The choice to stay when leaving would be easier.
The choice to build something that couldn't be relocated, restructured, or sold to the highest bidder.
Rhett's breathing deepened. Sleep pulled him under. I stayed awake a little longer, holding onto the weight of his arm, the sound of his breath, and the information that he'd cleared a drawer for me without asking if I'd use it.
Somewhere between the fear and the hope, I felt something that was almost like peace.
Almost.
But maybe almost was enough to start with.
Chapter sixteen
Rhett
My miter saw screamed through the oak at precisely forty-five degrees—clean, perfect cut. I set the piece aside and measured the next one, pencil tucked behind my ear, mind quiet while my hands were busy.
The Underwood kitchen was coming together. I constructed new cabinets to replace the water-damaged originals, installed countertops I'd templated last week, and the trim work would take another three days if I didn't rush it.Measure twice, cut once.That was Dad's voice, back when his mind worked properly.
My phone buzzed against my thigh.
I ignored it. Probably a supplier confirming delivery, or Mrs. Underwood asking again if I was sure about the cabinet height. I'd shown her the mock-up twice. She'd approved it twice. Some clients needed to worry out loud until I finished the job.
The phone buzzed again.
Then again.
I set down the trim piece and pulled the phone from my pocket.
It was Sloane.
She never called during work hours. She texted or left voicemails I'd return at lunch, respecting that I had a job. I hit answer.
"Rhett." Her voice was steady—guidance counselor steady. "Dad's taken a turn. Hospice says days, maybe less. You should come."
The saw was still running. I'd forgotten to turn it off. The blade spun down slowly, the whine dropping in pitch until the workshop was quiet except for my breathing.
"Rhett?"
"Yeah. I'm here." My hand tightened around the phone. "How bad?"
"He stopped eating yesterday. They've increased the morphine. Mom's—she's holding up, but—" Sloane's voice cracked slightly. "Can you come?"
"I'm on my way."
I ended the call and stood there in the Underwoods' half-finished kitchen, surrounded by the neatly stacked trim and my tools.
My apprentice, Justin, looked up from where he'd been fitting the lower cabinets. "Everything okay?"
"Family thing. I have to go." I grabbed my jacket from the sawhorse and shoved my arms through the sleeves. "You good to keep working?"
"Yeah, of course. Do what you need to do."
I walked out to the truck on autopilot—boots crunching in the snow. The driver's side door groaned when I pulled it open. I climbed in and sat with my hands on the steering wheel, the engine off, and the heater silent.
My hands were shaking.
Days, maybe less.
