Outside, April sunshine hit warm and bright after the bar’s interior dimness.I opened the truck’s passenger door for Marci, my hand finding the small of her back -- a familiar gesture sending visible pleasure across her features every time.She climbed in, settled against the worn seat, and I closed the door, feeling satisfaction tied to far more than a successful fundraiser.
I circled to the driver’s side, started the engine, and turned onto Main Street heading west.Marci didn’t ask where we were going.She rolled down her window to welcome the spring air, strands of hair whipping loose in the breeze, her hand resting on my thigh in comfortable intimacy.
The drive took fifteen minutes through countryside turning green under new growth.I checked her reaction through peripheral vision -- the soft, contemplative expression, the way her free hand traced idle patterns against her knee.Before Mercer went away, she would have scanned mirrors and calculated exit routes.Now her gaze followed passing fields in peaceful attention, trusting me to handle navigation, trusting the world to stay safe for once.
Old Miller Road appeared on our right, the turn I’d memorized months ago when I first walked the property.I swung onto the gravel without signaling, the truck’s tires crunching over a surface untouched by maintenance for years.
“Ace --”
“Just wait.”
The road wound between trees, blocking the view until the last turn.Then the clearing opened ahead, and her sharp intake of breath hit harder than the engine noise ever could.
Framing rose from cleared land like a promise made real.Studs marked future rooms.Window openings aimed toward the morning sun.A skeleton of a house -- ours -- half-built and waiting.
I cut the engine and watched Marci stare through the windshield at the work I’d poured into stolen hours and weekends over the past two months.Her hand lifted to cover her mouth, eyes flooding fast, tears born from something far stronger than grief.
“You started without me,” she whispered.
“Wanted it to be real when I showed you.Wanted you to see it’s actually happening.”
She turned toward me, tears streaming now, and the expression on her face made every secret hour of framing and planning worth the exhaustion.Not simple happiness nor gratitude.Something deeper -- recognition of permanence no longer living in theories or promises.Wood and nails proved every word I’d ever spoken.Window placement promised morning light coming in over the garden she dreamed of.
I opened my door, only for her to scramble out her side before I reached her.She was already moving toward the structure, steps accelerating into a full run across the clearing.
I followed at a distance, giving her room to take everything in.She stepped through the framed doorway, her hands gliding over studs destined to become walls, her head tipping back to track the half-finished roofline overhead.She paused inside each beam of light as if testing how the glow would feel at different hours of the day.
“This is the living room.”Her voice carried wonder and certainty mixed together.
“Yeah.Faces west so we’ll get afternoon sun.”
She walked the space slowly, almost reverent, fingers drifting over two-by-fours carrying the scent of sawdust and possibility.Through the framed opening into what would be the kitchen -- larger than the plans she’d seen, expanded when I’d realized her original design hadn’t left enough space, considering she’d need room to preserve the things she grew, and store them.
Her steps faltered when she saw the dimensions.“Ace.This is huge.”
“You needed space.”I followed her into the room.“For the herbs you want to dry.The canning you talked about.All of everything you pictured.”
“The plans didn’t show this much square footage.”
“Plans changed.”I leaned against a support beam, watching her process the alteration.“Figured -- building from scratch means building the dream version, not the bare-minimum version.”
She turned in a slow circle, her arms spreading like she was measuring the space with her body.When she faced me again, her expression held something between exasperation and affection.“You’re giving me a restaurant kitchen in a house.”
“Giving you room to work.There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”But she was smiling now, a bright unguarded expression making my chest tighten.She crossed the room and rose on her toes to kiss me -- brief, warm, tasting like gratitude.“Thank you.”
We walked through the rest of the framed structure together, Marci naming each space while I confirmed or corrected.The bedroom would face east for morning light.The bathroom I’d made larger than standard because she’d mentioned wanting a real shower instead of the cramped stall in her apartment.A small office space I’d added without telling her, figuring she’d need somewhere to handle the bar’s books away from the noise.
“What about paint colors?”she asked, standing in what would become our bedroom.“I’ve been thinking cream for most of the walls, but maybe something bolder in here.Deep blue, maybe.Or gray.”
“Whatever you want.”
“That’s not helpful.You have to live here too.”
“And I will.Happily.In whatever colors you pick.”I moved closer, my hands finding her waist.“This is your space, Marci.Your home.Design it however makes you happy.”
Her palms pressed to my chest, eyes locked on mine, hunting for doubt or hesitation I refused to give her.Finding none, she softened.“Our space.Our home.”
