“All right,” Alma starts. “We’ve gathered every last scrap we need. Photographs, tax ledgers, oral histories, blueprints of the original build. Jack managed to dig up that old survey map, and Bobby got the property deeds scanned.” She smooths a hand down the top sheet like she’s tucking it into place. “I’ve drafted the formal proposal, and it’ll be submitted to the county office Monday morning.”
Bobby lets out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see the day. Elspeth talked about this for years, but talk’s cheap. This here’s the real deal.”
“The county still has thirty days to review, approve, or deny,” Alma continues. “Typically, they’ll send a representative out for a site inspection, but given the evidence, I think we stand an excellent chance of conditional approval.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, scratching his jaw. “Be nice to have something settled around here.”
Elsie’s pen taps once against her board. She doesn’t look up, but I see the tell. She’s nervous about something, and the weight of it is starting to show.
Alma continues, brisk. “Now, before I send this off, does anyone have additions, amendments, or concerns?”
Silence settles, as heavy as the snow outside. Then, as if on cue, all three of them glance at Elsie.
She blinks, startled by the weight of their attention. “Oh—I don’t ... I don’t have anything to add.”
Alma arches a brow. “Are you certain? This is the moment to raise any concerns or new conditions of use. Any owner stipulations we’d like to include prior to transfer. This is your last chance.”
“I’m okay,” Elsie says quickly. “There’s nothing else.”
She tucks a curl behind her ear, and the motion is so shaky and careful I want to cross the table and still her hand.
“Just so I’m clear—we’re all agreed?” Bobby asks. “Proposal goes Monday. Then we wait up to thirty days.”
“Correct,” Alma says.
“Hell of a milestone,” Bobby says. He clinks his mug against the armrest like a toast. “We’ve been jawin’ about this for the last year. Looks like all we needed was a Hart to get us back in line.”
Elsie smiles faintly.
The meeting carries on for another half hour of procedural chatter and polite speculation about the county board. Talk of signage, insurance clauses, and who’ll be here to greet the inspector if they show up unannounced.
Once we adjourn, the front door shuts on Bobby’s laughter, and the house settles into its hollow quiet. Elsie lingers by the table, pretending to sort her papers, though she hasn’t turned a page in two minutes.
I stay seated. If I move toward her too soon, I’ll spook her. If I stay silent too long, I’ll lose my nerve.
“You held your own tonight,” I say finally. “Feels good to have the proposal finished, doesn’t it?”
She huffs, not quite a laugh. “Feels like I’m supposed to be relieved. I’m not sure I am.”
“Relief can wait. It usually does.”
A beat passes. She stacks the folders, squares the edges until they’re perfect, then presses them flat with her palm like she can iron out whatever’s inside her, too.
“You didn’t say anything about us exploring the trust.”
Her shoulders tense. “I know. Sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
She doesn’t look up. “I just . . . didn’t want to say anything if I wasn’t completely sure.”
“Fair,” I murmur. “I don’t judge you for that.”
Her head snaps up, honey eyes bright with something sharp. “That’s not true.”
I stand then—slow, careful. “What isn’t?”
“That you don’t judge me. You’d be so disappointed if I changed my mind.”
