Their Forever Home. Syndi Powell

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      He sat down, took another long pull of the cold water and let out a sigh. “Thank you for this. I should have brought water on my walk.”

      “Where you walking to?”

      He shrugged. “Nowhere. I needed to clear my head before I said some things better left unsaid.”

      She winked. “Problem with a woman?”

      “Not in the way you’re thinking.” He looked up at the ceiling of the porch, where someone had painted a rainbow. “Who’s the artist?”

      “My granddaughter thought it needed some sprucing up. And I’m getting too old to be climbing on ladders to paint a porch that is exposed to the elements.”

      “She’s got talent.”

      The woman smiled. “You one of those contest people?”

      “Yes. I’m a designer.”

      “When they announced the contest, there were folks around here who worried about what that meant for our little neighborhood. They like the quiet and what’s familiar. Me? I miss the young families that brought the noise only children could bring.” She leaned forward on the glider. “Do you think they’ll sell those houses to families?”

      “I believe they are being given to deserving families. They haven’t shared many details on that so far.”

      She nodded again and looked out at the houses that lined the street. “When things got bad, people losing their jobs and their homes, half the neighborhood disappeared.” She put a hand to her lips, shaking her head. “There’s only a bunch of us left now.”

      “How long have you lived here?”

      “Since my Walter came home from Vietnam and asked me to marry him. This was his mama’s house.” She set the glider to rocking. “Almost fifty good years we’ve had here. My daughter keeps talking about selling up and moving us to one of those assisted living places. I don’t want to give up my home. It don’t matter how convenient it is for her to have us there. It’s not convenient for me.”

      “Do you know when the house was built?”

      “Walter’s granddad built it from a kit he bought from Sears. Can you believe that?” She laughed and shook her head.

      John had figured it might have been a Craftsman home and longed to see what it looked like inside. But his mom had taught him manners, so he didn’t invite himself in. Instead, he finished his water and held out the empty glass to Loretta. “Thank you for the drink. I need to get back to work.”

      “Which house is yours?”

      “Number 2905.”

      She grinned. “The Czarnecks used to live there. I remember their green and yellow bathroom.” She made a face. “There’s no accounting for some people’s tastes.” She stood as he did so. “On your next break, stop back here. I might have some pictures of the neighborhood from the old days.”

      “I’d appreciate that, Miss Loretta.”

      She walked him to the edge of the porch. “Are all the people in this contest as polite as you?”

      “I’m one of a kind.”

      “That you are, John. A pleasure to meet you.”

      “Likewise.”

      He stepped off the porch and waved once he reached the sidewalk. When he returned to the house, he located Cassie sitting on the floor, her legs dangling in the hole. She looked up at him as he entered. “You’re back.” He nodded and looked around for the brothers. “They left to pick up lunch for us.”

      He gestured to the hole. “You thinking of keeping it there?”

      She smiled and shook her head. “Nope. Just thinking.”

      He took a seat next to her and dangled his legs close to hers. “I want to win this contest, but that means working together, not arguing. That applies to both of us.”

      “I really need this, John.”

      Her eyes were dewy with moisture. The vulnerability he saw made him want to put his arms around her, to whisper into her hair that everything would be okay. Instead, he sat quietly next to her and let her think.

      Finally, she gave a deep sigh. “We should get moving. Sitting here and hoping for things to be different isn’t going to win this contest.”

      When she started to stand, John tugged on her hand. “Cassie, for better or worse we’re a team, and we need to start acting like one. You need my input for the construction just as I need yours for the design. We have to do this together. I need to know I can rely on you. And let me reassure you that you can depend on me.”

      She stared at their joined hands. “The only one I’ve ever depended on was my dad. And you know how that turned out. Trust has to be earned.”

      She took a step back and started to walk into the kitchen but turned back. “I want to trust you, John. I’m just scared to.”

      He stood and winced at the tearing sound. He reached behind and felt where his jeans had ripped thanks to the jagged edge of the floor he’d been sitting on. Cassie tried to squelch a giggle, but he could see that she was amused by this. “I told you not to wear nice clothes on site.”

      Lesson learned. He hoped at least the tear wouldn’t expose too much of him.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      WHILE CASSIE AND the brothers finished demolishing the house, John focused his attention on the design. He’d need solid ideas before Monday, so he immersed himself in homes. Books. Magazines. House renovation programs on television. He started a vision board online, posting ideas into a folder that soon grew so large he couldn’t remember if he’d already saved something.

      When staying in his apartment got too much and everything started to look the same, he signed up for a seminar at a Detroit Public Library branch on the Art Deco movement and its influence on architecture and home design. Not that it matched what he wanted to do in their house, but it could inspire other ideas.

      The Thursday-afternoon crowd at the library’s auditorium consisted mostly of senior citizens, along with a handful of college-age students who sat near the front row with notebooks and tablets poised for the lecture. John took a seat about halfway down the aisle and checked his phone for any last messages before powering it off.

      “John?”

      He didn’t have to look at the face to recognize that voice. Inwardly cringing, he raised his eyes to find his ex-fiancée standing in the aisle. “Alison.” He stood, his mother’s training reminding him that he was always a gentleman, despite the circumstances. “How are you?”

      “Great.” She seemed to be judging his appearance, starting from his shoes and moving her way up. “And you?”

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