“You must be the Sequin Shack girl,” he says without preamble.
I wince but offer my hand. “Penny Winslow. And it’s called Penny’s Place now.”
I decided this on the walk over. If my house is going to have a nickname, I’m rebranding it myself. PR instincts die hard.
Walt shakes my hand with more strength than expected. “Walt Henderson. Marge said you might stop in.”
“She mentioned you had salvage materials?”
“Might.” He studies me over his glasses. “Depends what you’re looking for. And how long you’re planning to stick around.”
The challenge is clear. I square my shoulders. “Long enough to finish what I started.”
A flicker—approval, maybe—crosses his face. “Owen sent over his assessment. Foundation’s toast. Roof’s worse. Place basically needs rebuilding.”
“You’ve seen the assessment?” I ask.
Walt snorts. “I see everything involving building in this town. Been supplying the Carvers since Owen was knee-high to a grasshopper. Good family. Talented. Bit cursed, though.”
“Cursed?” I repeat, because obviously.
“The Carver Curse.” He nods like that should explain everything. “Three generations of men who start moreprojects than they finish. Owen’s granddad was the same—brilliant hands, scattered focus.”
“And Owen?”
Walt’s eyes twinkle. “He fights it harder than most. Takes after his mother—stubborn as hell. But the curse finds a way. Always does.”
“What does that mean for my house?”
“Means you’d better be interesting enough to keep his attention.”
I blink.What.
He turns, motioning for me to follow. “Got some reclaimed flooring you might like. Special order. Guy skipped town. Been in storage ever since.”
I follow him, still chewing oninteresting enough to keep his attentionlike it’s a line from a prophecy.
“Is that why people think I won’t last until fall?” I ask. “Because of the curse?”
Walt glances back. “You heard that, huh?”
“Hard not to when people say it two feet away from you at The Griddle.”
He has the decency to look mildly sheepish. “Small town. No secrets.” He stops beside a stack of honey-colored planks. “Maple. From an old barn in Vermont. Enough to cover four hundred square feet.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, running my fingers along the smooth edge. “But probably out of budget, considering the structural stuff.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But I’ll make you a deal. You stay through Christmas—prove the busybodies wrong—and it’s yours at cost.”
I blink. “Why would you do that?”
Walt studies me. “Been here sixty-three years. Seen people come and go. The ones who run at the first sign of trouble? Not worth the plywood. But the ones who stay…” He shrugs. “Those are the ones who make Maple Glen what it is.”
It’s a test. The whole town is watching to see whether I run or stay. And I know which type I’ve always been.
“Deal,” I say, holding out my hand.
He shakes on it, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Owen’s stopping in tomorrow. Supply run for your place. Initial stabilization. You might want to be here—around ten.”
