Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Emily
Icatch the mistake as soon as I crouch to check the laser level. The line runs a quarter inch off where the eastern foundation wall should land, enough to throw the entire corner of the new staff quarters out of true.
Setting my jaw, I motion for Clint to hold the measuring tape while I verify the numbers on the blueprint. The error would slip past anyone else for months, only surfacing when doors refused to hang right, and cabinets wouldn’t sit flush with the walls.
“Need to fix this section before we move forward,” I tell Clint, tapping the concrete edge with my knuckles. “Get Devin and the level. We’ll reset before lunch.”
“Got it, he says, no argument crossing his weathered face despite the extra work I’m creating.
He understands how much precision matters, especially at the foundation stage, which is why I keep him as foreman.
As he heads off to find Devin, movement near the Homestead catches my eye. Leif, who rarely comes to the island midday anymore, hurries up the path, his leather satchel clutched tight to his side, the breeze off the water ruffling his mauve hair.
Whatever business he has with the Wrights must be important.
I consider waving, then decide not to. He’s not here for me, and I have my own problems to solve. The thought brings a subtle pang, which I push aside.
Devin joins me with the laser level, his permanent worry lines deepening as I explain the issue.
“Quarter inch doesn’t seem like much,” he ventures, adjusting his hard hat.
“A quarter inch travels,” I explain, pulling the blueprint from my back pocket. “Every plate, every wall, every cabinet has to compensate. We’ll be fighting it all the way to the roof.”
Devin squints at the line again, then back at the foundation. “So, grind it?”
“Yeah.” I straighten. “High side only. Quarter inch. Feather it back so the sill plate lands clean.”
Relief loosens his shoulders. Grinding is a pain, but it’s not a catastrophe. No calls to suppliers. No ferries. No significant delays.
I gesture toward the eastern edge, where the concrete rises high enough to catch the light wrong once you’ve trained to spot the subtle difference. “We take it down here, taper it out over six feet. I want the laser dead-on when we’re done.”
Clint reappears with the diamond grinder tucked under one arm, the extension cord coiled over his shoulder. He doesn’t ask questions as he sets it down and plugs in the vacuum shroud.
“Mask up,” I tell them. “You don’t need this stuff in your lungs.”
The grinder screams to life, a high-pitched whine vibrating through my boots as the blade kisses concrete. Pale dust blooms, then vanishes into the shroud as Clint eases the tool forward without rushing. Rushing leads to dips. Dips lead to worse problems.
I crouch again, laser level in hand, tracking the red line as the surface drops by fractions.
“Two more should do it,” I call, watching the line settle.
Clint works through each pass before he eases off the trigger, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears.
Devin checks the edge with his tape. “Dead on.”
“Good job. Clean it,” I say, standing. “We’re good to move forward.”
They get back to work without ceremony, and I pocket the blueprint, the problem fixed before it could snowball into a bigger issue.
The rest of the morning flows in a rhythm of problem-solving and coordination. I check the time and discover it’s nearing lunch.
“Clint,” I call across the site. “Let’s sync up on the afternoon schedule.”
We huddle over the day’s plan near the equipment trailer, adjusting tasks based on the morning’s discoveries. Clint’s methodical thinking complements my tendency to work three steps ahead.
Clint scratches notes onto the edge of his clipboard with a stubby pencil. “If we finish waterproofing the east wall today, we can start the perimeter drain first thing tomorrow. Backfill by the end of the week, assuming the weather holds.”
“It won’t,” I say, and look toward the water, where clouds hover on the horizon. “But we can get ahead of it.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “You always say that.”
“And I’m always right,” I counter, though my attention drifts back to the foundation, checking lines out of habit. Once you see a flaw, you start searching for its friends.
Clint hooks his thumbs into his tool belt. “Anything else bothering you?”
“No,” I say, but pause and reconsider. “Not yet.”
The response earns me a look that says he knows better, but he lets it go. Good foremen understand when to push and when to keep the wheels turning.
“Lunch at noon?” Clint asks.
“Yeah. I’ll walk the perimeter once more, then I’m good.”
He heads off, already calling out assignments, and I take the long way around the foundation, running my hand over the concrete. This one was added to Phase Two late in the planning, and it’s set a little farther back from the other cabins, with a larger footprint.
I have a sneaking suspicion about who it’s intended for, but I’m pretending not to see what’s happening.
As I head toward the management trailers, I scan the grounds for any sign of Leif, but he must have left while I was busy.
Inside my cramped office space, I grab my lunch cooler as I pull my phone out to send some emails, only to find a text waiting.
Leif
Finished my meeting with the Wrights. Would you have time for lunch today?
No pressure if you’re busy.
A small flutter starts up in my chest, and relief sweeps through me when I see he only sent it a couple of minutes ago.
Grady had texted earlier that he was deep into research for his article and wouldn’t surface until dinner, and Jared’s on water taxi duty today, so I’m not otherwise committed.
My thumbs hover over the screen as I decide how to respond. Leif’s recent behavior with the canceled woodworking lesson, the ghosting, and his careful return have made me wary of investing too much. But…
Emily
I have 40 minutes before I need to be back at work.
Meet at the food tent by the visitor area in 15?
My phone buzzes right away.
Leif
Perfect. See you there.
Putting my cooler back, I stand and stretch my back.
I’ll need to change my shirt before heading to lunch.
The morning’s exertion has left me sweat-soaked, and while Leif has seen me covered in sawdust during our woodworking sessions, there’s a difference between workshop mess and construction site grime.
As I grab a clean shirt from the small locker I keep in the trailer, I push away thoughts of why I care what I look like for a simple lunch meeting.
It’s professional courtesy, I tell myself. Nothing more.
Thirteen minutes later, I approach the food tent, which flutters in the breeze coming off the water, its white canvas walls billowing like sails.
Leif sits at one of the picnic tables under the covered section, back straight and shoulders squared. When he spots me, the tension in his body eases.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I say, sliding onto the bench across from him.
“Just arrived myself.” Leif pushes a paper menu toward me. “Today’s soup is clam chowder. Holden said it’s fresh from this morning’s catch.”
Around us, the tent buzzes with lunchtime activity. Construction workers from my crew line up at the counter talk among themselves, their voices a steady rumble as they debate sandwich options. Outside, seagulls wheel and cry, diving when someone drops a crumb.
“Chowder sounds good.” I rise from the table. “Let me grab some. Do you need anything else?”
He shakes his head, indicating the bottled water and sandwich already in front of him. “I’m set, thanks.”
At the counter, I order chowder and coffee, collect my food, and return to find Leif has spread out a few napkins and arranged his sandwich on its wrapper. The need to organize his space puts me on alert, and I wonder if he had ulterior motives for inviting me to lunch.
He had his meeting at the school this week. Could this need for control have to do with Carson?
“How’s the build progressing?” he asks as I settle across from him.
“On schedule, so far.” I blow on a spoonful of chowder. “Weather’s cooperating for now.”
“The water looked choppy this morning. Kyle said the taxi ride was rougher than usual.”
“It was,” I say, swallowing the rich, creamy soup. “September winds are picking up. Once we hit October, the crossings get dicey on some days. You’ll want a good waterproof jacket for the commute.”
“Quinn’s been begging Blake for a bright yellow rain slicker like the ones in her picture books.” His mouth quirks up at one corner. “Complete with matching rain boots.”
The mention of Quinn brings a warmth to his voice that’s been missing lately. “How is she handling the school transition now that the novelty has worn off?”
“Surprisingly well.” Leif takes a careful bite of his sandwich, chewing before continuing. “She’s made a couple of friends, and her teacher says she’s participating more in group activities. Sprinkles has been a perfect gentleman.”
Our conversation flows, touching on neutral topics about the island and Leif’s work with Quinn.
As we eat, he doesn’t bring up why he came to the island today. I could prompt him, but I hold back. He’ll get there if and when he’s ready.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Leif sets down his sandwich. “I appreciate you taking the time today. You’ve got a lot on your plate.”
I shrug. “Forty minutes for lunch is hardly a sacrifice.”
“Still. I appreciate it.” He folds his sandwich wrapper into quarters. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the school.”
I set down my spoon, giving him my full attention. “The meeting with the dean?”
“Yes. According to Carson, the school has received what he called ‘community feedback’ about Sprinkles.” His fingers form air quotes around the phrase. “Nothing formal yet, but enough that he called a support plan review.”
“What kind of feedback?” I ask.