I grab my things—and the bag of scones—and head toward him, trying to project confidence I’m not entirely feeling.
“Morning,” I call, lifting the bag. “Brought reinforcements.”
He gives a small nod, pocketing his notebook. “You’re prompt. That’s good.”
Not exactly effusive praise, but I’ll take it. “One of my few virtues,” I say, carefully climbing the porch steps. They still creak ominously, but they hold. “That and a disturbing ability to function on very little sleep.”
Something flickers across his face—amusement? Hard to tell. It vanishes too quickly to be sure.
“We should talk inside,” he says, gesturingtoward the door. “I rechecked the structure this morning. The main room’s stable enough for now.”
“Comforting,” I mutter, but follow him in.
The house looks different in the morning light—still a disaster, but somehow less hopeless. Sunlight streams through the unbroken windows, catching the dust in golden slants. I notice details I missed before—exposed beams, a small woodstove in the corner, windows on three sides. There’s potential here, even if it’s buried beneath years of rot and bad decisions.
In the center of the room, Owen’s set up a folding table and two chairs—clearly brought from his truck, the only things in here not threatening tetanus.
“You came prepared,” I say.
“Always.” He sets a folder on the table and gestures for me to sit. “Walt says you’re planning to stay. Through Christmas?”
News really does travel at warp speed here.
“That’s the plan,” I say, sitting down. “Unless the house collapses first.”
“It won’t collapse.” He’s matter-of-fact. “Not if we do it right.”
We.The word hangs there, heavier than it should be.
I open the bag and offer him a scone. “Peace offering. Or bribery. Depending on how this meeting goes.”
He hesitates, then takes one with a nod. “Marge’s?”
“How’d you guess?”
“The maple glaze. It’s her signature.” He takes a bite, and his expression—just for a second—softens. “Nobody makes them like Marge.”
It’s such a simple, human moment that it throws me a little. I take a scone for myself and focus on the buttery pastry, not the man across from me who just smiled at a baked good like it whispered secrets.
Owen opens the folder. “I’ve put together a preliminary timeline and scope of work,” he says, all business again. “Based on the inspection, we’re basically rebuilding from theground up. Salvaging what we can, but structurally, we start over.”
He slides a document across the table. A detailed timeline broken into phases—foundation repair, structural framing, roofing, systems install, interior finishes. Estimated costs. Decision deadlines.
“This is... incredibly thorough,” I say, scanning the page. “And slightly terrifying.”
“It’s realistic,” he replies. “Foundation is priority one. We’ll need to jack the structure, pour new footings, replace sill plates before anything else.”
I nod like I understand what sill plates are, mentally flagging it for a Google search later.
“And the six-month timeline?” I ask. “Is that doable, or aspirational?”
“It’s tight,” he says, “but feasible. If decisions are made promptly—and there are no major surprises.”
“In my experience, there arealwayssurprises,” I mutter, still reading. The numbers make me wince, but they’re notdisasterlevels. The labor-at-cost agreement is saving me thousands.
“I built in fifteen percent contingency,” Owen says, tapping a section of the spreadsheet. “Time and budget.”
I glance up. “You’re... very thorough.”
