25. AVA
AVA
Hiding the Puck
Laura's front door opens before I knock.
"There she is."
She steps onto the porch with both arms open, light brown hair pinned loosely. She pulls me into a hug that wraps me with warmth. I start to lean into her.
This is a client consultation. Behave accordingly.
Except professionals don't melt into the hug the way I just did.
"How's my favorite designer?"
"Under-caffeinated and overly ambitious. The usual." I lift my iPad. "I brought mood boards."
"And I made scones."
She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me inside. "You look tired, Ava. Let’s eat first then we can talk about the renovation later."
I smile as we walk to the kitchen, grateful for the offer.
The kitchen has 1990s oak cabinetry with cathedral-arch doors that peaked in style when people still considered mauve a neutral. Its tile countertops has grout lines darkened from decades of family dinners.
But there are fresh wildflowers on the sill and a plate of scones.
She pours me tea, slides the plate closer.
My designer eye catalogs the bones of this room before I take my first bite.
The sightlines are blocked by a half-wall separating the kitchen from the family room. The lighting is flat, no layering. The workflow forces whoever cooks to face cabinetry instead of the room where everyone gathers.
But on the doorframe beside the fridge, someone penciled a height chart in fading graphite. Kai, age 6. Mira, age 3. Kai, age 8.
My fingers itch to trace the marks. I eat a scone instead.
"So." I pull up a blank board on the iPad. "Where do we start?"
Laura runs her palm along the counter top.
"When the kids were little, I could see everything from this stove. Kai spreading homework across the floor. Mira chasing our cat around the table legs. I watched them grow up from right here."
She turns toward the half-wall. "Then Charles put that in for the plumbing. Now I can hear people laughing in the next room but I can't see their faces. It's been driving me crazy for fifteen years."
"You want the sightlines back."
"I want to stand at this stove and know who's sitting on my couch. I want to feel my whole family in the room, not just hear them through drywall."
I sketch a quick layout on the iPad. "That wall isn't load-bearing. We can take it down in a way that you’ll have a view of the living room and keep the plumbing chase."
Her eyes go wide. "You can do that?"
"I've done it on tighter layouts with lower ceilings."
"Show me."
I tilt the screen toward her and walk her through the rough layout. She leans in, her shoulder pressing against mine, perfume mixing with warm air.
"I love this." She squeezes my wrist. "Let me show you the rest."
We walk through room by room. Laura doesn't hand me a Pinterest board or ask for a modern farmhouse. She tells me what each room holds.
The guest room with the water stain on the ceiling: "Kai tried to fix the bathroom pipe at fourteen but flooded the whole upstairs.
Charles stood ankle-deep in water screaming about calling a plumber.
Then Kai said something that cracked them both up so badly they forgot to turn off the valve.
I found them twenty minutes later, soaking wet and still laughing. "
The master bedroom with the east-facing bay window: "I've watched the sunrise from this spot for decades. Whatever you change in this house, don't you dare touch my morning light."
I take notes on all of it, my brain humming with possibility. The guest ceiling patched and vaulted if the joists allow. A built-in window seat in the master bay where Laura can sit with her coffee and watch the sunrise she's earned.
"You love this house," I say as we circle back toward the kitchen.
"I love who we became inside it. The house just held the shape."
She lifts her tea. "That's why I wanted you specifically. Mira showed me some of your work. You find what a space already is and you make it louder."
My fingers are still on the iPad. She sees my work the way I see it.
"That's probably the nicest thing a client has ever said to me."
"I'm not just a client, Ava. I’m Kai’s mother."
The warmth in her voice wraps around me so tight it hurts.
We're standing at the breakfast bar discussing pendant lights when a wave of fatigue rolls through me. My hand drifts to my lower belly and I sit.
Laura's eyes sharpen. They drop to my hand then lift to my face. Her face lights up as she reaches out and covers my hand with hers.
"Ava." Her voice goes soft, careful. "Is there something to celebrate? Something you haven't shared with us yet?"
My heart slams against my ribs.
She sees it. Your stupid hand just gave her everything.
I pull my hand away, almost knocking down a plate. I grip the iPad.
"What? No. It’s just a cramp. I skipped breakfast this morning and ate a granola bar in the car, which barely counts."
"You just ate two of my scones."
"Right. So maybe it's dehydration? I forget to drink water when I'm working."
Her gaze keeps drifting back to my middle. The slight press of her lips tells me everything.
"You work too hard," she says, squeezing my knee. "Kai tells me you never stop."
"Kai is one to talk. The man trains like sleep is optional."
"He gets that from Charles." A smile, but her eyes are still soft with something she's choosing not to name. "You know, if there were ever anything you wanted to tell me... about anything at all... I hope you know you could."
My throat closes.
How do I tell her about a pregnancy her son doesn’t know about?
We spend some more time on finishes, timeline, and rough budget.
By the time I’m leaving, I’m brimming with ideas.
At the front door, she squeezes both my hands in hers. "Thank you for doing this, Ava."
Then she looks pointedly at my stomach. I look away.
“Thank you, Laura,” I say weakly.
The drive home feels like crossing into a different country. My street is narrower, quieter. By the time I pull into my driveway, exhaustion has settled so deep into my limbs that the walk from the car to the front door feels like crossing a desert.
Biscuit meets me with her full-body wiggle, nose jabbing into my hip. I crouch and let her lick my chin while I try to summon the energy to take off my shoes.
"Hey, girl. Your mom almost blew up everything she's built."
I drop my bag and settle on the couch, putting on the TV to watch an evening show. The sound of the doorbell startles me.
Biscuit is at the door, body stiff, ears flat. The low growl she reserves for one specific person rumbles through her chest.
Through the peephole I see my father holding a paper bakery bag and smiling.
I open the door.
"Hey, sweetheart."
His hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, the same shade mine turn in this light. He's filled out more since the last time I saw him, his chestnut hair greying well past the temples now.
He lifts the bag. "Almond croissants. Your favorite."
They were my favorite ages ago. I eat chocolate ones now, but he wouldn't know that because he wasn't around for the switch.
"Dad. You didn't call."
"Wanted to surprise my girl."
He opens his arms and pulls me into a warm, solid hug that smells like cigarettes he swears he quit. I lean in for a few seconds.
Biscuit growls from behind my knee.
"She still hates me," he says, glancing down.
I step aside. "Come in."
He sets the bakery bag on the counter, runs his eyes across the living room, nodding slowly.
"Your place looks beautiful, Ava. Really beautiful."
"Thanks, Dad."
He sits at the counter and laces his fingers. "So. How are you feeling?"
“I’m fine.”
“How is the baby?”
I freeze. "Who told you?"
His smile dims a fraction.
"Your mother told me the news. " He grins. “I’m having a grandkid.”
Mom. Of course.
"She's worried about you, sweetheart. Said the pregnancy's been complicated. I wanted to check on my girl."
He rubs his thumb across the countertop. "I should have come sooner."
For a second I wonder if he’s regretting his actions.
"I'm okay. The baby is healthy. The medical stuff is being managed."
"And the father? Your mom says he's a good man. Hockey player?"
"Kai. Yeah." I swallow. "He's a good man."
"Does he show up for you?"
"Every time."
Dad reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. His grip is broad, warm, and familiar.
"You deserve that, baby girl." His eyes are wet, shining. "I want to be around for the baby and you. I know I haven't earned it, but I'm asking for the chance."
I stare at the croissant. I should tell him to leave so he won’t break my heart again. Instead, I nod.
“Okay. Thanks, Dad."
He stays for an hour. Asks about my cravings, whether I want a boy or a girl.
Tells me about a coworker whose daughter just had twins, his whole face lighting up at the parts about the baby shower. He refills my water glass without being asked and laughs about how his own father fainted in the delivery room.
Maybe he wants to change for real this time.
I find myself warming up to him. By the time he’s leaving, he kisses my forehead.
"I'll call you this weekend."
"Sure, Dad."
Biscuit watches him walk to his truck, ears flat, then presses her body against me. As my father drives off, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake by letting him in again.