again, nothing about the past four years had gone according to plan.
He had lost his leg in a war zone. He had relearned how to walk, how to run, how to live in a body that worked differently than before.
He had finished a marathon on a prosthetic and started a nonprofit and married the woman he loved.
If there was one thing Christopher Wheeler had learned, it was that plans were just suggestions, and the best things in life often came from the unexpected.
“We should at least look at it,” he said.
Becca studied his face. “You think so?”
“I think we've looked at twenty houses that were move-in ready, and none of them felt right. Maybe the problem isn't the houses. Maybe we need something we can make our own.”
“That's either very wise or very naive.”
“Probably both.”
She smiled that particular smile she reserved for moments when he surprised her, when he said something that reminded her why she had fallen in love with him in the first place.
“I'll call Devon,” she said. “See if we can set up a time to look at it.”
“Today?”
“Why not? We're already out. Eloise is in a good mood. And if we go back to my dad's house, Luke is going to try to convince you to go fishing again, and last time you came back smelling like bait for two days.”
“It wasn't two days.”
“It was absolutely two days. I had to wash the sheets twice.”
Christopher laughed and kissed her forehead. “Fine. Call Devon. Let's go look at a disaster.”
They found Marcia inside and explained that they wanted to keep looking, that this house was lovely but not quite right.
Marcia took it with grace, promising to send them new listings as they came up, and walked them out to their car with the practiced cheerfulness of someone who had heard every variation of “we'll keep looking” in her career.
Becca made the call to Devon while Christopher buckled Eloise into her car seat.
Their daughter had begun to fuss, the telltale signs of an approaching nap making her squirmy and irritable.
He handed her a teething ring, which she immediately shoved into her mouth with the dedication of someone who had important work to do.
“He can meet us in an hour,” Becca said, sliding into the passenger seat. “The property is on the north end of Captiva, near the pass. He said to prepare ourselves.”
“For what?”
“He didn't specify. Just said the bones are good but the rest is...challenging.”
“Challenging is better than carpeted bathrooms.”
“Almost anything is better than carpeted bathrooms.”