“Also disturbingly accurate.” I gesture to the folding chairs near the worktable. “Should I be concerned about this conversation?”
“Not at all.” She settles into a seat. “I’m just curious about the woman who’s apparently broken my brother’s hermit streak. He actually mentioned you.Voluntarily.Without being asked. This is unprecedented.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “He’s mentioned me? What did he say?”
“Nothing scandalous,” she says, clearly disappointed by that fact. “Just that you have ‘unexpectedly good spatial awareness’ and ‘actually listen when corrected,’ which, in Owen-speak, is practically a sonnet.”
“I’m flattered,” I say dryly, though something warm flickers in my chest. “But I think you’re reading too much into professional courtesy.”
“Maybe.” Maggie doesn’t look convinced. “But professional courtesy doesn’t usually involve bringing home-baked muffins to job sites or letting Finn stay with you when he’s not around.”
I blink. “How do you even know about the muffins?”
“Small town,” she says with a shrug. “I was at Marge’s yesterday when you picked them up. And I quote:‘Owen mentioned he was skipping lunch to finish the support beams, so I thought I’d bring something for the team.’Team of two, by the way.”
My cheeks flush. “It was just muffins. Not a marriage proposal.”
“In Owen-language, accepting baked goods is basically third base.” Her eyes sparkle. “But I didn’t come here to tease you.Much.I actually brought something I thought you might want to see.”
She pulls out her phone, flipping through what looks like a photo album. “Owen would absolutely murder me if he knew I was showing you this, so this conversation never happened.”
“Now I’m definitely intrigued.” I scoot my chair closer as she turns the phone toward me.
The first photo shows a much younger Owen—maybe twelve or thirteen—standing proudly beside what appears to be an elaborate treehouse. His face is more open, his smile unguarded in a way I’ve never seen in adult Owen.
“He built that entirely by himself the summer after sixth grade,” Maggie explains. “Dad gave him some basic instruction, but the design? All Owen.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, genuinely impressed. The treehouse has multiple levels, a rope bridge, and what looks like a pulley system for hauling supplies. “He was building things like this at twelve?”
“Owen’s been designing structures since he could hold a pencil.” She swipes to another photo—an even younger Owen surrounded by intricate block constructions. “Mom used to say he was building in his crib instead of napping.”
She keeps swiping: Owen with a model house made of popsicle sticks. Teenage Owen with architectural drawings spread across a kitchen table. College-aged Owen standing beside what looks like a small finished cabin.
“These are incredible,” I murmur, seeing him in a new light. “He wasn’t just building—he was designing. Creating.”
“Exactly.” Maggie’s voice softens. “Everyone in town knows him as the contractor who can fix anything, but they forget he was supposed to be a designer. He was studying architectural design in Boston before…”
She trails off, and I lookup. “Before what?”
Maggie sighs and sets the phone down. “Before Dad’s stroke. Three years ago. It was bad—left side paralyzed, speech affected. Owen had just started making a name for himself designing custom tiny homes in Boston. He had a small firm. Was even getting mentioned in magazines.”
“I had no idea,” I say quietly, the puzzle pieces snapping into place. “He gave all that up to come back here?”
“Someone had to take over the family business. Dad couldn’t work, bills were piling up, and I was still finishing school.” She shrugs, but her eyes give away the weight of it. “Owen didn’t hesitate. Packed up, moved home, and took over Carver & Sons within a week.”
I think of his precision, his quiet intensity, the way he studies spaces like they’re puzzles to solve. Of course he wasn’t just a contractor. He’s a designer, forced into a box he didn’t choose.
“That’s why Walt mentioned the ‘Carver curse,’” I say aloud. “It’s not just about unfinished projects. It’s about creative ambition cut short by responsibility.”
Maggie nods, impressed. “Walt told you that? He must like you. But yeah—it’s a family pattern. Grandpa was the same. Brilliant designer, stuck in practical construction to support his kids. Dad too. Now Owen.”
“Does he still design?” I ask, remembering how seriously he took my suggestions, how he redrew the plans to include the window seat.
“Officially, no. The business keeps him too busy. But…” She hesitates. “There are sketches. Late-night ideas. Things he works on when he thinks no one’s watching.”
“He’s incorporating some of my ideas,” I offer quietly. “Especially the window seat.”
Maggie raises her brows. “The window seat? Seriously? He fought Mom foryearson that. Said it was an inefficient use of square footage.”
