Chapter Eleven – Meryl
“I can’t wait to see these fitted on the doors,” Meryl said, holding up one of the brass knobs they’d found at the salvage yard. The metal gleamed in her palm, solid and weighty, with that satisfying feel old brass had when it had been made properly. “They feel right for this place.”
Spencer nodded, setting down the small box of hooks on the kitchen table. “That’s because they are right. Those are probably close to what was originally here.”
They’d spread their salvage yard treasures across the table like pirates examining their plunder: brass hinges, hooks, sash lifts, and the doorknobs that Meryl kept turning over in her hands.
“Where should we start?” she asked, excited to see them in place.
Spencer tilted his head, considering. “That front bedroom door. The one you repainted.”
She was absurdly pleased that he had noticed. She’d spent hours on that door, stripping away layers of flaking paint, sanding until her arms ached, then carefully applying two fresh coats of a soft, creamy white that brightened the whole upstairs hallway.
“Let’s do it,” she said, gathering the knobs and the screwdriver.
They headed upstairs, Meryl leading the way. When they reached the landing, she paused, letting Spencer see the full effect of what she’d done.
It wasn’t just the door. The upstairs hallway looked different now.
She’d cleared away the cobwebs, washed the windows at either end, and stripped the old wallpaper.
The newly painted door stood out against the still-worn walls, looking fresh and new in the middle of everything that still needed doing.
“You’ve been busy,” Spencer said, his voice low behind her.
“Well, since there’s no TV and sparse phone reception,” she admitted, “I have spent my evenings working.”
He ran his hand along the painted surface, his fingers tracing where hers had been the day before. “It looks good.”
“But these will make it look even better,” she said, holding up one of the brass knobs.
Spencer kneeled beside her as she lined up the spindle with the hole in the door.
Their shoulders brushed, and Meryl became painfully aware of how close he was: the clean scent of his skin, the quiet of his breathing, the way he held the other side of the knob without the slightest wobble while she worked.
“Hold it there,” she murmured, fitting the screws into place. His hand stayed steady as she tightened them one by one, their fingers brushing now and then in the narrow space.
When the last screw was secure, Spencer turned the knob. It moved smoothly, with a neat, satisfying click as the latch engaged.
“Perfect,” he said.
Meryl stepped back to admire their work. The brass gleamed against the fresh paint, catching the light from the window at the end of the hall. It was such a small thing, just a doorknob, but it changed the whole look of the door.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, surprised that something so small could matter so much.
Spencer smiled, only a slight curve of his lips, but it reached his eyes. “One down.”
They moved through the cottage with growing ease, fitting the salvaged pieces where the surfaces had already been prepared.
With each piece they fitted, Pine Cottage looked a little less battered. And a little more hers.
Spencer handed her tools before she had to ask. She passed him screws without him needing to reach for them. They had found their rhythm again somewhere along the way as they moved from room to room.
By late afternoon, they were in the sitting room, fitting the last brass latch on the window near where the ruined window seat stood. Meryl kneeled on the wide sill, the warmth of the sun still caught in the glass as she worked.
“Almost there,” she said, tightening the last screw.
Spencer stood close, steadying the frame while she worked. When she finished, she turned to find him watching her in a way that made her stomach flip.
“Try it,” he said.
Meryl lifted the window, feeling the new hardware slide smoothly under her hand. When she lowered it again, the latch caught with a neat click.
“It works,” she said, unable to keep the delight from her voice.
“Of course it works,” Spencer replied. “You installed it.”
The simple certainty in his voice caught her off guard. He said it as if there had never been any question that she could do this, fix things, make them work again, bring them back to what they should be.
She looked around the sitting room, taking in what they had done.
The brass hardware gleamed on the windows.
The hooks held her jacket by the door. The repainted trim stood clean and bright against the walls.
The fireplace mantel, scrubbed and polished, held a small arrangement of pine branches she had gathered that morning.
It wasn’t finished, not even close. But now, she could see beyond the mess and the work still to come. Not just a project. Not just an inheritance to deal with. A place where someone might actually live.
Where she might live.
“Coffee?” she offered, suddenly needing a moment to steady herself.
Spencer arched an eyebrow. “Do you need to ask?”
“No.” She smiled to herself as she headed to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it on the camping stove. Her hands moved automatically through the familiar ritual of grounds, filter, and water while her mind kept circling back to the sitting room and the way the brass had caught the light.
When she’d first arrived at Pine Cottage, every repair had felt like a step toward leaving, a way to make the place presentable enough to sell.
Now, each small improvement seemed to be doing something else.
Not dressing the house up to sell. Because somewhere along the way, she had started to feel as if Pine Cottage already knew who belonged there.
The kettle whistled, pulling her back. She poured the water over the grounds and watched the coffee drip through.
“Here,” Spencer said from behind her, setting two clean mugs on the counter. She had not heard him come in.
“Thanks.” She filled both mugs, then handed one to him. Their fingers brushed, and this time she did not pull away quite so quickly.
They carried their coffee back to the sitting room and settled near the windows they had just fixed. The light poured in, warming the old floorboards and catching on the newly polished brass.
“What’s next on your list?” he asked after a while.
She glanced toward the notebook on the side table. “The kitchen cabinets, probably. I’d love to have a fully functioning kitchen. And since I have the electrician coming tomorrow, I’m hoping to be a step closer to having lights I can trust and a kitchen that works properly.”
“We could start on those tomorrow.”
There it was again. We. So natural now.
“I’d like that,” she said.
The light shifted slowly. The cottage creaked once somewhere above them, then went still again.
Spencer set his mug down. “I should probably head off. It’s getting late.”
Meryl looked at him, at the mug in his hand, at the room they had just made lovelier together, and understood with a jolt that she did not want the day to end yet.
“You could stay for dinner.”
Spencer looked up.
Heat rushed into her face so fast it made her want to be annoyed with herself.
“I mean, only if you want to,” she said at once.
“It’s no big deal. Just... you’ve done a lot today, and I haven’t exactly got much in apart from eggs and bread and some cheese and half a packet of pasta, so it won’t be anything special.
And if you’ve got plans, or you’d rather not, that’s obviously fine.
I just thought...” She stopped and pressed her lips together.
“Well. It seemed like the least I could do.”
For one terrible second, he only stared at her.
Then his face cracked into a wide smile that made her heart leap.
“I’d love to,” he said.
Meryl smiled back before she could stop herself, and the relief that ran through her was immediate.
Only it was not just relief.
That was the problem.
Relief was part of it, yes. Relief that she had not made a fool of herself. Relief that he had not politely refused.
But underneath that was the simpler truth she had nearly talked herself out of.
She did not want him to go.
“Right,” she said, unable to wipe the smile from her face. “In that case, I should probably get started on a not-very-impressive dinner.”
Spencer’s eyes were still on her. “I’m sure we can manage something a little impressive.”
We again.
And this time, instead of catching at the word, Meryl found she liked the sound of it far too much.
But she liked Spencer Thornberg much more.