Chapter 22 Matt
Caleb's truck pulled up at noon on Saturday, exactly on time.
I'd changed my shirt twice. Put on earrings, then took them off. Daisy had watched the whole thing from the couch, head tilted like she was trying to understand what the problem was.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out before I could change my mind.
Scout was in the passenger seat, tail wagging when he saw me. Caleb leaned across to open the door.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
I climbed in with Daisy. The cab smelled like sawdust and coffee. Scout nosed Daisy's face, and the two of them settled between us, tails thumping.
We drove toward town, the morning light sharp and cold. Caleb didn't fill the silence with small talk, and I was grateful for it. Just the hum of the engine, the dogs panting softly.
Mae's Coffee came into view, same faded awning it had had since I was a kid, the usual Saturday crowd packed inside. Caleb slowed, looking for parking.
Then I saw it. The patrol car, parked right out front.
I noticed my hands were in fists. I didn't remember doing that.
Caleb pulled into a spot and put the truck in park. The engine idled. He looked out the windshield for a moment, taking in the street, the coffee shop, the patrol car. Then he looked at me.
"We don't have to go here," he said.
I looked over at him. His expression was calm, like he'd just suggested changing the radio station.
"There's the diner," he said. "Or we could drive over to Coopersville. They've got that new place."
I nodded, but the thought of sitting in a crowded room right now made my chest tight.
Scout whined softly, shifting between us. Caleb looked down at him, then at me. "Or we could head back to my place. I've got coffee, and the dogs could run around, burn off some energy."
He wasn't looking at me anymore, just scratching Scout behind the ears, like this was purely a practical consideration.
He made it easy to say yes.
"Your place," I said. "That sounds good."
He nodded once, shifted into reverse, and pulled back out onto Main Street.
Neither of us mentioned the patrol car.
We drove in silence, the town falling away behind us. Fields on either side, scattered houses, the road quiet.
"It's my grandmother's place," he said after a few minutes. "She left it to me when she passed. Been fixing it up for the past two years."
"You're living there?"
"Yeah. Workshop's out back. House needs a lot of work, but the bones are good."
I looked over at him, comfortable behind the wheel, and realized I was comfortable too.
"I'd like to see it," I said.
"Good," he said. "Because we're here."
The farmhouse sat at the end of a long gravel driveway, white clapboard siding gone gray with age, a porch that wrapped around the front and sagged slightly on one side. But the roof looked new, and the windows were clean. Behind the house, a barn-style workshop sat with its wide doors open.
Caleb let the dogs out first. They bolted across the yard, immediately tangling together in a play-fight that sent them rolling through the grass.
"Coffee's in the workshop," he said. "I was working this morning."
I followed him across the yard. The workshop smelled like sawdust and wood stain, sunlight streaming through big windows on the east side.
A long workbench ran along one wall, covered in tools, with a cabinet door clamped in a vice, half-sanded.
Scout's bed was tucked in the corner, a water bowl beside it.
Near the door, a coffee pot waited on a small table, two mugs and a tin of sugar beside it.
Caleb poured coffee into both mugs and handed me one.
"Black okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
I took a sip. Good coffee.
I walked over to the workbench, ran my fingers along the cabinet door. The wood was smooth where he'd sanded it, rough where he hadn't. The grain was beautiful—maple, maybe, or cherry.
"You made this?"
"Yeah. Kitchen cabinets for the house." He came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "Original ones were rotted through. Had to start over."
"It's beautiful."
He shrugged, like beauty was incidental. "It's functional."
I looked at him. He was watching the cabinet door, not me, his expression thoughtful.
"Want to see the house?" he asked.
"Yeah. I do."
The porch creaked under our feet. He opened the front door and let me in first.
The interior was a work in progress—drop cloths on the living room floor, paint cans stacked against the wall. But the bones were visible. Original hardwood floors, high ceilings, a stone fireplace that took up half the wall.
"Started with the kitchen," he said, leading me through.
The kitchen was half-gutted, old cabinets torn out and new ones going in. I recognized the wood from the workshop.
"You're building all of this yourself?"
"Yeah."
I ran my hand over one of the finished cabinets. Smooth, solid, the joinery tight and clean.
"How long have you been working on it?"
"Two years. Maybe another year to finish."
"This is a lot of work," I said. "Most people would just tear it down. Start over."
"I like the work." He shrugged. "It's worth saving."
He showed me the rest of the house. The living room with its refinished floors, the bedrooms upstairs that still needed drywall, the bathroom where he'd saved the vintage clawfoot tub. Every room had that same quality: old bones, careful restoration, nothing rushed.
We ended up on the back porch. The dogs were sprawled in the grass, panting and happy. I sat on the top step, and Caleb sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"Your grandmother lived here?" I asked.
"Yeah. Sixty years. Raised my dad here, then me when my parents couldn't." He was quiet for a moment. "She was the one who taught me to build things. Said if you're going to do something, do it right."
"Your grandmother taught you?"
"Dad wasn't in the picture. Mom either, after a while." He shrugged. "Grandma raised me from when I was eight. Said idle hands were the devil's business, so she put me to work."
I didn't push. He'd tell me more if he wanted to.
"She'd be proud of this," I said.
"Hope so."
We sat in silence, watching the dogs. The air was cold, but the sun was warm on my face.
"You're good at this," I said, looking out at the house. "All of it."
"So are you."
I glanced at him. "I don't build houses."
"No. You built a clinic." He took a sip of coffee. "Everyone talks about it. How you took over from your dad, made it into something bigger. That takes work."
"I had help."
"But you made the choices." He took another sip of coffee, like that settled it.
I didn't know what to say to that.
We sat in silence, watching the dogs. The air was cold, but the sun was warm on my face.
"More coffee?" he said.
I nodded.
He went inside and came back with the pot, refilled both our mugs, and sat back down beside me. A little closer this time.
Daisy wandered over and flopped down at my feet. Scout followed, collapsing beside her.
"They're good together," Caleb said.
"Yeah. They are."
We drank our coffee and watched the dogs sleep. The silence between us felt easy, unhurried.
It was the best I'd felt in days.
By the time we headed back to the truck, the sun was lower, the shadows long across the yard. The dogs were filthy and exhausted, tongues lolling.
Daisy jumped in and curled up on the seat, Scout following. Caleb held the door for me.
"Thanks for showing me all this," I said.
"Thanks for coming."
There was a pause. He shifted his weight, looked at the truck, then back at me.
"So," he said. Then stopped.
I waited.
"Next Saturday," he said. "If you want. We could—" He gestured vaguely at the house. "I'll be working on the living room. You could come by. Or not. If you're busy."
This man could build an entire house from the ground up, but asking me out made him stumble over his words.
"Caleb," I said.
"Yeah?"
I stepped forward and hugged him. It was impulsive, my arms around his shoulders, his flannel soft under my hands. He went still, like he'd forgotten how this worked, and I pulled back just enough to kiss his cheek. Quick, before I could talk myself out of it.
He stared at me. Not upset. Just stunned.
"Same time next week," I said. "I'll be there."
The corner of his mouth lifted, warmer than I'd seen before. "Okay. Good."
I was still smiling when he dropped me home.
His house wasn't finished, but it was being built right. Carefully, with patience. I thought about that for the rest of the night.