“Ignore them,” Owen murmurs, not looking back. “Small town entertainment.”
“And here I thought I left the fishbowl behind when I quit PR,” I mutter, following him down an aisle stocked with items that appear organized byviberather than category. Garden hoses dangle over electrical outlets. A display of work gloves is next to a stack of scented candles labeledMaple Glen Forest,which I assume smells like pine, rain, and judgment.
We’re here for foundation supplies—concrete, reinforcement rods, and a slew of intimidating items Owen texted me at 6:15 AM in spreadsheet form.Ever since we learned my house was essentially sitting on rotting toothpicks, we’ve pivoted hard tocomplete foundation reconstruction.
“Owen Carver!” Walt’s voice booms from behind the counter, where he’s busy sorting twelve versions of what look like the exact same screw. “Right on time, as always.”
“Walt.” Owen nods, expression softening ever so slightly. “Got my order ready?”
“Been pulling it since dawn. Your dad called it in last night.” Walt walks around the counter, surprisingly spry for someone who might predate the store itself. He claps Owen on the shoulder with the kind of affection reserved for family or very long tabs. “How’s he doing today?”
“Better. PT’s helping.”
It’s short, but not brusque. I file that away—Owen’s father, recovering, physical therapy.The Carver puzzle gets another piece.
Walt turns to me next, eyes twinkling with undisguised curiosity. “And Ms. Winslow! Surprised to see you still in town. Most auction house buyers are gone before the first weekend.”
“I’m not most people,” I say, trying for confidence. Three customers in the paint aisle are now openly watching our exchange like it’s daytime television.
“Clearly not.” Walt grins. “You’ve got the whole town buzzing. Doris at The Griddle says the betting pool’s up to five hundred bucks.”
“Walt,” Owen warns.
Walt waves him off. “She might as well know. Transparency and all that.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry—I’ve got you lasting ‘til Thanksgiving. Marge says Christmas.”
“Ambitious,” I deadpan. “What’s the popular bet?”
“First frost,” Walt admits. “Though that’s shifting.”
Owen clears his throat. “The supplies, Walt?”
“Right, right.” He gestures toward the back. “Maggie’s pulling the rest. Got most of it in already.” He pushes through a door markedEmployees Only.“Foundation work, huh? That bad?”
“Worse,” Owen confirms. “Complete rebuild.”
Walt lets out a low whistle. “No wonder the last three owners bailed.”
“I’m not running,” I say quickly, surprising even myself a little. “I mean, I’ve considered it as a general life strategy, but not because of some rotting lumber and... uh—what are the beam things called again?”
“Floor joists,” Owen supplies.
“Those,” I nod. “The foundation’s fixable. We’re fixing it.”
Walt and Owen exchange a look I can’t read. Then Walt chuckles. “Well, I’ll be. Maybe Marge will win that bet after all.”
We step into the back stockroom, which is somehow both chaotically full and impressively organized. A young woman with dark hair in a messy ponytail is checking items off a clipboard. She looks up—and there’s no mistaking the resemblance. Same sharp cheekbones. Same gray-blue eyes. Same quiet intensity.
“Got everything except the galvanized brackets,” she says. “Delivery’s Thursday.”
“Maggie,” Owen says with a nod that says everything and nothing.
“Big brother,” she replies with a grin, then turns to me with interest. “You must be the famous Penny. The whole town’s talking about you.”
“So I’ve noticed,” I reply, feeling my cheeks warm. “Apparently bad real estate decisions are Maple Glen’s new spectator sport.”
She laughs. “Are you kidding? The biggest news last month was Mrs. Peterson’s cat getting stuck in the same tree for the third time. You’re practically a celebrity.”
“Maggie,” Owen says, tone weary.
