I followed him across the yard. The workshop smelled like sawdust and wood stain, sunlight streaming through big windows on the east side. A long workbench ran along one wall, covered in tools, with a cabinet door clamped in a vice, half-sanded. Scout's bed was tucked in the corner, a water bowl beside it. Near the door, a coffee pot waited on a small table, two mugs and a tin of sugar beside it.
Caleb poured coffee into both mugs and handed me one.
"Black okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
I took a sip. Good coffee.
I walked over to the workbench, ran my fingers along the cabinet door. The wood was smooth where he'd sanded it, rough where he hadn't. The grain was beautiful—maple, maybe, or cherry.
"You made this?"
"Yeah. Kitchen cabinets for the house." He came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "Original ones were rotted through. Had to start over."
"It's beautiful."
He shrugged, like beauty was incidental. "It's functional."
I looked at him. He was watching the cabinet door, not me, his expression thoughtful.
"Want to see the house?" he asked.
"Yeah. I do."
The porch creaked under our feet. He opened the front door and let me in first.
The interior was a work in progress—drop cloths on the living room floor, paint cans stacked against the wall. But the bones were visible. Original hardwood floors, high ceilings, a stone fireplace that took up half the wall.
"Started with the kitchen," he said, leading me through.
The kitchen was half-gutted, old cabinets torn out and new ones going in. I recognized the wood from the workshop.
"You're building all of this yourself?"
"Yeah."
I ran my hand over one of the finished cabinets. Smooth, solid, the joinery tight and clean.
"How long have you been working on it?"
"Two years. Maybe another year to finish."
"This is a lot of work," I said. "Most people would just tear it down. Start over."
"I like the work." He shrugged. "It's worth saving."
He showed me the rest of the house. The living room with its refinished floors, the bedrooms upstairs that still needed drywall, the bathroom where he'd saved the vintage clawfoot tub. Every room had that same quality: old bones, careful restoration, nothing rushed.
We ended up on the back porch. The dogs were sprawled in the grass, panting and happy. I sat on the top step, and Caleb sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"Your grandmother lived here?" I asked.
"Yeah. Sixty years. Raised my dad here, then me when my parents couldn't." He was quiet for a moment. "She was the one who taught me to build things. Said if you're going to do something, do it right."
"Your grandmother taught you?"
"Dad wasn't in the picture. Mom either, after a while." He shrugged. "Grandma raised me from when I was eight. Said idle hands were the devil's business, so she put me to work."
