Chapter 9
The sun had set over Pine Island Sound, leaving the sky streaked with orange and purple, when Becca finally got Eloise down for the night. The baby had been fussy all evening, teething and cranky, and it had taken three rounds of rocking and two lullabies before her eyes finally drifted closed.
Becca stood over the crib for a long moment, watching her daughter sleep.
Eloise lay on her back with her arms flung out, her tiny chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep rest. Seven months old.
It seemed impossible that this small person had only existed for seven months.
She had already become the center of everything, the axis around which Becca and Christopher's entire world revolved.
She slipped out of the guest room and pulled the door almost closed, leaving it cracked just enough that she would hear if Eloise stirred. The baby monitor was clipped to her waistband, but Becca had learned not to trust technology entirely. Some things required a mother's ear.
She found Christopher on the back porch, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs that faced the backyard.
The lights from Powell Water Sports glowed softly to the left, and she could hear the gentle lap of waves against the dock across the street.
He had a beer in his hand, untouched, and his prosthetic leg was stretched out in front of him at an angle that meant it was bothering him.
“Long day?” she asked, settling into the chair beside him.
“Long week.” He turned to look at her, and even in the dim light she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “Long month, actually. I keep thinking about that house.”
“Me too.”
They had not talked about it much since leaving the property two days ago.
There had been too many other things demanding their attention.
Eloise’s fussiness, calls with the Summit Compass board about the Florida expansion, a video chat with Beth that had left them both simultaneously excited and terrified about the impending arrival of the twins.
The house had hovered at the edge of every conversation, unspoken but present, like a question waiting to be asked.
“I made a list,” Christopher said. “Of everything that would need to be done. The kitchen, the bathrooms, the floors, the electrical. It's a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Depends on how much we do ourselves versus hiring out. If we hire contractors for everything, we're looking at six figures easy. If we do some of the work ourselves, get help from family, it could be less. But it's still significant. I’m not sure we can afford it”
Becca pulled her knees up to her chest, a habit from childhood that she had never outgrown. “My residency starts in July. I won't have time to swing a hammer.”
“I know, but I will. And your father has offered to help, and Trevor, and Paolo. Even your brothers mentioned they could pitch in on weekends.”
“When did you talk to my brothers?”
“Luke cornered me at the shop this morning. He said, and I quote, 'That house has good bones. We could make it work.'”
Becca smiled despite herself. Luke was the oldest of her brothers, the one who had taken over most of the day-to-day operations at Powell Water Sports since their father had started stepping back.
He was practical and steady, not given to enthusiasm without cause.
If Luke thought the house had potential, it probably did.
“What about the money?” she asked. “Even with a lower purchase price, we'd need a significant down payment. And the renovation costs on top of that.”
Christopher was quiet for a moment. He took a sip of his beer, then set it down on the arm of the chair. “I've been running the numbers. Between what we've saved and what Summit Compass can pay me once the Florida branch is operational, we could make it work. It would be tight, but it's doable.”
“Tight makes me nervous.”
“I know. Me too.” He reached over and took her hand. “But I keep thinking about that view. The way it felt standing on that porch, looking out at the water. I haven't felt that way about any of the other houses we've seen.”
Becca hadn't either. She had walked through dozens of properties over the past three months, each one checked against a mental list of requirements.
Eloise was years away from school, and Becca already knew living on Captiva would mean her daughter would get her education on Sanibel Island instead.
There were enough bedrooms for the family they hoped to grow.
A yard for playing, a kitchen for gathering, a neighborhood where children rode bikes and neighbors waved hello.
However, none of them had stirred anything in her.
They had been houses, nothing more. Structures of wood and drywall that could shelter a family but never become a home.
The fixer-upper on Captiva was different. Despite the water stains and the peeling wallpaper and the kitchen that belonged in a museum, something about it had resonated. The bones, as Luke said. The location. The sense that it was waiting for someone to love it back to life.
“I want to talk to my dad,” Becca said.
Christopher turned to her. “About the house?”
“About all of it. The finances, the timing, whether we're crazy for even considering this.” She squeezed his hand. “He knows real estate. He knows this area. And he's always been honest with me, even when I didn't want to hear it.”
“Do you think he'll try to talk us out of it?”
“I don't know. Maybe. But I'd rather hear his concerns now than make a mistake we can't undo.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “Okay. Let's talk to him now.”
They found Crawford in the living room, settled into his favorite recliner with a book open on his lap.
Ciara sat on the sofa nearby, knitting something soft and yellow that Becca suspected was destined for Eloise.
The television played quietly in the background, some nature documentary about coral reefs that neither of them seemed to be watching.
Crawford looked up when they entered, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. His hair grayer than brown, he had the weathered look of a man who had spent his life on the water, skin tanned and hands calloused from years of hauling kayaks and repairing boat engines.
“Eloise down?” he asked.
“Finally,” Becca said. “It took some convincing.”
“She's got your stubbornness.” Crawford smiled and set his book aside. “What's on your minds? You both have that look.”
“What look?” Christopher asked.
“The look that says you want to ask me something and you're not sure how I'll react.”
Becca glanced at Christopher, then back at her father. She had never been able to hide anything from him. Even as a teenager, when she had tried to sneak out or cover up some minor transgression, he had always known. It was unnerving and comforting in equal measure.
“We want to talk to you about a house,” she said.
Crawford's eyebrows rose. “The one Devon showed you? The Westbrook place?”
“You know about it?”
“Devon mentioned it. Said you two seemed interested but overwhelmed.” Crawford gestured toward the sofa. “Sit down. Tell me what you're thinking.”
They sat, Becca beside Ciara and Christopher in the armchair across from Crawford.
Ciara set her knitting in her lap and gave Becca an encouraging smile.
She had been part of the family for two years now, and Becca had grown to love her quiet warmth, the way she supported Crawford without overshadowing him.
“The house is perfect in some ways and a disaster in others,” Christopher began.
He explained what they had seen. The location, the views, the dock.
The water damage, the outdated kitchen, the bathrooms that needed to be gutted.
The price, which was low for waterfront on Captiva, but still substantial when combined with the renovation costs.
Crawford listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful. When Christopher finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“I knew Harold Westbrook,” he finally said.
“Not well, but enough to say hello at the hardware store.
He was a good man. Loved that property, loved his wife.
When Eleanor died, something went out of him.
He stopped caring about the house, stopped caring about much of anything.
His kids tried to help, but they live up north and couldn't be here often enough to make a difference.”
“Devon said something similar,” Becca said.
“The house deserves better than what it's become.” Crawford leaned forward in his chair. “And you two deserve a home that's yours. Not a guest room in your old man's house, no matter how much I love having you here.”
“We love being here, even if we have to fly back and forth for work,” Becca said quickly.
“I know we didn’t have a choice. It’s impossible to look at houses online.
Chris and I needed to get a feel for any property that could be our potential home.
You can’t do that by only looking online. You and Ciara have been so generous.”
“Generous has nothing to do with it. You're family.” Crawford's eyes moved to Christopher. “Both of you. But a young family needs their own space. Their own walls to paint, their own yard to mow, their own kitchen to burn dinner in.”
Christopher laughed. “I don't burn dinner. Becca does.”
“Hey,” Becca protested, but she was smiling.
Crawford stood and walked to the side window, looking across the street to the pier.
The lights from the dock reflected on the dark surface, dancing with each small wave.
He stood there for a long moment, his back to them, and Becca felt a flutter of anxiety.
Was he going to tell them it was a bad idea?
That they were being foolish? That the house was too much, too risky, too broken to be worth saving?
“Your mother would have loved that house,” Crawford said quietly.