“Very productive,” Maggie says before I can speak. “I was just showing Penny your old treehouse photos.”
His expression darkens. “Youwhat?”
“Relax,” she says breezily. “No awkward phase pics. Just the impressive ones.”
He looks to me. “They weren’t that impressive.”
“They were incredible,” I say honestly. “You had serious design instincts even back then.”
He looks away, but not before I catch a flicker of something—maybe embarrassment, maybe pride.
“They were structurally unsound.”
“But beautiful,” I counter. “Formandfunction.”
Maggie watches us like it’s her favorite show. “Well, I’d better go. Some of us have jobs with schedules.” She starts toward the door, then pauses by her brother. “Don’t forget dinner Sunday. And bring?—”
“I know,” Owen cuts in, clearly ready for her to leave.
Maggie flashes me a smile over her shoulder. “Nice chatting, Penny. We should do it again. Without supervision.”
“Goodbye, Maggie,” Owen says flatly.
When she’s gone, silence settles like sawdust. Owen busies himself unpacking tools, more abrupt than usual.
“She just showed up,” I say. “I didn’t ask about the photos.”
“It’s fine,” he mutters. “Maggie has boundary issues.”
“If it helps, I really was impressed. The treehouse, especially. Multiple levels? A pulley system? That’s some advanced kid engineering.”
Owen doesn’t look up. “It collapsed after two winters.”
“But itlastedtwo winters.” I smile. “That’s impressive for a solo project by a twelve-year-old.”
Finally, he turns. His expression has softened. “You’re easily impressed.”
“Or maybe you’re overly critical of your younger self.” I add, “Thanks again for considering the window seat. Maggie mentioned it was a sore subject.”
“What else did Maggie say?” he asks warily.
I hedge. “Just about your dad. Boston. That you came back.”
He nods once, accepting that. I’m grateful he doesn’t press—because I’m not sure how much he’d want me to know.
“The subfloor materials arrived,” he says, pivoting away from the personal. “If we start now, we can finish today.”
“Just tell me where to start.” I stretch my arms. “I’ve been practicing my hammer technique.”
We fall into rhythm, the tension thinning as we workside by side.
Around noon, a sleek black pickup pulls up outside, gleaming like it’s never seen a dirt road.
“Expecting someone?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Owen looks up—and instantly stiffens. “No.”
A tall man strides up to the doorway. Sandy hair. Clean jeans. Button-down sleeves perfectly rolled. Smile like he’s auditioning for a beer commercial.
