11. Sawdust and Coffee
Sawdust and Coffee
The days started to fall into a pattern. Coffee. Noise. Sawdust.
A dozen different versions of progress all happening at once.
Every day, the crew showed up like clockwork; Cole first, Travis behind him, and then two new guys who never stopped arguing about sports.
By nine, the air compressors were sighing, and the radios were arguing with them.
The bakery smelled faintly of primer and rain, and every open window carried the sound of drills and laughter.
Jenna found herself timing her mornings to its rhythm.
When the hammering started, it was time for coffee.
When the compressor cut off for lunch, she’d realize she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She’d learned the patterns: when Cole’s voice would drift through the windows calling for measurements, when the nail gun would go quiet right before lunch, when the laughter would pick up again after.
Cole stayed firmly in his work mode. He was efficient and focused, and offered her that easy half-smile only in passing.
Nothing more, nothing less. There was something infuriatingly calm about him when he worked, shoulders loose, voice measured, attention absolute.
She never felt more aware of him than when he barely seemed to notice her at all, which made no sense.
She was a grown woman, not some intern waiting for the senior contractor to look her way. And yet here she was.
It made her feel anchored in a way she hadn’t expected, and if she was honest, it made something inside her yearn for more.
Emmie, meanwhile, had fallen headfirst into her own rhythm: music, friends, freedom.
Every morning, she’d leave in a blur of hair ties, sunglasses, and car keys, the new Civic announcing its presence with bass that rattled the windows.
Jenna pretended to scold her about the volume but secretly loved the sound. It meant Emmie was living again.
By midmorning, Jenna would be alone again, the hum of progress her only company, and the occasional low rumble of Cole’s voice outside, calm and sure, cutting through all of the other noise.
* * *
She poured her first cup of coffee that morning while the kitchen filled with the smell of fresh-cut wood and curing paint drifting in from the bakery, softened by the salt and distant ocean carried in through the screens.
Emmie wandered in, barefoot, scrolling her phone. Her hair was up in a careless knot, an ill-defined pillow-crease still stamped across her arm. She looked like a kid again, though she’d never admit it.
Jenna watched her move around the kitchen with that familiar mix of teenage distraction and unspoken resilience.
Emmie didn’t talk about Grace much, not out loud, but the way she moved through the house said enough.
She was relearning how to exist in a home that felt both familiar and foreign, and Jenna was constantly, quietly aware of the privilege of being allowed into that fragile orbit.
“Hungry?” Jenna asked.
Emmie shrugged, grabbed a banana, and muttered something about homework.
“You’re still doing schoolwork? It’s summer,” Jenna teased.
“Yeah, they gave us prep for next year,” Emmie said around a bite of banana.
Jenna tried not to smile. “That’s cruel.”
Emmie nodded, eyes still on her screen. But when she left, she paused at the door. “They’re playing country again,” she said, gesturing toward the bakery.
Jenna listened. From across the yard, through the open windows, an old George Strait song floated in. She almost smiled. “Could be worse.”
“It could be rap,” Emmie countered, then disappeared down the hall.
* * *
Outside, the heat sat heavy over the block, thick and still. The crew broke for water every thirty minutes, shirts clinging to their backs, conversation dropping to short sentences between gulps.
Cole stood beside the truck, sun catching the curve of his jaw, phone pressed to his ear.
Even from where she stood, Jenna could hear the restraint in his tone, the kind of patience that came from being promised roofing material “by Monday” three Mondays ago.
His jaw flexed once before he spoke again.
Controlled, yes, but not calm. Something in him had shifted.
Travis wandered inside and leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a bottle of water. “Does he ever get mad?” Jenna asked.
Travis huffed a short laugh. “Yeah. But he doesn’t take it out on us like a lot of guys. Saves it for the gym. Guy could probably bench-press that truck.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “And you couldn’t?” she teased, gesturing playfully toward his build. Travis was strong, broad-shouldered, and solidly built, but nothing like the sheer size of Cole.
“Smaller trucks,” Travis said, deadpan. “Fuel efficient.”
Cole hung up and walked back just in time to catch the end of the exchange. “What’s fuel efficient?”
“Nothing,” Jenna said too quickly.
Travis smirked. “Just admiring management.”
Cole raised a brow but didn’t bite. “Lunch in ten.”
Then, turning to Jenna with that calm, unreadable look that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing, he asked, “You eating?”
She hesitated. “If I can find a clean surface.”
“Good luck,” he said, voice even, and walked away.
It was nothing. Barely a conversation. But it knocked her pulse slightly off its mark. Yesterday’s comment had opened a door, and this morning, his distance felt like he was quietly closing it again.
They ate under the oak tree between the house and the bakery, half in shade, half in glare. Cole passed her a sandwich from a brown paper bag. “Turkey. Didn’t know what you liked.”
“Turkey’s fine,” she said, taking it. “You didn’t have to—”
“You skipped breakfast,” he interrupted. “Figured you’d skip lunch too.”
She blinked.
“You look like someone who forgets herself when she’s working,” he offered.
Jenna frowned, “You make that sound like a flaw.”
“Did I?” He looked up from his thermos, eyes dark and steady, and she suddenly hated the heat because she could feel it rising in her chest.
“So,” she said quickly, “how long till the roof?”
He leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Two weeks, if the supplier ever calls back. You nervous about the tarp?”
“Every afternoon storm since Monday,” she admitted.
He nodded once. “I’d worry too. But it’ll hold.”
Something in his tone, low and confident, made her believe him even before she wanted to. He reached across her for a bottle of water, causing his forearm to flex, and her brain short-circuited for half a second.
He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. That was the problem. He was perfectly polite, perfectly normal, perfectly untouchable, and she was a fool for wanting to know whether “You too” had meant anything at all.
The afternoon rolled on in a haze of motion and noise. The smell of paint mingled with the sharp bite of new wood and humidity. The roof tarp flapped in the wind like a restless animal.
Emmie came home once for sunscreen and once again for her phone charger, each time bursting through the door with a wave of sunshine and noise. She looked like summer itself, with tan lines, a messy ponytail, and that black Civic parked crooked in the drive.
“Headed to the beach again?” Jenna asked the second time she rushed in.
“Movie night at Casey’s. Might hit the pier after.”
“Which pier?”
“The one with food,” Emmie said with a grin.
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Okay, be smart.”
“Always,” Emmie lied, leaning down to kiss her cheek before dashing back out.
The door slammed behind her in that exuberant, teenage way, and the house settled into a calmer version of itself.
Jenna stood there for a moment, her cheek still warm from Emmie’s quick kiss.
Grace used to say that raising a teenager was half instincts and half improvisation, and Jenna felt both in equal measure.
Every small victory, a laugh, a plan, a night out with friends, it all felt like a thread tying the girl back to the world.
Cole watched from the porch as she left, hand braced against the post. “She’s doing better,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, she is.”
“You too,” he said. Jenna froze, but he just nodded toward the bakery behind her. “The work’s paying off.”
She smiled too tightly. “Right. The work.”
Cole wiped his hands on his jeans, glancing toward the roof tarp as thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. “We’ll need to keep an eye on that if it rains tonight. I’ll swing by later to check it.”
“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “You’ve already done enough for one day.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t take long. Besides, I’d rather make sure it holds than have you worry about it.”
Her chest warmed despite herself. “That’s thoughtful of you.”
“Part of the job,” he said with a small shrug. “You’re easy to work with. Makes it simple.”
She laughed softly. “You too.” He gave a soft grin like they were both in on a secret before she added, “Drive safe.”
He tipped his cap. “Always do.”
She watched him go, her smile holding longer than it should have.
And when his taillights finally disappeared, she realized she’d spent the whole day waiting, hoping, for even a sliver of the compliment he’d given her yesterday. But it never came.
* * *
Maybe she’d imagined everything. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he smiled like that at everyone.
It didn’t matter. Cole was her contractor, not a Tinder date. He had a crew to run and a reputation to protect. And she, God help her, was too old to be standing in a window like a teenager, waiting for him to look back.
Inside the house, she brushed her teeth, lingered in Grace’s doorway a moment longer than she meant to, and sat on the edge of the bed until the stillness wrapped around her.
He doesn’t like you, she told herself. He’s just kind.
Biscuit jumped up beside her, curling tight against her hip. “Yeah,” she whispered, staring at the ceiling. “That’s worse.”
She must’ve dozed off, because the next thing she heard was a sound outside, a low, clattering thud that didn’t belong to the house. Rain lashed against the windows, steady and hard, the storm that had been threatening all day finally breaking loose.
Jenna sat up, listening. Another thud. A metallic scrape. Then a voice, low and familiar, barely audible under the rain.
She moved to the window and looked out through the blur of water on the glass.
Cole was out there, on the roof, soaked, wrestling with the tarp.
His T-shirt clung to his back, plastered to his skin, water streaming down his arms as he knelt to secure the edge against the wind.
Lightning flared in the distance, painting him in white for half a heartbeat.
For a second, she couldn’t move. He’d driven here. In the middle of the night. In the rain. To fix a tarp.
By the time he climbed down the ladder, she was already at the door, heart pounding. She waited until he stepped off the last rung before calling out, “You’re going to get struck by lightning doing that!”
He turned, rain running down his face, water dripping from the brim of his cap. “It came loose,” he said simply. “Didn’t want the bakery to flood.”
“You could’ve called,” she said, grabbing a towel from the laundry shelf by the door.
“You were asleep.”
“So? You were on the roof in a thunderstorm.”
He didn’t answer. Just took the towel when she held it out, wiped his face once, and handed it back as if it burned him.
“Come inside,” she said, stepping aside to open the door wider. “You’re drenched. At least dry off.”
He shook his head. “Can’t. I’ll ruin your subfloors before we even lay the finishes.”
“Cole—”
But he was already backing away, rain hitting his shoulders like a curtain. “It’s fine,” he said, voice low but firm. “Go back to bed, Jenna. It’s handled.”
Then he turned, boots squelching against the gravel, and disappeared into the storm.
She stood there, door still open, watching the red glow of his taillights fade down the street.
He’d driven here. In the rain. Fixed the roof. And then refused to step inside.
Her fingers tightened around the towel, the fabric still warm where he’d touched it. “Just work,” she whispered to the empty doorway. “Right.” Biscuit meowed from somewhere behind her, unimpressed.
“Yeah,” she murmured, closing the door. “Me neither.”