Chapter Eleven
Kelsey
The county inspector arrives at seven-twenty Friday morning. I’m optimistic, but he doesn’t seem to be impressed by my enthusiasm.
Nolan is already waiting. Marc stands beside him in work clothes, although he told his crew he would be late rather than leave before the inspection. I try not to read too much into that. I also try not to notice that the travel mug in his hand is mine again or that he came out of my cabin with it.
The inspector checks the permit, the repaired conduit, and every termination. He tests the branch under load while Nolan answers questions and Marc remains quiet unless asked. I stand outside the barrier with my arms crossed tightly enough to leave marks.
Twenty-three Fletchers are scheduled to begin arriving in less than eight hours.
Two are driving from Oregon, one family is flying into Denver, and the oldest Fletcher is ninety-one years old.
I can relocate bodies. I cannot recreate the year of anticipation Suzanne has poured into bringing them together.
The inspector closes the last panel and writes something on his tablet.
“You’re clear,” he says.
The breath leaves me so quickly I sway.
Marc’s hand rests against my back. He does not announce that he is supporting me or ask whether I need it.
He simply stands there, solid and warm, while I thank the inspector and listen to the conditions attached to the approval.
The panel needs a final label. Nolan has until the end of next week to submit photographs of the restored surface. All manageable items.
When the inspector drives away, I hug Nolan first. He laughs and pats me awkwardly between the shoulders.
“Save some gratitude for the one who gave up his evenings,” he says.
I turn toward Marc. “Nolan is receiving a substantial payment, and you refuse to invoice me.”
“Romantic,” Marc says.
“How am I supposed to compensate you?”
“I have several ideas.”
Nolan begins laughing as he climbs into his van. I wait until he is safely inside before grabbing the front of Marc’s shirt and kissing him. The kiss is quick because his crew is expecting him, but his hand curves around the back of my neck and holds me there one breath longer.
“Go,” I tell him when I release his shirt. “I have three cabins to prepare.”
“They were clean before we started.”
“They are not Fletcher clean.”
He kisses my forehead and leaves. I stand beside the newly lit cabins watching his truck disappear beneath the Eight Pines sign. Last night’s conversation follows me as I begin opening windows and checking rooms.
Marc asked for a position with less travel before he met me. That should make his choice easier to accept. Instead, I keep imagining him turning down money and prestige, then looking at me a year from now and wondering whether I was worth the difference.
I know what that does to love. It turns every difficult day into evidence of a sacrifice.
It makes a broken water heater or missed vacation feel like one person’s fault.
I spent too long with a man who treated my life as the obstacle between him and happiness.
I will not volunteer for that role again.
By noon, all six Fletcher cabins are ready. Fresh towels wait on the beds. The porch lights work, the refrigerators are cold, and the repaired circuits hold steady while I run every appliance I can without creating a problem of my own.
Suzanne arrives at two-forty in a minivan packed so tightly that someone has tied a folding table to the roof. She steps out, sees the row of cabins glowing beneath the pines, and bursts into tears.
For one dreadful second, I think she has spotted something wrong. Then she hugs me.
“My grandmother is going to love this,” she says into my shoulder. “Thank you for keeping us all together.”
The words strike the tender place beneath my relief. I hug her back, then spend the next hour directing vehicles, carrying groceries, and matching relatives to cabins. Children race toward the lake. Adults call warnings after them. Someone begins unloading enough aluminum pans to feed a small army.
Marc returns shortly before four. He changed somewhere between the work site and Eight Pines, trading his dusty shirt for a clean gray one, but he still wears his work boots. He takes in the full parking area and the people moving between cabins.
“Looks like you pulled it off,” he says.
“We pulled it off.”
Suzanne appears beside us carrying a crockpot. “Kelsey, could your husband help Uncle Dean with the coolers? His back is acting up.”
“He isn’t my husband,” I say much too quickly.
Marc does not move, but I feel the small withdrawal beside me.
“This is Marc,” I continue, forcing my voice to sound business-like. “He helped repair the electrical service. And yes, I’m certain he would be glad to help Uncle Dean.”
“Of course.” Marc takes the crockpot from Suzanne before she can protest. “Show me where it goes.”
He leaves with her, carrying the heavy pot as if it weighs nothing.
I tell myself my correction was reasonable.
Marc and I have known each other for four days.
No sane woman would allow a stranger to assume a man is her husband without clarification.
I could have clarified without sounding horrified.
For the next two hours, Marc becomes part of the reunion without trying. He carries coolers, tightens the handle on a borrowed grill, and helps the youngest Fletcher untangle a fishing line from a shrub. He never takes over. When someone asks a question about the property, he points them toward me.
Watching him should make the future easier to imagine. It does the opposite. Marc fits too well. I can see him here next month and next year, his truck beside my cabin and his boots inside my door. The picture is so clear that losing it already hurts.
At sunset, the Fletchers invite us to their first-night cookout.
I begin to refuse because guests deserve privacy, but Suzanne will not hear it.
Marc and I sit together at the end of a picnic table beneath strings of lights connected to the safe service.
His thigh rests against mine while children chase each other between the pines.
The ninety-one-year-old grandmother lifts her glass of lemonade and thanks everyone for coming home. Marc’s hand closes around mine beneath the table.
Later, after the food is cleared and the youngest children are being herded toward baths, Marc walks me back to my cabin. He remains beside the porch steps instead of following me inside.
“You have something to say,” I tell him.
“So do you.”
I lean against the railing. “I’m sorry about earlier. Suzanne surprised me.”
“I’m not angry because you told her the truth.”
“But?”
“You sounded like the idea scared the hell out of you.”
There is no accusation in his voice, which makes it harder to defend myself. “It did.”
Marc nods once. “Thank you for being honest.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“No.” He comes up one step, bringing us eye to eye. “My project is ahead of schedule. The owner eliminated part of the final phase this afternoon. My crew will finish Sunday.”
The porch seems to shift beneath me. “This Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“But you reserved Cabin Seven for six weeks.”
“The reservation can end early. My company needs me somewhere else.”
Three days. I thought I had five more weeks to decide whether this was real, whether I could trust it, whether Marc wanted Eight Pines or only the woman he found here. Now I have three days, and one of them is nearly over.
“Where?” I ask.
“That depends on which position I accept.”
I pull my hand from his and wrap both arms around myself. “You need to make that decision without me.”
“Why?”
“Because you barely know me.”
“Stop saying that as if the number of days cancels what happened in them.”
“It doesn’t cancel anything. It makes me careful.”
His jaw tightens. “Careful or unavailable?”
The question hits too close. “That isn’t fair.”
“Neither is deciding I’ll resent you for a choice I haven’t made.”
We stand in the warm porch light, close enough to touch and suddenly much farther apart than the lawn between our cabins.
“I need to check the property,” I say.
Marc steps back. Hurt moves across his face before he hides it. “Of course you do.”
He crosses to Cabin Seven without asking whether I want him in my bed tonight.
I let him go.