4. Not My Problem #2
Harris shakes his head, but some of the humor fades from his expression.
"Jack, I've known you long enough to know the history between your family and the Monroes. You know that."
My jaw tightens.
"I do."
He lowers his voice. "And I also know Claire isn't responsible for everything that happened between your families."
I look away.
We've been over this.
Logically, I know he's right.
That doesn't erase years of history.
"You need to let some of that resentment go," Harris continues. "Fix the stairs if you need to fix the stairs. But maybe try talking to her while you're there."
"I did talk to her."
"Really talk."
I stare into the cart like the deck screws might rearrange themselves into a better plan.
"She agreed the porch needs to be fixed," I say finally. "She just thinks it'll hold through the storm."
Harris lets out a long-suffering sigh.
"Okay. Fine. Fix it."
"Thank you for your permission."
He points two fingers at me.
"But tell her what you're doing first. Don't just show up and start tearing apart her porch like a raccoon with a tool belt."
I stare at him.
"A raccoon with a tool belt?"
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Talk to Claire."
I roll my eyes and push the cart toward the next aisle.
"I'll talk to her."
Harris follows me for several steps.
"Before you start?"
I give him a noncommittal grunt.
"Jack."
I turn the cart into the next aisle.
"Good seeing you, Harris."
"Try not to start a war on the porch," he calls after me.
I lift one hand without looking back.
"Go away."
He laughs.
"See you, Jack."
"Stay safe."
I hear him walk away and turn my attention back to the shelves.
I finish gathering what I need, making a deliberate effort not to buy more than necessary.
This isn't a full rebuild.
It's stabilization.
A temporary fix to get the porch through the storm and buy Claire some time to decide what she's doing with the house.
That's all.
I check out and load the supplies into the bed of my truck with the efficiency of a man who's definitely not thinking too hard about any of this.
The plan is simple.
Fix the hazard.
Avoid another argument.
Go back to my life.
Nothing complicated about that.
Probably.
***
I park at the edge of my driveway and stare across the property line like the Monroe house might somehow become less irritating if I look at it long enough.
It doesn't.
I kill the engine and glance toward the porch.
The swing is still hanging crooked.
Of course it is.
Apparently, the entire house has decided to become a personal challenge.
Harris's voice echoes in my head.
Tell her what you're doing.
I exhale.
"Fine."
I grab my tool bag and supplies from the truck and head across the yard. The wind catches at my jacket the second I step outside.
Not storm wind yet.
Just enough to make me squint and remind me that the weather is thinking about it.
By the time I reach the Monroe porch, my attention goes straight to the weak corner of the landing.
"Fix the hazard. Avoid the argument. Go back to my life," I mutter.
Simple.
I knock.
Then, for good measure, I press the doorbell.
Nothing.
I wait.
Still nothing.
My jaw tightens.
I'm not standing here all day.
I should leave.
Instead, I crouch and set my tool bag beside the landing.
I can at least stabilize the corner while I wait. Nothing permanent. Nothing that can't be undone. Just a temporary brace to keep the landing from shifting like it's considering folding in on itself.
I'm positioning the bracket when the front door opens behind me.
I don't turn immediately.
Mostly because I'm looking at the bracket.
Partly because if I keep looking at the bracket, I can pretend this is a perfectly normal situation.
"What are you doing?"
Claire's voice is flat.
Controlled.
Somehow, that's worse than yelling.
I finally look over my shoulder.
She's standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, her gaze moving from my tools to the landing and finally to me.
"I'm fixing this."
"I didn't agree to that."
"You agreed it's a hazard."
Her eyes narrow.
"I agreed it needs to be fixed. I did not agree that you could show up and start building things on my porch."
I stand and wipe my hands on my jeans.
"I'm not building anything."
She looks pointedly at the tools scattered beside me.
"I'm stabilizing it."
"That sounds suspiciously like something a person says while building something."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth almost twitches.
Almost.
"It's a temporary brace. It'll keep the landing from shifting until you can have it properly repaired."
Claire looks down at the corner I've started working on.
Something in her expression changes.
Barely.
But I notice.
She sees it now.
The way the landing has shifted.
The gap near the support.
The fact that I might actually have a point.
I give it five seconds before she denies all of the above.
Instead, she looks toward the sky.
The clouds have darkened since I left the hardware store, stretching low over the water.
"So I guess it'll be rain instead of snow," she says. "Unfortunate."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Barely.
"It'll start soon enough." I gesture toward the landing. "I might as well finish what I started."
Claire huffs.
"Considering you've probably made it worse in the process, I guess you should."
I stare at her.
"That's not how repairs work."
"Isn't it?"
"No."
"Good to know."
She stays in the doorway.
I should get back to work. Instead, I find myself watching her. Not intentionally. At least, not at first.
Her attention has shifted back to the horizon.
Something about her expression catches me.
Worry.
Maybe even fear.
I frown.
Claire grew up in Tidehaven. Storms are part of life here. This one isn't even supposed to be particularly bad.
But she's staring at those clouds like there's a Category Five hurricane brewing offshore.
"You okay?"
The wind picks up, forcing me to raise my voice.
Her attention snaps back to me.
Whatever I saw disappears almost immediately.
"I'm fine."
There it is again.
Too quick.
Too automatic.
"Claire—"
"Just finish whatever you're doing."
Before I can say anything else, she steps inside and closes the door.
I stare at it for a second.
Then I crouch beside the landing again.
Not my business.
I position the bracket and drive the first deck screw into place.
The drill whirs beneath the growing sound of the wind.
I drive in the second screw, tightening the brace until the corner sits more securely.
But I can't stop thinking about the way Claire looked at the horizon.
It wasn't the storm.
Not exactly.
It was more like she was bracing herself for what a storm could do.
I look toward the closed front door.
Then back at the landing.
One problem at a time.