Patrick felt his gut twist. He’d seen the same look on homeowners who’d gotten in way over their heads.
“I’m sorry,” Kathleen said suddenly. “You don’t need to hear about my mess. You’ve got work to do.”
“Hey.” Patrick’s voice came out rougher than he’d meant it to. “Don’t apologize. And don’t make any big decisions when you’re still reeling from bad news.”
“I’m not sure what other options I have,” Kathleen told him. “Twenty-eight thousand dollars doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. I’ve been putting money aside for the remodel for months. I thought I’d planned for every single issue that needed to be fixed, and now...” She made a helpless gesture with her hands.
Patrick moved closer, keeping his voice low so the crew wouldn’t overhear. “What would you think about letting me take a look? I could give you another opinion on what needs to be done?”
“You’d be willing to do that?”
“I’ve worked in construction for decades. During that time, I’ve dealt with plenty of foundation problems. A lot of engineers don’t look for alternative ways to fix the issues they find. It might not change the outcome, but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone else examine the house.”
Kathleen searched his face, as if trying to determine whether his offer was genuine or just polite concern. “You’re too busy as it is. I couldn’t impose on your time.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing. I’m volunteering.” Patrick glanced back at his crew. They were making an obvious effort to appear busy while listening to every word. “I could look at your basement at four o’clock on Friday afternoon if that suits you?”
For the first time since that phone call, Kathleen’s expression showed something other than despair. “Do you really think there might be alternatives?”
Patrick couldn’t make promises. Structural damage didn’t resolve itself through optimism alone. But he’d also seen enough buildings to know that second opinions were always worthwhile.
“I think,” he said carefully, “that old houses can be full of surprises. Sometimes those surprises cost money, but sometimes they’re not as complicated as they first seem. I won’t know until I take a closer look.”
Some color returned to Kathleen’s cheeks. “Friday afternoon it is, then. Thank you, Patrick. I really appreciate this.”
“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do after you’ve hand-delivered our orders each day.”
When Kathleen smiled, Patrick realized he was already mentally rearranging the work he’d scheduled for Friday.
The end of the week couldn’t come fast enough.
Chapter 7
By Friday afternoon, it was overcast and chilly, with gray clouds gathering over Flathead Lake. Kathleen was at her kitchen table, methodically sorting through paint samples, when she heard Patrick’s truck pull into her driveway.
She’d been comparing different shades of cream and ivory for the dining room trim, trying to distract herself from worrying about the foundation repairs.
She’d spent last night organizing all the renovation paperwork, spreading everything across her kitchen table in neat piles. The dining room she’d dreamed of remained a work in progress, still serving as storage for paint cans and lumber, so the kitchen table had become her makeshift office for all things house-related.
The sound of Patrick’s truck door slamming made her look up from the paint samples. She gathered them into a stack and went to answer the door.
“Good afternoon,” she said as she opened the door.
Patrick stood holding a large toolbox in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “Hi, Kathleen.” His familiar smile was reassuring. “I brought everything I thought we’d need to get a good look at what we’re dealing with.”
“Can I get you something to drink before we start? I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
“That sounds perfect.” He set his toolbox down just inside the door and started to take off his boots.
“Don’t worry about that,” Kathleen told him. “The floors will be okay.”
“Are you sure?”
Kathleen nodded as they walked into the kitchen. “A third of the house still has drop cloths over the floorboards. The rest gets so dusty that it won’t matter if you wear your boots.”
As she poured coffee into two mugs—her favorite ones with the hand-painted wildflowers—Kathleen glanced at Patrick. He’d dressed for work in well-worn jeans and a flannel shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes.
“I like what you’ve done in the kitchen,” he said, accepting the mug with a nod of thanks. “The backsplash looks like the original subway tile.”
