Chapter 31 Elena
The storm everyone had been talking about was finally rolling in.
I'd been nervous all day. Not about Caleb, but about Dad meeting Caleb. About whether they'd get along, whether Dad would approve, whether this dinner would feel as right as everything else had.
The weekend had been hard. We'd talked through the grocery store, through seeing Matt with his mother, through the grief I hadn't let myself feel until it came pouring out in Caleb's arms. He'd listened, really listened.
Never made me feel like loving him meant I was wrong for still mourning what I'd lost. By Sunday night, something had shifted.
The heaviness had lifted, and what remained was… certainty.
I wanted this. Us.
Now it was Thursday, and he'd be here any minute.
I pulled the green beans off the stove. Dad was carving the roast at the counter, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses perched on his nose.
"He's not late, Ellie," Dad said without looking up.
"I didn't say he was."
"You've checked your phone three times in the last five minutes."
I set my phone face-down on the counter.
Dad smiled and kept carving.
Headlights cut across the driveway and I looked out the window. Caleb's truck, right on time. Scout's face was visible in the passenger window.
"He brought Daisy’s brother," I said.
"Good. She’s been pacing."
I opened the door before he knocked. Caleb stood on the porch with a bottle of wine in one hand, Scout's leash in the other. He looked nervous. Not much, but enough that I could tell.
"Hey," he said.
I kissed him. Quick, but enough to ground us both.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Yeah."
Daisy came bounding to the door, saw Scout, and immediately the two of them were tangled together, tails going. Caleb let Scout off the leash and they tore into the living room.
"Figured they'd keep each other busy," he said.
"Smart thinking."
We walked into the kitchen. Dad turned from the counter, wiped his hands, extended one to Caleb.
"Caleb Wright," Dad said. "Those shelves you built are still the best thing in my workshop."
"Elena says you're still working on your grandmother's place."
"Been at it about two years now."
"That's dedication." Dad's handshake was firm, his eyes assessing. "Your grandmother was a hell of a woman. Tough as nails."
"She was," Caleb said, and something in his face softened. "Raised me when my folks couldn't."
Dad nodded, understanding passing between them. "She did a damn good job."
We sat down to eat, Dad at one end of the table, me and Caleb on either side. The food made its way around—roast, potatoes, beans. Dad poured wine while the wind rattled the windows.
"Storm's supposed to hit tonight," Dad said. "You see the forecast?"
"Yeah. Should be a big one."
"You get that porch reinforced before it came through?"
Caleb cut into his meat. "Finished it Tuesday. Just in time."
"Good timing."
They talked about the house after that. What Caleb had done, what was left. Dad asked about joinery, about whether Caleb was using original materials or modern replacements. Caleb answered easily, no pretense, just straightforward talk about the work.
I watched them. Dad leaning back in his chair, wine glass in hand, relaxed. Caleb meeting his questions without trying too hard. Their conversation settled into an easy rhythm..
"You hunt?" Dad asked.
"More of a fishing man."
"Ah, good man."
"Haven’t done it in a while, though. Spend most of the time working on the house nowadays."
A crash came from the living room, and we all looked over. Scout had knocked into the side table, sending a magazine sliding to the floor. Daisy pounced on it immediately.
"Daisy, leave it," I called. She ignored me completely.
Dad shook his head, almost smiling. "Elena says you found those puppies at a work site."
"I did. Brought them to her clinic. She saved them."
"And you kept one."
"Scout. The quiet one." Caleb glanced toward the living room where both dogs were now sprawled by the fireplace. "Seemed like he needed someone who'd let him be."
Dad looked at me, then back at Caleb. "That how you two ended up together? The puppies?"
"That's how it started." Caleb's eyes found mine across the table. "Kept finding excuses to bring Scout in for checkups."
I felt my face flush. "He brought him in once because he’d sneezed three times."
"Could've been getting sick."
"He was fine."
Dad laughed. "Sounds about right."
We finished eating. Dad refilled our wine glasses, asked about Caleb's other projects. Caleb asked about Dad's woodworking, whether he still used the workshop out back. The conversation kept flowing, easier now.
Outside, the rain was getting heavier. Wind picked up, bending the trees visible through the kitchen window.
"It's really coming down," I said.
Dad nodded. "Supposed to get worse."
Caleb looked toward the window, then at me. "Might need to wait it out."
"Stay as long as you need," Dad said. "No sense driving in that."
I stood to clear plates and Caleb helped. We moved around each other in the small kitchen while Dad stayed at the table with his wine, watching us with something in his eyes that I couldn't quite read.
Then someone knocked.
We all stopped. The dogs lifted their heads.
"Who the hell is out in this?" Dad frowned.
The knock came again—urgent, insistent—and I walked to the door.
Carol Reeves stood there, soaked completely through. Hair stuck to her face, cardigan dripping, slippers covered in mud. She looked small. Lost.
"Margaret?" Her voice shook. She thought I was my mother. "Is Matthew here? There’s a storm and I can't find my boy."