Currently creating comprehensive business plan for custom tiny house design firm highlighting his architectural talent and our complementary skills. Because nothing says ‘please love me’ like market analysis and five-year financial projections.
Her response:
This is simultaneously the most romantic and most ON BRAND thing you’ve ever done. I’m so proud. Also slightly concerned. But mostly proud.
I smile, tucking the phone away as Marge reappears in the doorway.
“Ready for phase two?” she asks, like she’s inviting me into a secret operation.
“Phase two?”
“The community support rally,” she says, completely serious. “Walt’s waiting for us at the hardware store.”
Maple Hardware looks exactlyas it always has—narrow aisles crammed with everything from specialty screws to fishing tackle, the persistent smell of metal and wood, and Walt Henderson presiding over it all from behind the counter like some small-town oracle.
What’s different today is his expression when I walk in—less gruff assessment, more conspiratorial welcome.
“There she is,” he announces, setting aside the catalog he was reviewing. “The woman with the plan.”
I glance at Marge, who shrugs innocently. “I may have mentioned your project while picking up my mail this morning.”
“Which was apparently enough time for the entire town to be briefed,” I observe, noticing several other customers watching our exchange with poorly disguised interest.
Walt waves away my concern. “Small towns. No secrets. Especially when it involves the two most interesting people to hit Maple Glen since that celebrity chef got lost on his way to Seattle and spent three days teaching Dorothy Johnson how to make risotto.”
“That’s… a very specific comparison,” I say, approaching the counter. “But I’m not here about town gossip. I need to talk to you about materials for the house. I’m trying to finish enough to make the TV deadline, and?—”
“Already handled,” Walt interrupts, pulling out a sheet of paper. “I’ve put together a package of everything you’ll need to complete the interior finishes. At cost.”
I stare at him. “At cost? Walt, that’s incredibly generous, but?—”
“Not generous. Strategic.” He taps the paper with a gnarled finger. “You make that TV deadline, Maple Glen gets national exposure. Tourism increases. My hardware store sells more decorative mailboxes to city folks wanting the ‘authentic small-town experience.’ Everybody wins.”
“That’s… surprisingly mercenary,” I say, impressed by his business acumen. “I thought this was going to be some sentimental speech about believing in love.”
Walt snorts. “I leave the sentimental speeches to Marge. I’m a businessman. But—” he leans forward, voice dropping slightly, “—if completing your house also happens to knock some sense into Owen Carver’s thick skull about both his personal and professional potential, that’s what we call a positive externality.”
“A what now?”
“Economic term. Beneficial side effect of a transaction.” Walt’s eyes twinkle with unexpected mischief. “Learned it from one of those business podcasts. Point is, this town’s been waiting a long time for someone to give Owen Carver a reason to use that design talent for more than birdhouses.”
I’m starting to realize that my supposedly secret mission is perhaps the worst-kept secret in Maple Glen history. “Does everyone in this town know about Owen’s hidden design aspirations?”
“Course we do,” Walt says matter-of-factly. “Known that boy since he was building elaborate block towers in my store while his dad shopped for supplies. The Carver men have always been craftsmen, but Owen’s different. Sees things others don’t. Just needed the right push.”
“And you think I’m that push?” I ask, suddenly feeling the weight of community expectations.
“You bought a disaster house while drunk at auction and turned it into a social media sensation,” Walt points out. “If that’s not disruptive energy, I don’t know what is.”
Before I can respond to this dubious compliment, the bell above the door jingles as more customers enter—except they’re not customers, they’re Maggie Carver and a woman I recognize as Mrs. Peterson from the library book club.
“Perfect timing,” Marge says, waving them over. “Penny, you remember Maggie, Owen’s sister? And Mrs. Peterson has that beautiful garden with the handmade pottery installations.”
“Um, yes, hi,” I say, increasingly confused by this impromptu gathering. “What’s happening right now?”
“Community support rally,” Maggie announces cheerfully, joining us at the counter. “Marge texted that you’re finally making your move, and we’re here to help.”
“My move?” I repeat weakly.
